Before She Wakes: Forbidden Fairy Tales (19 page)

As I round a final curve the aisle straightens, and my betrothed finally comes into view. I press my damp palms to the outsides of my thighs and am reminded of the revealing nature of my dress.

He turns as I approach, and I hesitate.

The first thing I notice is the intensity of his gaze under a heavy, dark brow. Then the crimson curve of sensuous lips. The distinctly human point of a widow's peak, and the sleek lengths of glossy black hair hanging in hundreds of small plaits to the middle of his back. The front sections have been drawn away from his face, accentuating his high cheekbones, and wound into a knot at the back of his head.

His chest…his chest is bare, his flesh the rich, burnished brown of a hazelnut shell. Fat Celtic bands have been inked around the thick muscles of his upper arms. Above the inked band on his right arm, a band of metal gleams silver against his skin.

He does not look like my people, but also he's not the monster I imagined. In fact, he may be the most beautiful male I've ever seen, human or otherwise. His skin practically glows with health and life, and his warm-brown complexion is flawless. For a moment I lose myself following the rigid curves of chest and upper arm, and the flat planes of his abdomen.

I notice nothing transgenic about him—until he shifts to better track my approach. What I at first took for a cloak is actually a set of wings, flaring slightly from his sides just below the shoulder and extending all the way to his knees. There's a set of two on each side, elongated and uniform, delicate and veined like stained-glass windows with dark-crimson panes. They resemble the wings of a dragonfly—and I remind myself they probably
are
.

He tips his head, gaze still following me, to murmur something to someone at his side—another male, with the same crimson wings. The other shakes his head in response, and my betrothed's eyes sweep over the assembled guests. The older man's complexion is fairer but with a reddish tint, like he's spent too long in the sun. Based on the manner of their interaction, I guess that he is Dayne's father.

The lady beside this man has wings of a deep, velvety blue and shares Dayne's nut-brown coloring. Her hair is the same luxurious black, and has been plaited and worked into an even more elaborate headdress than my own. She's a dainty creature, and her compact form seems to strain at containing energy. The tips of her wings quake as she watches me, and she unfolds and refolds two sets of very insectlike arms. With her heart-shaped face, huge blue irises, and plum-colored lips, I could easily imagine her appearing at dusk beside a pool along a path through the forest. I've always assumed it was pride that caused these people to take the name of our mythic ancestors—a scorned species attempting to command respect. But now it occurs to me I may have underestimated them. The name Tuatha de Danann taps into an Irish Celt's deep, almost primal link to the land and its history.

When I've crossed about half the distance to Dayne and his family, I sense something has changed. He's turned toward me, but not as a courtesy. I see his hand move to his hip, where a knife hilt protrudes from a sheath strapped to one thigh.

I freeze, cursing my decision to reject the knife Jamie tried to give me. Though had I accepted it, there'd have been no hiding it under this dress.
Maybe that wasn't an accident.

Dayne's eyes are moving over the assembled guests, and I follow with my own gaze. Am I imagining that a handful of the bigger males are regarding me with a fearful intensity?

“Rowan, get out of there!”

I spin around and find Jamie rushing toward me—wielding an
ax,
his dark hair tossed by the strengthening wind.

I glance back and see Dayne approaching from the other direction. I'm closed in on all sides—Dayne and Jamie before and behind, and the Tuatha to my left and right. There's nowhere for me to run, but Jamie at least I know and trust, so I hurry toward him.

Jamie grabs my arm and drags me behind him, blocking Dayne.

“You fools!” snaps my betrothed. His dark eyes are bright with anger and his wings have spread behind him, perpendicular to his frame. His whole body emanates power. “There's no time for this.”

The Tuatha to either side are clearing a large circle of ground around us, but a big male steps into it. He's eye-to-eye with Dayne, who is probably just over six feet. He has blade-shaped green wings and forearms spiked like a praying mantis.

“Stand down, Archer,” snaps Dayne, eyes flashing. He grips his knife tightly at his side.

“If she's come here in that state,” growls the mantis man, “she's not exclusive.” His head jerks to the side as his gaze rakes over me. His eyes are a disconcertingly bright shade of green, and their almond shape runs vertically rather than horizontally.

He's every inch a predator, and by the tautness of his muscled frame and the determination in his expression, I sense he is seconds away from pouncing on me.

Dayne plants himself in front of the mantis man, his back to us. Jamie turns and tries to herd me back the way I came. But I slip away from him, muttering,
“Wait.”

“You're mistaken,” Dayne tells the man. “She doesn't know our ways.”

Archer tries to step around him, and in a flash the tip of Dayne's blade is pressed to his throat. “You've forgotten yourself, friend. She's
my
mate.”

The mantis man growls his dissent. “Not yet, she isn't.”

More Tuatha close in on our little group, one of them Dayne's father. I notice that with the exception of my future father-in-law, not one of them looks away from me for more than a couple of seconds. It's obvious that I've provoked them somehow, but beyond obediently wearing the dress sent to me by Dayne's family, I can't imagine how.

But the feverish, tense vibrations binding this subset of the wedding party has finally reached a pitch that frightens me.

“Rowan, come on,” urges Jamie, towing me away.

Dayne notices our movement and breaks free from the group. “Take her to the castle,” he orders.

“Like hell,” snaps Jamie. “I'm taking her
home.
”

Dayne's reply is low and deep, and he speaks slowly, letting his words sink in. “They will follow her.”

“What's going on?” I interrupt. “Do they not understand we're to wed?”

My betrothed's eyes come to my face, and I feel it like an impact. The implications of “man and wife” coil up inside me, the potential energy spreading heat through my belly and chest.
She's my mate.
This dark prince is feeling proprietary about me, and instead of offending me, it's heating my blood.

“If you don't do as I say,” he says, “you're going to get hurt.” He's not angry with me, I can see that. But he's going to be soon.

I believe him. I have no reason not to. He has no need to trick me.

“Let's go,” I say, turning and taking Jamie's arm. I fix my eyes on his face, begging him not to argue. “We'll sort it out later.”

Dayne moves to return to the others, but calls to Jamie, “Stay with her until I come to you.”

These last words of Dayne's are perfectly timed. Jamie is so hot with resentment he's not really hearing me, but now he sees what I began to see five minutes ago—Dayne isn't just fighting for what's his. He's trying to protect me.

As we move away from the others the pitch of argument rises, and I can easily make out the angry voices. These Tuatha are, in fact, fighting over
me
. There's been some breach of etiquette that has this handful of males convinced that Dayne's claim to me is in question.

Yet I can't be sure, because they all seem to be in some kind of trance. They move nervously, pacing like cats with senses on alert, and it's only the reasoning voices of Dayne and his father keeping them in check, reminding them all who they're opposing, and what the likely outcome will be.

Fearing that real fighting may break out soon, I lift the hem of my dress and move as fast as I can without running, Jamie following in my wake. My father and Aine have retreated a little from the wedding party, and we encounter them on the way to the castle. I offer harried, unconvincing assurances that Dayne has things in hand and urge them to return home and wait to hear from me. It's only when Jamie promises to stay until he's sure I'm safe that they finally agree.

As we approach the castle, I notice a banner above the round tower—the wind whips it about like a sheet on a line. A red dragonfly sewn on a field of black.

We cross under the edge of one of the large sail-like coverings, and immediately the wind drops. We're almost to the entrance, and with the castle now between the Tuatha and us, I feel safe to run without drawing attention. Inside I collapse against a wall, breathless, and wait for my vision to adjust so I can take in the changes that have been made since I was last here.

It's odd, what they've done. I understand my father's confusion. Somehow, without covering any of the weathered, ivy-choked stones or patching a single wall, they've created a sense of comfort and elegance. Richly colored rugs and doorway hangings brighten the interior, which has been mostly cleared of clutter and debris, yet left half wild. Forget-me-nots and sea aster still sprout from the mounds of earth that remain in unused corners of rooms. The Tuatha have contrived their covering to allow rays of light to penetrate like streamers of sunshine, highlighting a patch of milky lichen here, or bunch of clover there. I glance over the top of a half-fallen wall and my breath catches as I notice that the cairn Jamie and I once constructed from castle debris still rests where it has for the last ten years. The sound of trickling water I noticed when we first arrived is coming from there—the Tuatha have managed to convert it to a fountain without disturbing a stone. The bell-like blossoms of a single stalk of red helleborine clinging to one side of the cairn quivers with the slight vibration.

Throughout the structure there are perfectly placed pieces of furniture—stools, benches, small tables, and bookshelves, each a work of art, featuring panels of multicolored tiles, inlays of amber-hued resins, and burnished wood. And despite the fact the decaying structure mostly remains open to the elements, it manages not to be damp or chilly.

They've preserved the dilapidated beauty of the place while making it comfortable for habitation, and I can't help but be charmed by it. It's the ruin I loved as child, restored like a child might restore it.

But I know the Tuatha are not children.

“You have to give this up, Rowan.” Jamie has flattened himself against the wall beside me, watching the door. He turns to look at me. “You must realize that now. We're too different.”

With both our heads resting against the wall, our faces are inches apart. He's worn his best shirt for today's festivities. The slate-blue fabric is a close match for the color of his eyes, and the simple V-neck exposes the upper ridges of his chest. He's combed his brown waves, and even trimmed his short beard.

I know he's made this effort for me and no one else, and it softens my reply. “Let's wait for Dayne.”

He lets his head fall back against the wall and casts his gaze skyward. “I have an idea: let's not.”

I frown, and his hand comes to my face, tender but firm. “Ro, run away with me. We can—”

“No.” I raise my hand to his wrist. “I won't run.”

“I'm not going to let you do this.”

I can't stand being close enough to see the pain in his eyes, and I peel his hand from my face. “Come on, let's have a look around.”

Turning before he can argue, I trace the path we've walked many times before. As we move through a series of arched doorways, I see that some repairs
have
been made—mainly the flooring and staircases needed to make the upper floors accessible. But it looks like they've only restored the chambers that are in use by the family, while the rest has been left airy and open. They've used some kind of translucent material for flooring in some areas, allowing light to pass in from above.

“This is amazing,” I murmur as I start up the stairs. Each tread is decorated with tiny tiles arranged in varying patterns—bright flowers, moons, suns, and spirals. With each step I take, the tiles brighten under my foot. I imagine the effect at night. “So no one falls in the dark.”

Jamie grunts behind me, unimpressed.

At the top of the stairs, I walk into the first chamber I find. It's large and open, composed of at least two of the original chambers. There's a huge bed with four posts constructed of a heavy, dark weathered wood that looks as old as the castle. But the bed covering and canopy are made of gauzy, snow-white fabrics that provide a stark contrast. Adjacent to a floor-to-ceiling arched opening in the wall—the only structural alteration I've noticed—there's a sunken tub that looks more like a forest pool, irregularly shaped and lined with stones, bordered with potted ferns and forget-me-nots. The only other furnishings are a tea table and two stools, and a large crimson and gold rug that covers the freshly timbered floor.

The floor of the chamber has been extended past the opening, creating a small terrace, and the pool is in fact half inside and half outside. At the outside end another fountain gurgles, and as I step closer I notice a sculpture of a reclining figure among the greenery at the foot of the fountain. The woman is naked but for a cloth draped over one hip, and her body twists sensuously. Her expression suggests she's in the throes of passion. Then I notice one of her hands has been positioned between her legs. Staring at such an accurate depiction of the only way I've experienced sexual pleasure up to now brings heat into my cheeks.

Suddenly I feel the press of hands on my hips and I gasp. Turning, I find myself in Jamie's arms, and his lips come down on mine.

Panic surges and I shove at his chest, hardening my lips against his. I manage to free myself from the kiss and cry, “Jamie!”

“Rowan, God,” he breathes, holding me close even as I struggle. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are in this dress?”

“Jamie!” I cry again. “Stop this.” I give a final, desperate shove and he falls back. “You're my
brother
!”

His hungry expression twists into a scowl. “I've never thought of you that way. You must know that by now.”

I shake my head slowly, incredulous. “I-I've never thought of you any
other
way.”

I realize the harshness of this statement too late. His face darkens. “I'd like you to think of it now,” he says in a low, even tone.

I turn from him, and the world rocks under my feet. Raising my fingers to my lips, my gaze falls again on the statue. “Jamie,” I murmur, and the word comes out like a lament.

“Come on, Rowan. We're not children anymore.”

I laugh, and I don't know why. “No.”

“Do you think you could love me? Because if the answer is even ‘maybe'—”

I spin to face him. “I
do
love you. As much as or maybe more than I love anybody. But it's not…I can't…”

He rushes forward, taking my hands. “Do you hear yourself? What more do you need to convince you? Ro, I
love
you. And God knows…” His gaze drifts down to the deep neckline of my dress, and I shiver.

“Why
now
?” I squeeze his fingers, imploring him to say something that makes sense. “Why have you waited until
now
to say this to me?”

“I don't know.” He shakes his head. “I shouldn't have. I just never thought…”

“You were afraid I didn't feel the same.”

“Yes,” he agrees, drawing closer. “But now I…well, if you don't, I've lost you anyway, haven't I?”

He raises a hand to my cheek, bending his face to mine. Our lips meet and I yield, because I have to know. His mouth is warm and soft, and his arms coil around me, pulling me closer. He teases my mouth open with his tongue, and my heart pounds against my rib cage. His tongue dips deeper, and his hand squeezes my hip, sliding up along my side until it's even with my breasts.

The rush of blood is roaring in my head, and I don't hear when someone else enters the chamber.

“Stay away from the window,” says a voice I now recognize, and in a moment of dizzy confusion, I imagine it's
his
hand that's pressing the front of my dress.

Then I come to my senses and jerk backward.

Dayne is staring at Jamie with murder in his eyes.