Smoke in Moonlight (Celtic Elementals Book 1) (13 page)

Then from somewhere she heard herself saying.  "How the fuck is that supposed to be a
choice
?"

For a terrifying second, Lacey wondered if she had gone too far, everything seemed to shimmer in front of her eyes—Aine's shape distorted and a roaring filled her ears—but then her vision cleared.

Aine was giving her an amused look, but her face was flushed. "Ye do have some spirit tucked away, doncha? But ye need to watch who ye use it on. Tha's the best offer ye're going to get, Lacey Ryan... and the only one. After all, I'm no' saying what choice ye have to make, only that ye stay here long enough to make one."

And with that Aine and the goose faded from view, leaving the sun-dappled grass untouched from their passing.

Lacey stared at the spot as the children exploded with sound and movement, then raced to see who could tell first.

She was beginning to understand why Ronan sounded so bitter every time he talked about the gods. They gave you only a piece of the story, while holding back all the important stuff. They used your emotions and your secrets against you. They threatened you if you took exception to their plans.

And Lacey had an uneasy inkling she hadn't seen anything yet.

Ronan had to search much longer than he'd expected for his fight. Every night he had scanned the entire woods between his cottage and Lough Gur, nothing. But he didn't return home, he couldn't stand to be that close to Lacey. He knew what that would lead to.

He slept in the forest, the animals giving him a wide berth.

Tonight he was making his way almost carelessly around the lough, inviting an attack. Begging for it. But he was alone. As always.

Werewolves were inclined by nature, even their
unnatural
nature, to be pack creatures. But being the only werewolf in existence to serve the light, Ronan had ever been a lone hunter.

He preferred it that way. There were very few other werewolves in Ireland anymore, anyway. Oh, Aine always had some around, but they kept scarce. Since there had been no real wolves in Ireland for centuries, it was rather harder now for them to hunt and conceal themselves.

Tracking as a human had the advantage of being more covert in that respect. And even in his human form, Ronan retained some of his wolf-like advantages. His sense of smell and sight were incredibly keen. He ran along the shoreline with a loping speed no sprinter in history could have matched.

Aillen's stronghold was somewhere on the northeast side of Knockdoon, but it was Aine he really craved to run into as he circled the dark water.

The people around the lough were mighty fond of Aine. At least, in theory. They liked the idea of having a local goddess. But the smart ones, the ones whose families had been there for generations, were properly wary.

According to modern myth, Aine wasn't really a major figure in the Tuatha de Danaan hierarchy. She was supposedly a minor goddess, claiming love, poetry or maybe fire as her strength, depending on what story you listened to. Most didn't even acknowledge her as the moon goddess anymore, something that must've really pissed her off.

He smiled darkly at the thought.

Two years ago, Ronan had chosen to come back to Lough Gur, Aine's stomping grounds, for the first time in centuries. His family had been inclined against the move. They had shaken out of a particularly long slumbering time to sense the shifting within him. No one wanted to come back to the lough, so close to where it all began.

Ronan hadn't cared. Something had drawn him back here, and whether it was for good or evil, he hadn't really given a damn. At least he could keep an eye on Aillen here. Aine was just a side note...he'd never
actually
give into her.

Or so he tried to tell himself while the darkness ate away at him.

He didn't know why she'd chosen to appear to Lacey, or why she'd told her to search out his family. But he didn't like it one bit. The thought of Lacey under her protection made him clench his fists so tightly his hands ached. He had to distrust anyone Aine favored—but then Aine knew that.

Damme! Aine loved playing games. He wanted her to go play them with someone else. She'd done enough to his family. Ronan was in a mood to tell her so, before he took her head with his sword. But she didn't turn up.

He did catch the scent, very faintly, of a vampire roaming far north. Vampires didn't concern him, they'd smell what he was no matter his form. Ronan enjoyed a bit of a reputation with vampires. They would give him a wide berth. It was a pity, really. A strong vampire would be far more of a challenge than a damme shape shifter any day and this one was very strong indeed...and... 

Familiar.

O'Neill?!

Ronan stopped in utter shock, his head swiveling to find the scent again. But it had drifted away on the mist. He hadn't seen or heard from Aidan in near a thousand years. He had long wondered if his old friend had sought the sun.

What could this mean?

Ronan ground his teeth in frustration, wanting badly to chase the scent, but knowing he couldn't leave his family unprotected, not even to look for Aidan. Nor did he intend to leave Lacey alone with them for much longer.

He shook his head and continued his lope around the lake, even while his mind calculated this new bit of information. If he hadn't been mistaken about that scent, and Ronan knew he hadn't, it probably wasn't good news.

Trouble followed Aidan like wildfire, his friend was damme near as cursed as he was. Maybe more so. Unlike him, Aidan had chosen his own fate. Not that it had been much of a choice.

Among the vampires, Aidan was considered royalty. But he'd turned his back on them, on his title. Every vampire in Ireland had sworn to kill or capture Aidan on sight. Aidan lived an even more isolated existence than Ronan, but their natures were very similar. In some respects, anyway. He wondered what in the hell his friend was thinking, returning to Eire so openly.

Ronan was only able to put the vampire prince out of his mind when an hour before dawn, he caught a hint of what he was looking for. He was near the Grange, the circle of standing stones.

Lough Gur was full of ancient sites and ruins, but the Grange was probably its’ most impressive. He had left the woods now, and the circle, while not nearly the impressive size of Stonehenge, still looked ancient and—not foreboding—not
exactly
…

But Ronan was respectful of it, with its mossy monoliths; some upright, others twisted or on their sides. He skirted it, as he always did, avoiding stepping within the inner circle. He felt as if the stones were watching him, whispering behind his back. His spine tingled. And that's when he smelled it.

Changeling,
at last
.

He smiled.

That sixth night when she woke from the dream, Lacey found herself pressing her face into the pillow, stifling a scream of frustration. They were getting worse...or better, if you were a sadist. In the first few dreams she'd had, the images of her and Ronan had flickered through her mind as she was running for her life, the terror quickly overwhelming the desire.

Now, perhaps because she'd actually had a taste of him in wakening life, that part of the dream had a tendency to slow down...and
linger.
She was almost getting used to waking with the taste of him in her mouth and his smell on her skin.

She cursed and rolled onto her back. The dream had continued ruthlessly on to the expected conclusion though—the pain, the desperation so keen her stomach burned with it. She no longer saw Ronan turning into a werewolf. He had already transformed and she was chasing him down. Somehow it was
so
important that she catch him. But when she cried out, when she screamed his name…he wouldn't turn.

Lacey got to her feet and walked to the window. She hadn't asked who put the curtains back up, but they had been hung neatly the night she had crept back in here. The night Ronan had left.

Lacey pushed the lace aside with a sigh.

She did not miss him, she told herself as she leaned on the windowsill, watching the moon, which was the thinnest sickle tonight. She was just pissed he'd disappeared when there was so much they needed to sort out. How was he going to react when he heard Aine wasn't going to let her leave?

Maybe he was hoping she was already gone and he didn't have to deal with her anymore.

Just then Lacey saw a large shadow flow out from the dark line of the woods and come up the path. Ronan! It had to be. Without thinking, she paused only to throw on her old silk robe before darting out of her room. She sped silently through the house and out the back door. Lacey didn't care how mad he got, or so she told herself.

Whatever Ronan threatened her with, she was through waiting for answers.

Lacey was halfway to the cottage when she realized the shadow she'd assumed was Ronan had vanished. What if she had been wrong? Ice slid between her shoulders blades as she looked around.

The moon, that thin gleaming scythe, bathed everything in an eerie light. The rock wall and the stones of the path had a misty glow. Ronan's cottage didn't look like the simple, sturdy building she remembered. It looked like a black hulk, ready to pounce. The back of her neck prickled just before a voice hissed in her ear.

"An bhfuil tú go hiomlán gan chiall, tá tú bean dÚsachtach!"

Lacey jumped half a foot into the air and opened her mouth to unleash what surely would have been an ear-splitting shriek. Ronan must have anticipated her actions, as his arm circled her chest like a warm band of iron and his hand was over her mouth before her feet hit the ground. He didn't say another word as she kicked and struggled in his arms.

Not until he walked to the cottage door and kicked it open.

With another flood of Gaelic that sounded musical, but she suspected meant something vile, Ronan threw Lacey inside.

He slammed the door and flicked on the lights, but kept his back to her, muttering under his breath. The sun-emblazoned scabbard was slung between his shoulder blades. She would have thought his bulk would've made it look smaller but somehow both sword and man just seemed even larger together. Lacey pressed her lips together. She was
not
going to be intimidated.

He turned around. And she realized with a tremor what a stupid thought that was.

Ronan Fitzpatrick was the
embodiment
of intimidation.

Huge and angry, he stared at her. His black hair was wild with tangles around his face, there were scratches on his throat and a fading bruise above his jaw, which was heavily shadowed. His shirt was torn, one sleeve ripped completely off, and Lacey could see the thick muscles in his arms bunching as he clenched and unclenched his hands. As if he longed to grab her again and shake her.

It was only his eyes that lashed out, silently, like silver fire.

She gulped.

"I saw you from the window," she said, just to break the godawful silence.

"And did ye na’ver give thought tha' I might be a Changeling?" His voice was as soft as crushed velvet, but Lacey felt like each word was being pounded into her solar plexus.

"I did," she admitted. "After—"

"Aye, after!" Ronan cut her off. "Tha's what I warned ye of. Reacting—with nae consideration—nae plan for anything! God's truth, it's amazing ye managed to survive at all while I was gone."

"Somehow I've managed to make it to thirty without your
protection
," Lacey spat out, her hand going to her throat as she looked at him pointedly.

He moved just a step closer, still several feet away, but Lacey felt as if he were looming over her. "Did ye have a lot of demons and gods and vampires bothering you those first thirty years, Lacey? Ye think what
I
did to ye was anything? Ye've seen Changelings, how do ye think those teeth would feel, clamped around the back of your pretty little neck?"

Her hand dropped to her side. He was right. She was trying her best, but she was light years out of her league here.

All her life people had treated her like she was delicate, just because of her size. Here, it wouldn't even matter if she was an Amazon, like Heather. No human was a match for what she was facing. Her only weapon was her brain, it always had been. She really needed to start using it. And then something he’d said belatedly clicked in her head.

"Did you say
vampires?
"

"Damme, I swear if yer eyes widen like that again over something so bloody obvious, I'll give ye to
the
Sluagh
meself!" He turned from her and hung his sword behind the door.

"Excuse me, what the hell is so obvious about vampires?" Lacey glared at his back, which was altogether much easier than glaring at his front. 

Ronan looped the braided belt tightly around the hook before giving her an impatient look.

"Werewolf." He said, jerking a thumb at his chest and rolling his eyes at her as he walked past. Lacey swiveled to follow him, still indignant.

"So, does that mean I just assume every goddamn horror and fantasy story I ever heard is true? What about...banshees?"

"Duh."              His look was pure sarcasm.

"Fairies?"

"And, again...duh!"

"Ghosts?"

Ronan pulled off what was left of his shirt and shrugged. "I donna know, try again."

"Wizards?" Lacey had to force the word past her dry throat. Ronan without a shirt seemed to have pulled all the moisture in her body down between her thighs. He was so... So goddamn
male
.

He gave her a hard smile, lifting his hand as silver then cobalt flared at his fingertips. "I've seen people who would consider this child's play."

The light dancing on his hand made shadows play across the fine mat of black hair that covered the deep muscles of his chest and tapered down his hard, flat belly to dart under the low-slung waistband of his jeans.

There was something so sexy about that dusting of hair. She wanted to run her hand over his stomach and feel the crispness against her fingers—and those smooth muscles tighten under her touch—

Lacey ripped her gaze away from him and looked around the room, searching for somewhere to sit before she made a fool of herself and
swooned.
Or something equally ridiculous. Like trying to seduce a werewolf.

Ronan started to make a fire. She remembered the fireplace from before. But the last time she was here, she'd really barely noticed anything else. Understandably.

There was the bed, the enormous one in the corner. She remembered that well enough and she certainly wasn't going to sit on
it
.

There was a rug in front of the fire, a huge fur of some sort. The cream-colored walls were done in bas-relief, scrollwork and fantastic patterns that she attributed to Michael. And there was the curious black cabinet she also recalled. It had your standard office chair rolled next to it and she sank into it gratefully. There wasn't much more to the room, other than a small, dorm-sized refrigerator. Ronan seemed to have very simple tastes. Then Lacey glanced up and gasped.

Ronan looked up from the flames he was coaxing, his eyebrows raised.

"Think of another one?" He asked.

"No, no." Lacey waved a hand at the five paintings that held her. It was amazing they hadn't been the first things she'd noticed. But they were hung high, almost to the ceiling line. And they weren't large canvases, but they were stunning. In two of them, color swirled like something living, great vibrant swoops of it. It was like looking at creation itself. She was stunned at the pure power encased in something so small.

In two others, light and darkness fenced. Heavy black blades and darts of gold and silver crossed and sliced in the thickly textured works. Lacey swallowed. No surprises there.

But the last painting made her cold. It was totally, relentlessly black, save for a small curl of gray in its’ very center.
Like a whiff of smoke being slowly snuffed out…

"Nobody said you paint, too." Her words were quiet and a little awed.

Ronan had been watching her, crouched next to the hearth, the fire's light playing across his naked back. "And how do ye know these aren't Shelagh's?"

"I'm not quite so stupid as you believe, Ronan Fitzpatrick." Lacey cupped her elbows with her hands, still inwardly shivering from the last canvas. She scooted the chair closer to the fire.

"I've n'ver said ye were stupid."

Lacey found it hard to meet his eyes after seeing part of his soul in that painting. When she did something seemed to leap out of their gray depths, drawing her to him with such force, she found herself leaning forward as if pulled by a magnet.

Lacey shook herself. Hard.

"Just because I can't understand Gaelic, doesn't mean I don't get the general gist of things."

Ronan chuckled. "I dinna call you stupid—though I damme well thought it. I called you crazy. And I can think of a few other things to call ye, too."

"Like what?"

He reached out a big hand and clasped her bare calf. Lacey froze. Ronan rose to his knees, sliding that warm hand up her leg.

"Perhaps
álainn
, because ye are so lovely. Or better,
dhraíocht
—because ye have truly enchanted me."
He leaned close, as she looked up at him. "To be sure, there are many fitting words for ye. I swear ye push every thought from my head. I canna concentrate with ye in there, Lacey." His hand tightened on her thigh. "What now am I supposed to do about tha'?" His mouth was a hair’s breadth from hers. Lacey caught her breath as her insides did loop-de-loops.

"You're asking me?" She gave a shaky laugh. "What the hell do I know? Except this time…”

She hesitated, afraid of saying what she was thinking. But she
wasn't
a goddamn mouse and Ronan needed to get
that
into his head. She opened her eyes.

"Except what?" Ronan prompted.

Lacey placed her hand against the rough brush of his jaw and looked into his face. "This time don't you dare stop until you're inside me."

Ronan felt himself go from aroused to rock hard in an instant at her words. He'd known this was going to happen on his way back here tonight. Hell, he'd known it when he'd left.

Damme the consequences.
At least for tonight.

He moved in closer, his lips tracing that delicate jaw line of hers. She'd blushed at her own boldness and the flush deepened as his hand slid higher on her thigh. Lacey was such an intoxicating mix; of innocence and passion, timidity and strength. She was far stronger than she realized and he hoped he could show her that. He felt the pounding of her heartbeat under his mouth as he kissed a trail down her throat, relishing the taste of her skin.

Ronan knew Lacey feared him—and he knew she wanted him more. She might even want him as much as he wanted her. That thought made his own heart race. Cobalt light burst from his fingers just as they brushed between Lacey's thighs. She gasped at the sudden heat, arching against his hand, her aquamarine eyes dazzling as she looked at him.

"Ohhh,"
she breathed. "That's just not fair. But don’t stop." She pulled him to her and kissed him open-mouthed, her tongue darting between his lips. Ronan groaned. He moved his body between her legs, wrapping them around his waist with one arm and lifting her with the other. Lacey didn't pull away as they rose. Her lips stayed on his, her arms tight around his neck. He walked to the back of the cottage and held her up easily as he opened a door next to the bed.

Lacey finally lifted her head to stare around her. It was a small, but gorgeous bathroom, with a stone-flagged floor, just like the kitchen in the main house. The walls here were bas-reliefed as well, in a wide band of green and gold, traditional Celtic knot patterns. She looked at Ronan. He laughed at her perplexed expression.

"Maybe ye dinna notice, but I'm a bit filthy." He leaned over and opened the milky glass door of a large walk-in shower to turn on the water. Lacey let out a half-scream as he walked them both right under the steamy blast. Water poured down, soaking her hair and drenching her clothes in seconds.

Her screech of surprise turned to a laugh. Lacey shook her head, the wet tendrils of her hair a dusky red flying about her face. The silk robe clung to her like a second skin and underneath the white cotton shift she wore turned transparent. Ronan's eyes raked down her body and Lacey's laughter died away.

Her fingers tightened in his hair.

He peeled the robe away with one hand, unmindful as it tore, letting the pieces fall to the shower floor. He could see her breasts outlined through the soaked fabric, small as the rest of her, but full and firm, the areolas dark, her nipples raised and hard. He bent and took one into his mouth, running his tongue over the wet cloth and the taut nub. She whimpered. And the small sound drove him mad.

Ronan raised his head and backed her into the corner, bracing her with his hips as he took both hands and ripped the shift over her head. Water trickled and beaded over her smooth golden skin. Only a scrap of silk hid anything from his gaze and with a twist of his fingers and a soft tear, that was gone as well. Her nether curls brushed his stomach as she tightened her hold on him, her calves' slick against the muscles of his back.

Lacey couldn't breathe again. How that was possible with her heart was racing so fast, she didn't know. He placed his hands on the wall above her head and captured her mouth once more. The seam of his jeans ground against her center, the friction absolute torture as his mouth did wonderfully bad things to hers.

Ronan put her down abruptly.

She made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. But he only moved a step back, directly under the stream of the shower. He peeled off his jeans and kicked them into the corner. Lacey felt light-headed as she stared at him, standing naked in front of her like some dangerous erotic fantasy.