The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Claire Delacroix The Ballad of Rosamunde

Galway, Ireland — April, 1422

The hour was late and the tavern was crowded. Padraig sat near the hearth, watching the firelight play over the faces of the men gathered there. The ale launched a warm hum within him, the closest he was ever likely to be to the heat of the Mediterranean sun again.

He should have gone south, as Rosamunde had bidden him to do. He should have sold her ship and its contents, as she had instructed him. Galway was as far as he had managed to sail from Kinfairlie — and he had only come this far because his crew had compelled him to leave the site of disaster.

Where Rosamunde had been lost forever.

Instead he returned home, to his mother’s grave and the tavern run by his sister.

Padraig enjoyed music, always had, and song was the only solace he found in the absence of Rosamunde’s company. He found his foot tapping and his cares lifting as a local man sang of adventure.

«A song!» someone cried when one rollicking tune came to an end. «Who else has a song?»

«Padraig!» shouted his sister. She was a pretty woman, albeit one who tolerated no nonsense. Padraig suspected there were those more afraid of her than her husband. «Sing the sad one you began the other night,» she entreated.

«There are others of better voice,» Padraig protested.

The company roared a protest in unison, and so he acquiesced. Padraig sipped his ale then pushed to his feet to sing the ballad of his own composition.

«Ah!» sighed the older man across the table from Padraig. «There be a woman worth the loss of one’s heart.»

The company nodded approval and leaned closer for the next verse. Even his sister stopped serving and leaned against the largest keg in the tavern, smiling as she watched Padraig.

Padraig faltered. His compatriots in the tavern waited expectantly, but he could not think of a suitable rhyme. He remembered the sight of Ravenmuirs’ cliffs and caverns collapsing, his men holding him back so he wouldn’t risk his life to save Rosamunde. He put down his tankard with dissatisfaction, singing the last line again softly. It made no difference. He had composed a hundred rhymes, if not a thousand, but this particular tale caught in his throat like none other.

«Her absence was to all a dearth,» his sister suggested.

Her husband snorted. «You’ve no music in your veins, woman, that much is for certain.»

«The son she bore him died at birth,» the old man across the table suggested.

Padraig shook his head and frowned. «There was no child.»

«There could be,» the old man insisted. «’Tis only a tale, after all.» The others laughed.

But this was not only a tale. It was the truth. Rosamunde had existed, she had been a pirate queen, she had been both beauteous and bold.

And she had been lost forever, thanks to the faithlessness of the man to whom she had surrendered everything.

Padraig mourned that truth every day and night of his life.

He cursed Tynan Lammergeier, the man who had cost him the company of Rosamunde, and he hated that they two might be together forever in some afterlife. It was wrong that a man who had not been able to accept Rosamunde for her true nature should win her company for all eternity.

Because Padraig had loved her truly. His mother had warned him that he would be smitten once and his heart lost forever.

But he had held his tongue. He had spoken of friendship in his parting with Rosamunde, not the fullness of his heart.

Now he would never have the chance to remedy his error. It had been almost six months since Rosamunde had gone into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, Tynan’s ancestral keep on the coast of Scotland, six months since those caves had collapsed and Rosamunde had been lost forever, and still Padraig’s wound was raw.

He doubted it would ever heal.

He knew he’d never meet the like of her again.

Padraig sat down and drank deeply of his ale. «Let another sing,» he said. «I am too besotted to compose the verse.»

«Another tale!» shouted the keeper. «Come, Liam, sing that one of the Faerie host.» The company stamped their feet and applauded, as Liam was clearly a local favourite, and Padraig saw a lanky man rise to his feet on the far side of the room.

He, however, had lost his taste for tales. He abandoned the rest of his ale, left a coin on the board, and headed for the door.

«We will miss your custom this evening,» his sister said softly as he passed her. Her dark eyes shone brightly in the shadowed tavern, and he doubted that she missed any detail.

«A man should be valued for more than the volume of ale he can drink,» Padraig replied, blaming himself for what he had become. His sister flushed and turned away as if he had chided her.

He could do nothing right.

Not without Rosamunde.

Was her loss to be the shadow over all his days and nights?

Far beneath the hills to the north of Galway, Finvarra, High King of the Daoine Sidhe, templed his fingers together and considered the chessboard. It was a beautiful chessboard, with pieces of alabaster and obsidian, the board itself fashioned of agate and ebony with fine enamel work around the perimeter. When he touched a piece, it came to life, moving across the board at his unspoken will. His entire fey court gathered around the game, watching with bright eyes.

Finvarra was tall and slim, finely wrought even for the fey, who were uncommonly handsome. His eyes were as dark as a midnight sky, his long hair the deep blue black of the sea in darkness, his skin as fair as moonlight, his tread as light as wind in the grass. He was possessed of both kindness and resolve, and ruled the fey well.

His hall at Knockma was under the hill, and as lavish a court as could be found. The ladies wore glistening gowns of finest silk, their gossamer wings painted with a thousand colours. The courtiers were armed in silver finery, their manners both fierce and gallant, their eyes glinting with humour. The horses of Finvarra’s court were spirited and fleet of foot, gleaming and beauteous in their rich trappings hung with silver bells. He had steeds of every colour: red stallions and white mares, black stallions and mahogany mares with ivory socks. Each and every one was caparisoned in finery to show its hue and strength to advantage. The mead was sweet and golden in Finvarra’s hall, and the cups at the board filled themselves with more when no one was looking.

But all the fairy court was silent, clustered around their king’s favoured chessboard. They watched, knowing that more than victory at a game hung in the balance.

As usual.

Finvarra did not care for low stakes.

Finvarra played to win.

The spriggan, Darg, sat opposite the King and fidgeted. Recently of Scotland, the small thieving fairy had travelled to Ireland in the hold of the ship of Padraig Deane, a blue-eyed and handsome pirate possessed of a broken heart. Caught trespassing in Finvarra’s sid, a crime punishable by death, the spriggan played for its life.

Finvarra, in truth, tired of the game. The spoils were not so remarkable and the spriggan was a mediocre opponent. The splendour of the board, indeed, he felt was wasted upon the rough little creature. Certainly, his skill was.

Then Finvarra heard the distant lilt of human song.

As was common with Finvarra, the mention of a beauteous mortal woman piqued his interest. He turned his head to listen, just as the spriggan interrupted with a hiss.

«A laughing trickster Rosamunde did be, but she did not have the best of me.»

«You knew this mortal?»

Darg raised a fist. «Stole from me! That she dared, but I did steal her from her laird. She would be dead but for me; now she owes me her fealty.» The spriggan cackled then moved a pawn with care. It was a poor choice. «Not dead but enchanted she doth be, while I choose what my vengeance shall be.»

Intrigued, Finvarra snapped his fingers and his wife, Una, brought his silver mirror to his hand. She knew him well. She caressed his hand as she passed the mirror to him, but Finvarra ignored her gesture of affection.

He didn’t imagine her sniff of displeasure, but Una’s pleasure was not his current concern. Not when there was a beauteous woman to be possessed. He murmured to the mirror and its surface swirled before his eyes, the image of this Rosamunde appearing so suddenly that Finvarra caught his breath.

Then his blood quickened.

Una, always able to read his response, spun on her heel. She strode from the hall, her ladies scurrying after her like so many sparrows. Finvarra was oblivious to his wife’s mood.

This Rosamunde was not just beautiful but spirited.

Finvarra had to know more. He touched the queen, his favoured piece, sliding his finger up her carved back. She strolled across the board in perfect understanding of his intent, halted on the desired spot and tucked her hands into her sleeves meekly.

If only all queens might be so biddable.

«Check,» he murmured with a smile.

«No! I shall not die, not by your whim!» The spriggan erupted from its place in fury, jumping across the board and kicking pieces left and right. «I demand we play the game again!»

Finvarra shook his head.

The spriggan scattered the pieces onto the earthen floor, then lunged at Finvarra. There was no contest between them, the spriggan being only as tall as the King’s golden chalice. Finvarra struck the ill-tempered creature with the back of his hand, sending it sprawling across the floor.

The elegantly attired fey stepped away from the spriggan, whispering at its poor manners. It hissed at all of them, then made to run. Two elfin knights seized it, holding tightly while it bit and struggled.

«I have no interest in your life,» Finvarra said with soft authority. The spriggan froze, staring at him in confusion. It was a crafty creature and Finvarra deliberately stated his terms so that there could be no deception. «I would trade your life for a specific treasure in your possession.»

Darg’s eyes narrowed into hostile slits. «No gem do I see fit to spare»—

«The woman,» Finvarra decreed, interrupting what would likely be an impolite diatribe. «I trade your life for that of your captive, Rosamunde.»

The spriggan regarded him warily. «I fear you make a jest of me, and would be freed ’fore I agree.»

Finvarra rose and clapped his hands. «There is no jest. When Rosamunde graces my court, you shall be free to leave.» He reached forwards and snatched at the spriggan, holding it so surely in his grip that it paled. He lowered his face to its sharp features, glaring into its eyes. Darg squirmed. «Deceive me, though, and I will have your life as well as the woman.»

Darg’s eyes gleamed and Finvarra knew the creature would willingly deceive him. He beckoned to his armourer, who produced a fine red thread at his master’s bidding. Finvarra knotted that thread securely around the spriggan’s waist. It appeared to be made of silk but was strong beyond measure and it held the spriggan to Finvarra’s command. The small fairy struggled and fought against the bond, grimacing where it touched the skin.

«It burns, it does, the knot too tight,» Darg snarled. «You cheat when I would do what’s right!»

«Only I can unbind this thread, and I will only do so when you have fulfilled our bargain.»

Darg continued to pluck at the thread, its displeasure clear. It cast a glance over the company, then its lips tightened. It straightened and addressed Finvarra with surprising hauteur. «As you command, so shall it be. You shall see that Darg lives honestly.»

Finvarra smothered a laugh. He didn’t doubt that the creature would try to break both cord and vow, but he knew such efforts were doomed to failure. «Tomorrow sunset,» he decreed. «I would have her by my side for the Beltane ride two nights hence.»

The spriggan grimaced at the time constraint, but before it could argue, Finvarra made a dismissive gesture. «It is enough time. Should it not be.» He raised a brow and the thread bound around the spriggan’s waist tightened an increment. Darg screamed, swore agreement, then scampered across the court, muttering. Three elven knights followed it at a discreet distance, ensuring that it left the hall upon its mission.

Finvarra eyed the path Una had taken, heard the distant sound of her sobs, and decided to remain in his hall a bit longer. He clapped and called for music, for he was feeling as celebratory as Una was not.

After all, soon he would have a new prize to savour.

Rosamunde dreamed.

If she had been asked, she would have said that her expectation was to dream of Tynan through all eternity. But her dream took her further into the past, to an abbey on the coast of Ireland.

She had been summoned there by the bishop, anxious to increase the revenue of his remote diocese with the acquisition of a holy relic. One of the bishop’s men had eyes of brilliant blue and a steady gaze. She strove to ignore him.

The bishop purchased a perfumed braid said to have come from Mary, daughter of Lazarus. They negotiated the price, the coin was counted and then deposited in Rosamunde’s purse. She sensed that the man with the blue gaze thought the bishop intended to cheat her.

Outside, Rosamunde was glad to see her ship. She emitted a high whistle, a signal to Thomas waiting in the dingy out of sight. She was not prepared to find Thomas dead, bleeding in the bottom of the boat. She was not prepared to have a man assault her in the darkness — the purse ripped from her belt, her blade snatched.

And she certainly was not expecting the blue-eyed man to leap out of the shadows behind her attacker, slicing him from gullet to groin and kicking his carcase into the sea.

«I sicken of his thievery,» he said softly, his voice as steady as his gaze.

«I thank you for your aid.»

«You are most welcome, I fear I have lost my employ this night. Have you need of another man of your ship?»

Rosamunde found herself liking this man a great deal. «I always have need of men with stout hearts and quick blades. Have you a name?»

«Padraig Deane.»

Rosamunde shook his hand, liking the heat of his skin, the firmness of his grip.

«Welcome, Padraig. There is no better compliment than knowing a man can be trusted with one’s own life.»

She watched the moonlight play on his muscles as he rowed them back to the ship. He was determined, stalwart, and unafraid. Rosamunde wondered how she had failed to see the full merit of Padraig in all the years he had served her.

What lifted the scales from her eyes now?

Padraig wandered the streets of Galway, paying no attention to his course until he reached the gate in the Norman wall. He glanced back towards the harbour, then ahead to the hills cloaked in starlight and shadow. He chose to pass through the gate and walk out of town, knowing that the way was not without risk. He was but half-Irish, half of town and half of country, though there were those who would have little interest in the details.

He did not care about his fate as much as he once had.

And he had no taste for human company on this night.

He walked as the moon rose ever higher in the sky. He walked as the church bells sounded far behind him. He walked as the stars glinted overhead.

He heard the rustle of small animals in the underbrush and the tinkle of running water. He felt the ale loosen its hold upon his body and grief well in his heart.

He paused in the middle of the road, hours after his departure, and cast a glance back towards the sleeping town. His feet ached and he knew he should turn back.

Padraig just made to do so when he heard a woman singing, singing more beautifully than ever he had heard anyone singing. It could have been an angel he heard, and he was drawn to the sound.

He could not hear the words, and hastened closer.

The ground rose ahead of Padraig in a mound, a low hill covered with grass. A circle of large stones surrounded the crest of the hill, like a crown upon it, and a hawthorn tree grew outside the circle of stones.

The hair prickled on the back of his neck for he had learned at his mother’s knee to be cautious in the presence of the fey. If nothing else, this was the kind of place they favoured.

He could barely discern the silhouette of a woman atop the hill. She was sitting on a stone in the midst of the circle, combing her long hair, and he knew she was the one who sang. Two women sat at her feet, one with a lyre the like of which Padraig had never seen, the other humming along with her lady. They were all lovely, ethereal in the moonlight.

Her voice had a lovely lilt and Padraig wished to hear more of her song. He walked closer, trying to move silently as he didn’t want to startle the women.

To his astonishment, as soon as he stepped within the circle of stones, the lady with the comb turned to confront him. She smiled, her hand falling to her lap as she sang directly to him.

With proximity, he could see more than her silhouette. Her hair was golden, as bright as sunlight, her eyes as blue as a southern sea. Padraig walked closer, awed by her loveliness.

Padraig blinked. Surely she could not be singing of his Rosamunde?

The woman stood up, revealing that she was tall and slender. She wore a dress that was fitted to her curves and swept to her ankles; it was as blue as her eyes, rich with golden embroidery and gems encrusting the hem and cuffs. It seemed to Padraig that her slippers were made of silk the colour of moonlight.

Or perhaps she was wrought of moonlight. She seemed insubstantial as she walked towards him, both of this world and not. Was he dreaming? The hem of her skirt seemed to dance with a will of its own, and lights glinted around the perimeter of the stone circle. He remembered will-o’-the-wisp from his childhood and knew that he had strayed into the realm of the fey.

Only when the woman was directly before him did he see the numerous small courtiers holding the hem. They could not have stood as high as his knee, not a one of them, and were dressed in green livery. Their faces were sharp, their eyes narrow, and their hair caught with twigs.

Padraig remembered her own words and knew who he encountered.

The Faerie Queen, Una.

«Greetings, Padraig, sailor of the many seas,» she said, her voice as melodious in speech as in song.

«Greetings, beauteous queen.» Padraig bowed deeply, knowing well the price of insulting one of the fey.

«Perhaps you have guessed that I have summoned you here. I heard your song and knew that our goals could be as one.»

«Heard my song?» Padraig glanced over his shoulder, unable to glimpse the lights of the town. «But that was miles away. You could not possibly have heard.»

Una laid a fingertip across his lips to silence him. Her touch was as cold as ice, as smooth as silken velvet.

She smiled. «She is not dead, your Rosamunde.» Her lips tightened and she averted her gaze. «And now my husband, casting his glance over all of Faerie, with the aid of his treacherous mirror, has glimpsed the slumbering Rosamunde. He means to make her his own on Beltane.»

«I mean no offence, my lady, but Rosamunde is dead.» Padraig spoke with care. He knew of the fey inclination to trick mortals. «I saw the fallen rock, I tried to retrieve her from the destroyed caverns. She cannot have survived in any way.»

Una smiled. «The spriggan Darg took her captive when she might have died.»

«Darg!» Padraig exclaimed. He recalled the deceitful spriggan well, and its determination to have vengeance upon Rosamunde.

Una watched him carefully. «You know this creature.»

«Indeed, I do, my lady, although I believed the spriggan to be yet at Ravensmuir.»

Una’s smile faded. «No. It came in your ship.»

Padraig frowned. There had been items disappear on their last voyage, including the ale that he knew the spriggan liked so well. It was possible that Una spoke the truth.

«It trespassed in our sid. It has wagered with my husband and lost, so it will bring Rosamunde to him tomorrow. You must steal her from him.»

«My lady! A man who steals from the Faerie king will not live to tell the tale of it!»

Una smiled. «With my aid, you will not be detected.» She pressed a golden ring into his hand. «Wear this and you shall pass unseen in any company.»

The ring was cold, as cold as the tomb. Even having it in his hand filled Padraig with dread. He was not afraid to risk his life for Rosamunde, not even of inciting the wrath of the fey king, but there was one more thing he needed to know.

«With respect, my lady, I would be certain of the desire of Rosamunde. It seems to me that it would be most fine to live at the Faerie court. She might not wish to leave.»

Una laughed but not because of his compliment. «You must have heard the old riddle, the one with truth at its heart.»

«Which is that, my lady?»

Her eyes glinted with humour. «What gift is it that a woman wishes most from a man?»

Padraig shrugged, not knowing the answer. Riches? Comfort?

Love? There were so many possible answers that he could not choose. He suspected the answer depended upon the woman.

Una leaned closer. «To have her own way.» Her eyes shone with brilliant light as her courtiers giggled around her hem. «I suspect you are a worthy lover, Padraig Deane, and in tribute to your love, I give you a gift.»

«You have already been too kind.»

Before Padraig could finish, the Faerie Queen framed his face in her hands. She leaned closer, her cold breath caressing his skin, then she kissed him full on the lips. He tasted death and loss, a chill that shook him to his marrow.

And Padraig swooned.

Rosamunde dreamed of another day from her past.

The sky was pink, a sure sign of trouble in the morning, and the dark clouds racing overhead made no better forecast. All the same, Rosamunde’s heart leaped at the familiar cliffs that rose before her, the cliffs surmounted by the keep she knew as well as the lines of her own hand.

Ravensmuir.

Governed by Tynan, stern but fair, the man who had taken her to his bed, the man who had vowed subsequently never to wed her. The man who had chosen this pile of stones over her.

Twice.

In her dream, she was certain she would relive that last encounter, that final fatal rejection. But she did not. She dreamed again of Padraig.

Rosamunde stood on the deck of her ship, staring up as the land rose closer, her heart pounding with trepidation that Tynan would see her approach, that he would meet her in the caverns below the keep. She was in the moment of approach, felt her own hope and anticipation, yet at the same time, knew what had happened subsequently in those caverns. She felt the twinge of dread that she had felt that morning and knew it had been a warning. Although Tynan had apologised to her, he had once again chosen his holding over her.

And he had died.

Had she not died, as well?

Padraig came to stand beside her on the deck, but this time when Rosamunde turned to her most trusted friend, she saw him with clear eyes. He was tall and hale, was Padraig, experience tempering his expression and his choices. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, she noted, and there were lines from laughter etched around his eyes. His tan made his eyes look more vividly blue, and she was struck by his vitality.

By his masculinity.

With the clarity of hindsight, she saw what she had missed day after day in his company. Padraig was of an age with her, and they had shared a thousand adventures. He was unafraid of her truth, much less of her temper. He was quick to laughter; he was clever; he dared to challenge her when he believed her to be wrong. He was deeply loyal and she had always been able to rely upon him.

Her heart began to pound at the magnitude of her error, at her own blind folly.

«I will go into the caverns alone,» she said, feeling the words she had once uttered as they crossed her tongue in this dream. Her quest had been the retrieval of a silver ring, once given to her by Tynan, demanded by the spriggan Darg as the price of its assistance, but returned by her to Tynan after his rejection. It had not been hers to take, but on this day she had returned to steal it to ensure the future of her niece.

«I will accompany you,» Padraig said, determination in his tone. They shared this resolve to protect those they loved, Rosamunde realized, this ability to stride into the shadows so others would not be compelled to do so.

She and Padraig had walked the periphery of society together, daring all as they challenged convention.

At each other’s backs.

While Tynan had upheld convention. He had found Rosamunde useful, he had accepted her favours abed, but he had never respected her or intended to honour her. It was no surprise in hindsight to realize that Tynan could never have loved her in truth.

«No, not this time,» she argued in her dream, just as she had argued on that fateful morning.

She saw Padraig for what he was. She saw the ardour in his eyes. She saw his fear for her. She saw his valour and his loyalty, and she guessed the secret of his heart.

And Rosamunde regretted that she had surrendered her love to the wrong man.

She had suspected as much on that day. The ghost of the realization had teased at her thoughts, urged her to choose otherwise, made her words tumble forth with uncharacteristic haste. «Take the ship,» she told him, in this dream as she had then. «See me ashore, then take the ship and sail south to Sicily.»

It had been their jest, all those years, that they would one day sell everything and live out their lives in Sicily. They had both preferred the sun’s sultry heat there to the chill of the north.

«But what of the contents?» Padraig’s displeasure was clear.

«Sell them, sell them wherever you can fetch a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own.»

«But.»

«I owe you no less for all your years of faithful service.» It was a facile lie and they both had known it, even then.

«But the ship?»

«Sell it as well, or keep it for your own. I do not care, Padraig.» Rosamunde uttered that heartfelt sigh, acknowledging the shadow of dread that touched her heart. «I have had wealth and I have had love. Love is better.»

It was a lie. She had never had Tynan’s love. She had had the illusion of his love, and had been seduced by that. She had had no more than the physical expression of his love, and that was a paltry offering.

On the other hand, Rosamunde saw in her dream that Padraig’s love had been before her, awaiting her invitation, for years.

«You will fare well enough,» she said in her dream, and the declaration of her gift of foresight struck her as ironic. «I have seen it and we know that whatsoever I see will be true.»

«What do you see for yourself?» Padraig asked softly, his survey of her so searching that Rosamunde could scarce hold his gaze. He frowned and looked away. «I always said that you saw farther than most, but could not see what was before your own eyes.»

There was a truth in his claim that she had missed on that red-stained morning. She declared her destiny to be at Ravensmuir, seeing in her dream how the notion displeased Padraig.

How could she have missed such an offering?

How could she have overlooked the affection of one who knew her better than she knew herself? She had been a fool and lost her life because of it. If only she had another chance, she would seize the opportunity Padraig presented to her.

«Farewell, Padraig,» she heard herself say. «May the wind always fill your sails when you have need of it.»

And Padraig embraced her, catching her close. She could feel the muscled strength of him, the resolve of him, the power he oft held in check. In her dream, she closed her eyes and savoured what she had lost through her own folly.

His voice was husky when he spoke. «We have fought back to back a hundred times, Rosamunde, and always I will consider you to be my friend.» His blue eyes filled with heat as he regarded her. «You have been my only friend, but a friend of such merit that I had need of no other.»

«No soul ever had a friend more loyal than I found in you,» she said, her heart aching at her own folly.

«I did,» Padraig said, his words fierce. His gaze bored into hers, then he turned away, staring at the cliffs of Ravensmuir. «I did,» he added softly.

And in her dream, Rosamunde did what she should have done on that day. She reached out. She touched Padraig’s shoulder. She saw his surprise when he turned towards her. Then she caught him close, hearing the thunder of her pulse in her own ears, and kissed him.

It was a sweet, hot kiss, a kiss that sent a torrent of longing through her. It was a kiss tinged with regret, filled with love, a kiss of yearning and potency. It left her dizzy. It left her hot.

It left Rosamunde wide awake and blinking at a ceiling she could not place.

Was she not dead?

It appeared not. She was simply alone. She touched her lips, caught her breath, and dared to wish.

Padraig awoke abruptly, his heart racing and his breath coming in quick spurts. He was hot and tight, the taste of Rosamunde upon his lips.

He had also slept, apparently, in the field.

The sun was rising in the east, gilding the hills and setting the dewdrops ablaze. He stared around himself. He was alone. He was cold and his clothing was damp with dew. The stone circle was a dozen steps away, silent in its secrets. The women were gone, if indeed they had ever existed, and there was no music echoing in his ears. No lyre, no small faeries, no footsteps in the grass.

Padraig heard a man shout at a cow as he drove her along the road to town.

He ran his fingers through his hair and his tongue across his lips. He tasted the kiss of Rosamunde again, closing his eyes at the rush of pleasure he’d felt beneath her touch.

Rosamunde had never kissed him.

Except in his dream.

He had indulged too much the night before. It was the ale, confounding him, feeding his desire and leading him astray.

Padraig shoved to his feet, grimacing at the distance he had to walk back to town. His feet were still sore and his head ached. He made to brush himself down, removing the twigs strewn across his clothes, and realized there was something in his hand.

It was a stone. The stone was round with a hole in the middle of it. It was the colour of gold. Was this the golden ring he believed the Faerie Queen had given him?

Padraig smiled at his own foolish dream. He had been in his cups. Still, a stone of such a shape was unusual. It might be lucky. He was possessed of all of the superstitions of a seafaring man and a few more besides, courtesy of his mother’s upbringing in these hills and her respect for the fey. If nothing else, it would be an error to cast the gift aside where the donor might witness his rudeness.

Padraig pushed the stone into his pocket and strode through the damp grass. And as he walked back to his accommodations in Galway, he savoured the memory of Rosamunde’s kiss.

Even in a dream, it had been a sweet prize and was enough to put a spring in his step.

The spriggan Darg was not a creature Rosamunde was glad to see.

Solitude was better than the company of this thing.

That the small fairy had a red cord knotted around its waist was curious, and surely did not improve the creature’s mood. It hissed and spat, pinching her to wake her up then nipping at her heels to hurry her along.

«Make haste, make haste, the King is not inclined to wait.»

«Where are we going? I thought Faerie was like limbo.»

Darg chattered unintelligibly, as was its tendency when it was annoyed. The creature led her more deeply into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir and Rosamunde was glad to leave her past behind.

It wasn’t truly the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, though. Those caves and their pathways were well known to Rosamunde, having been her secret passage to the keep for decades. As a child, she had played in them, learning their labyrinth, delighting in their secret corners. But they were dank and made of grey stone, dark and filled with the distant tinkle of running water.

She did not know the passageways that Darg followed. Rosamunde had never spied that entry lit with golden light until the collapse of the cavern and the death of Tynan. She suspected that Darg had opened a portal for her, but knew not where it truly was.

This cavern could not be fairly called a cave or even a labyrinth. Indeed, Rosamunde did not feel as if she were underground at all. There was brilliant golden sunlight, the light that had spilled from that unexpected portal. The sky arched high, clear and blue, over verdant fields. The air was filled with music and fine singing, and every soul she saw was beautiful.

It took Rosamunde a while to realize that she only saw nobility. There were aristocrats riding and hunting, borne by finely draped steeds so majestic in stature that the beasts rivalled the famed destriers of Ravensmuir. The women were dressed in silk and samite, their garb of every hue, their long hair flowing over their shoulders or braided into plaits. They wore coronets of flowers, and gems were plentiful on their clothing, even wound into their hair. Many played instruments as they rode. Golden flutes and silver lyres abounded in this strange country. The women’s laughter sounded like music as well.

The men were just as well wrought, tall and slim, muscular. There was a glint of mischief in every eye. Their armour shone as if it was made of silver, their banners were beautifully embroidered and their steeds galloped with proudly arched necks. Silver bells hung from every bridle.

The land itself was bountiful, the trees lush with fruit and flowers blooming on every side. Rosamunde thought she saw fruit of gold and silver, and flowers wrought of precious jewels, but Darg did not delay their passage so she could look more closely. Birds sang from every tree, their song blending so beautifully with the ladies’ tunes that Rosamunde felt they made music together.

Just passing through the beauty of this realm, even at Darg’s killing pace, lightened Rosamunde’s heart. It healed her wounds and made her believe that she might live on, even without love. It made her think of the future with an optimism that she had believed lost.

It made her wonder where Padraig was.

It made her wonder how she might get from here to there.

«Where are we?» she shouted to Darg, who hastened ahead of her, muttering all the while.

«A foolish mortal you must be, to not know the land of Faerie.»

Faerie. Rosamunde was a pragmatic woman, one who had never believed in matters unseen or places to which she could not navigate. Was she dreaming?

A butterfly lit on her shoulder, its wings fairly dripping with colour, its beauty far beyond that of any earthly insect.

Rosamunde realized with a start that it was a tiny winged woman. The fairy laughed at her surprise, a sound like tinkling bells, then darted away, disappearing into the blue of the sky with a glimmer.

«And why do we not linger in this magical realm?» Rosamunde asked Darg.

«Late we are, late we must not be! Finvarra waits impatiently.» The spriggan tugged again at the red cord knotted around its waist. It spat in the grass with displeasure, then snatched at Rosamunde. «Hasten, hasten, by the moon’s rise, we must be safely at his side.»

«Who is Finvarra? And why do we go to him?»

«Questions, questions, instead of haste! Your queries do the daylight waste! We have far to go without rest: Finvarra will accept no less.»

They crossed a bridge; the river running beneath looked to be made of mead. Rosamunde caught a whiff of its honeyed sweetness and saw a cluster of bees hovering at the shore. A beautifully dressed suitor offered a golden chalice of the liquid to his lady, who flushed, fluttered both wings and lashes, then accepted his tribute.

«But why do we go to this Finvarra? Who is he and what hold has he over you?»

The spriggan spun round abruptly, facing Rosamunde with fury in its eyes. «A match I lost, the price my life. His demand was you as his new wife. High King of Faerie is his task, a man whose patience does not last.» Darg wrestled with the red cord, then released it with disgust. «This bond he knots, it burns me true; ’til you are his, this pain my due.»

«You traded me to the Faerie King?» Rosamunde demanded, bracing her hands upon her hips. «What if I have no desire to be his toy? Or that of any other man, for that matter? I will not go complacent to his court, no matter what you have promised.»

«I pledged my word, I swore my life; Finvarra will have you as his wife!»

«I think not.» Rosamunde turned her back on her vile captor, having no inclination to make such a submission easier. She surveyed the beautiful countryside and spied a man tending a pair of horses that were drinking mead on the bank. He was handsome, and his gaze was bright upon her.

His hair was as dark as midnight, and if she narrowed her eyes, he could have been mistaken for Padraig.

Save that Padraig had neither wings nor pointed ears.

Perhaps he could aid her in finding Padraig.

When the Faerie knight smiled, Rosamunde found herself smiling in return. «I will take my heart’s ease here instead,» she said to Darg and turned her back upon the creature.

«No!» the spriggan screamed, as once it had screamed before in Rosamunde’s presence. She glanced back warily, then ran when she saw that the spriggan had become a large and menacing black cloud. When enraged it could change shape with frightening speed — the last such eruption had led to Tynan’s death after it had shattered the caverns.

«I saved your life, it’s mine to give,» Darg shouted. «I trade it now so I shall live!»

Rosamunde ran as quickly as she could, feeling the other faeries watching her with bemusement. She could not outrun Darg’s fury, however. Her heart sank as the dark cloud enveloped her, surrounding her with fog as black as night.

Then she was snatched from the ground, as helpless as a butterfly caught in a tempest, and carried away. She thought she heard someone cry out, but Darg did not slow down.

Finvarra’s wife. King or not, Rosamunde had no interest in his attentions. The very fact that he would trade a faerie’s life for a woman, with no consideration of any desire beyond his own, was no good endorsement. She struggled and fought, knowing it was futile, and she wished again for a loyal friend to fight at her back.

Padraig. How could she have been so blind?

Padraig fondled the strange stone in his pocket as he returned to the tavern that night. It was falling dark, the sun blazing orange just before it slipped beneath the horizon.

He could not dispel his dream of kissing Rosamunde and, in truth, he did not want to do so. The dream had lifted the shadow from his heart, made him feel that there might be some purpose to his life even without his partner by his side.

«You are fair pleased with yourself tonight,» his sister said as she set an ale before him. She smiled and propped her hands on her hips to regard him. «A conquest was it then?»

Padraig laughed for the first time in a long time. «Naught but a dream, but ’twas a fine one.»

«I wager it must have been,» she said, her smile teasing. «You dreamed then of a lady?»

«None other than the Faerie Queen,» Padraig agreed amiably. «And she gave to me a token.»

His sister sobered. «Did she then?» Her wariness reminded Padraig of their mother.

«A ring with the power to make a man invisible to others.» Padraig chuckled at the whimsy of it all, then reached into his pocket to show her the stone. He thought she would be amused by the evidence of his drunken dream, but when he pulled the gift from his pocket, it had become a golden ring again.

Padraig stared at it on his palm and blinked in wonder. «But a moment ago, it was a stone,» he whispered.

His sister caught her breath and took a step back. «A Faerie gem.» She crossed herself quickly. «Mind your step, Padraig. A man does not easily elude the favour of the Faerie Queen.»

Padraig barely heard her warning. He knew all the tales of the fey, courtesy of his mother. He simply could not believe that the ring had changed twice.

But then, if it was fey, the charm upon it would hold for the night and not the day. He stood and, leaving his ale, looked out of the door of the tavern. Sure enough, the sun had set completely and twilight, that time so potent for the fey, had fallen.

He gazed at the circle of gold. What if his dream had been true? What if this ring truly did have the power Una had stated? What if he could reclaim Rosamunde from the realm of the fey?

What if his dream of that kiss had answered his question — what was Rosamunde’s honest desire? Did she wish for him as well as for freedom?

But before he dared to enter the Faerie mound, before he dared to abduct a women destined for the High King of Faerie’s bed, Padraig would be sure of the ring’s powers.

He left a coin for the ale, having no taste for it any longer. He strode out into the streets of Galway, slipped down an alleyway, then donned the ring.

To his astonishment, when he stepped back into the crowded thoroughfare, a man walked right into him, frowning at the obstacle he could feel but not see.

Padraig spent an hour testing the ring’s abilities, but it was clear that no human eye could discern his presence.

Next he would check it among the fey. He borrowed a horse and rode like a madman to the stone circle where he had heard Una sing the night before.

Rosamunde was displeased.

To be sure, the court was fine enough, and the hospitality was generous. She had been assigned some two-dozen ladies in waiting who cared more for the careful plaiting of her hair than she ever could have done. She liked the splendid fabrics, the jewels and the evident wealth.

She did not like that she had been unable to escape Darg, much less the creature’s hoot of triumph when Finvarra had removed the red cord. The spriggan had disappeared so quickly that it might not have ever been.

She did not miss the vile creature.

Finvarra was a handsome man, confident in his appeal. His eyes were strange, or at least they did not seem to match his countenance. He looked to have seen no more than thirty summers, his body young and strong, his face unlined and handsome. But his eyes. his eyes were filled with the shadows of experience. There was the memory of sadness there, of joy, of triumph and defeat. Had it been her choice to meet him, had she met him when both were unencumbered, Rosamunde might have been intrigued by the Faerie King.

As it was, she saw that his fascination with her was no more than lust. She would be a conquest, a mistress, a frippery to be tossed aside when he became bored with her charms.

Rosamunde had never been so little and had no desire to be as much now.

Indeed, his interest reminded her of Tynan’s supposed love, and she would spurn it as she had failed to spurn it previously. If nothing else, Rosamunde would learn from her error.

Then there was the matter of Finvarra’s wife, Una, who had retreated to the far side of the hall. Una, no small beauty herself, had gathered her ladies about her and they clustered there, whispering and pointing.

Finvarra ignored his wife so deliberately that Rosamunde guessed she was but a pawn in some ongoing match between King and wife.

It was far less than what she wanted of her life.

She had tried to escape, without success. These maidens purportedly assigned to ensure her pleasure were also charged with keeping her captive. Their hearing was sharp, their sight sharper, their vigil complete.

Rosamunde folded her arms across her chest, smiled thinly and refused to participate in the festivities. If Finvarra’s interest waned, perhaps she would be cast out of the realm sooner.

It seemed an unlikely prospect, given the gleam in his eye when he glanced her way, but Rosamunde had precious few options.

She disliked this role of a woman pampered. She disliked having no choice over her direction, having no ability to shape her own fate. It was utterly at odds with the way she had led her life, and Rosamunde fairly itched to return to what she knew.

First, somehow, she had to escape this court.

The music was intoxicating, so loud and sweet and melodious. The fey danced with a vigour that was astounding, seeming never to tire. The bounty of food on display was enticing, all manner of sweets and confections offered for the pleasure of the company. The mead smelled wonderful indeed, but Rosamunde feared the loss of her wits should she drink it. She simply stood and watched, and the hours drew long.

It was hours later when the faeries began a vivacious dance. It was clear that Rosamunde’s maidens were captivated by the music, their eyes dancing and their toes tapping. Rosamunde encouraged them, one after the other, to take the floor, until finally she felt unobserved.

It would not last, but she would savour the interval.

No sooner was she alone than a man’s hands closed over her shoulders. He stood close behind her, whoever he was, his breath in her hair and his chest at her back. Rosamunde jumped, then felt her eyes widen at a familiar murmur.

«At your back, as always,» Padraig said. The feel of his breath on her neck made her tingle. «Say nothing, but listen.»

Rosamunde felt her heart skip and feared her maidens would hear its tumult. She tried to quiet her response, but she felt the strength of Padraig’s fingers on her shoulders, the warmth of him against her back. She glanced down but could not see his hands.

«An enchantment,» he murmured and she heard the familiar humour touch his tone. «I know not how long ’twill last.»

Rosamunde’s mouth went dry. She didn’t doubt that Padraig would be at risk if they realized there was an intruder in their midst. She scanned the hall, endeavouring to be casual in the survey, and realized that none could see Padraig. None even guessed his presence.

Then Rosamunde felt Una’s gaze land upon her and saw the woman smile slightly.

Could Una see him?

Or was she simply gladdened that Rosamunde did not enjoy the celebrations?

«I do not know how much you know,» Padraig said in quick whisper. «You are in the sid of the High King of the Faeries, Finvarra, and he means to make you his mistress.»

Rosamunde nodded ever so slightly.

«Choose, Rosamunde, choose whether you would remain in this place or whether you would have me aid your escape.» Padraig’s voice dropped low and his grip tightened slightly. «I am not without my own expectation, you should be warned. I should have confessed my love for you years ago. I would love you. I would be with you. I would endeavour to make you happy.»

Indeed, the man could not fail at that task. Rosamunde closed her eyes, overcome with joy at his words.

«My right hand if you would stay here,» he murmured. «My left, if you would be mine.»

Without hesitation, Rosamunde raised her hand, as if to straighten her hair, and brushed her fingertips across Padraig’s left hand. She felt him catch his breath.

Una’s smile broadened, turning smug, then she plucked a sweet from a proffered tray. The Faerie Queen’s eyes gleamed and Rosamunde feared her deception.

«Eat nothing,» Padraig warned. «Drink nothing. If you consume so much as one morsel, you will be captive here forever.»

Rosamunde touched his fingertips to indicate her understanding. She was fiercely glad that she had not taken a bite since her arrival.

«Tomorrow night, the fey will ride out in procession for Beltane. You must go with the company. You must ride as close to the perimeter of the group as you can. I will come for you.»

Rosamunde felt the burn of his lips against her nape. She did not doubt that Padraig would face a challenge in gaining her freedom. She closed her eyes, wanting to turn into his embrace, her chest tight with the gift of his presence.

Then Padraig was gone, like a shadow swallowed by the night.

And there was only the glitter of Una’s knowing gaze locked upon her.

What treachery had the Faerie Queen planned?

It was Beltane, and Padraig was enough of his mother’s son to know that anything was possible on this night of nights.

On this night and on Samhain, the fey were at their most potent.

He made his preparations, fully aware of that.

He bought the horse that he had borrowed and the ostler was pleased to be rid of the beast, given that it had gone missing the night before. Padraig got the steed for a better price than he might have otherwise. He prepared it with care, ensuring that there was no iron in its harness, less the fey realize it was not one of theirs.

It was a fine stallion, a high-stepping black horse with a proud gait. Its mane was long and dark, its eyes lit with a fire that made Padraig wonder whether it knew more of the fey than he. It was said that the faeries bred the best horses, and there was majesty in this one’s lineage.

It had not even shied at the sid, but waited calmly for him at the hawthorn tree.

He declared his intent to sail with the morning tide, had his ship provisioned for the journey, and kissed his sister goodbye. He cleared space in the hold to create a stable for the horse, for he had no inclination to leave it behind.

He paid his debts and tried to sleep, that he might be at his best when night fell.

When the darkness slipped over the land, when the Beltane fires were lit in the hills, Padraig walked his horse to the old Norman gate. His heart in his mouth, he mounted and rode out into the night, slipping the ring on to his finger when he left the road.

Padraig reached the stone circle, but found only silence within it. The wind was still, the ground dark. He feared he had come too late, that the host had already ridden out — or that perhaps they had guessed his intent and chosen to forgo tradition to keep the prize of Rosamunde.

There was much he would forgo to keep her by his side.

Then the wind rustled in the branches of the hawthorn that grew to one side of the stone circle. His stallion snorted and tossed his head, then Padraig heard the clarion call of a distant trumpet.

The single note was clear, as clear as a mountain stream, as lovely as a summer morning. The sound melted his heart, dissolved his inhibitions, filled his veins with starlight and resolve.

The earth in the middle of the mound cracked; it gaped wide. A portal opened in the ground, one wide enough for four horses to ride abreast. Padraig glimpsed the hall beneath that he had visited the night before and his grip tightened on the reins.

Golden light spilled from the hidden court into the night’s darkness and the Faerie host rode forth. Music accompanied them, the tinkle of ten thousand silver bells mounted on a thousand harnesses. Their steeds pranced with pride, confident of their splendour and beauty. The Beltane fires on the adjacent hills burned higher as if in tribute, their flames stretching to the stars.

And the fey laughed.

Padraig stared in awe at their magnificent display.

There were horses in the company without riders, or perhaps their riders were too small to be seen. Padraig would have eased his steed to join the company, but the beast seemed to know his expectation — it marched alongside, as if it had done as much a dozen times before.

The Faerie host flowed over the hills, eased down to the valley and ascended the next hill. Small Faeries darted towards the occasional cottage, claiming whatever gifts had been left for them. They shared the milk and ale with their fellows, lapped the porridge and cast gold coins in their wake. Each Beltane fire they passed snapped and crackled in acknowledgment of their passage, and Finvarra laughed at the sight. His wife, riding on his right, smiled but there was no joy in her eyes.

Neither was there joy in the steady gaze of Rosamunde.

Padraig eased his horse closer to the royalty, stroking its neck to encourage it to pass between the other beasts. The stallion needed little encouragement, and Padraig considered the possibility that horses felt a natural attraction to the Faerie King.

Just as the Beltane flames acknowledged his presence.

Padraig did not know how long they rode, nor how far. He thought solely of getting closer to Rosamunde without attracting attention, and he made consistent progress in that goal. They crossed a vale and ascended another hill. When they reached the top, the shining dark water of Lough Carrib was visible, gleaming at the foot of the hills. There were more stars on this night than he had ever seen and the moon rose high in pearly splendour.

When they began to descend the hill, Padraig’s horse eased so close that he could touch the hem of Rosamunde’s dress.

It was time.

The company jostled for position as they began the descent. The fey were celebratory, and less disciplined than when they had first left the hill. Their laughter was louder and their songs more merry.

Padraig lunged through the company with purpose. He dug his heels into the stallion’s side, and the horse leaped with power. Padraig snatched Rosamunde from her steed, his arm locked around her waist, and placed her on the saddle before him.

Then he fled.

As the stallion raced down the hill, the golden ring upon Padraig’s finger cracked in half. It fell from his hand and was trampled beneath the horses’ hooves, leaving him revealed to the fey.

«Impostor!» they cried. «Thief!»

«Fetch my mistress!» bellowed Finvarra.

Padraig gave the horse his heels. The steed raced down the hill ahead of the Faerie host, running so quickly that the ground was a blur beneath their feet.

«Faster,» Rosamunde urged, glancing back. «Faster!»

Padraig heard Una’s song rise sweetly in the distance, but did not trust her ode.

«Padraig!» Rosamunde said, locking her arms around his neck. «She means to make you spurn me. Be not deceived.»

Padraig guessed the test he would face a heartbeat before it began.

In his embrace, Rosamunde turned to a hag, appearing to have endured a thousand years of hardship. Her skin was wrinkled like ancient leather, her eyes yellow and her teeth missing.

She cackled at him, this apparition, and looked fit to devour him. Padraig could see the bones of her skull beneath the loose flesh of her face, he could smell the fetid stench of decay, and he felt the clutch of her skeletal fingers on his neck. Everything within him was repulsed and his urge was to cast her aside with all speed.

Padraig told himself it was but a spell and held fast.

Rosamunde changed then to an enormous snake, green and slippery in Padraig’s grasp. The snake bared its fangs and malice lit its eyes as it reared back to strike. He had no doubt its bite was poisonous, but he did not release it.

There were, after all, no snakes in Ireland. Padraig knew that this, too, was but a fey trick.

He heard Una’s song, realized it was growing in volume, and knew there would be worse to come. Three tests there would be, he guessed as much, and they would become more fierce. He held fast to the writhing green snake and hoped he could keep hold of Rosamunde. The horse ran, outdistancing the shouting host at its heels.

The snake twisted in his grip, as elusive as a fish, but Padraig held tightly. The water of the lake drew ever more near and he wondered what the horse would do. He thought to direct it around the body of water, then Rosamunde changed shape again.

In the blink of an eye, Rosamunde became a fire in his embrace. The brilliant light of the flames nearly blinded Padraig and surprise almost loosened his grip.

He cried out and tightened his grasp upon her. The fire burned his skin, the flames licking at his flesh. He closed his eyes to the sight of his own body burning, to the smell of his destruction. He held fast to the column of flame, even as he feared he could not have the strength to endure against the fey.

Padraig thought of the way Rosamunde’s hair looked in the sunlight.

He recalled her bold stance on the ship as they sailed to adventure. He remembered the light in her eyes when they had first met. He thought of her determination, even when the spriggan Darg had stolen her charts and trapped the ship in a calm.

He recalled her pride in her nieces and her joy in seeing them well wed. He thought of her passion and her pride and he fortified himself with the truth of why he loved this woman with all his heart. Padraig squeezed his eyes shut as the pain built to a crescendo.

He could not lose his love.

He recited the paternoster, on impulse, recalling his mother’s counsel. Tears stung his cheeks as he said the familiar prayer. Our Father.

The horse halted abruptly, reared, then it ducked its head. Padraig was thrown over its neck and gasped aloud when he landed in the lake with a splash.

He sank low, still holding fast to Rosamunde, and the cold dark water of the lake embraced them. He felt the flame in his arms turn to a woman again.

A naked woman.

A naked woman he loved more than life itself.

And Padraig knew he had triumphed. They broke the surface together, Rosamunde’s smile enough to light Padraig’s nights forevermore.

When they might have spoken each to the other, a man cleared his throat at close proximity.

Finvarra stood on the shore, holding the bridle of the stamping black stallion. «And so the contest goes to you,» the High King of the Faerie said. He stroked the horse’s nose with affection and the beast nuzzled him. Finvarra smiled and his eyes glinted. «I shall take this horse into my care, seeing as it was once stolen from us and is rightfully returned.»

Padraig understood why the horse had not been startled by the fey, why it had been so at ease joining the host. Recognition was possibly why it had been allowed to join the company in the first place.

He understood then why it had thrown him and saved Rosamunde. Padraig fancied that the horse had intended to reward him for bringing it back to Finvarra.

«You are a man of more cunning than most.» Finvarra smiled. «I should have liked to have played chess with you.»

«With respect, my lord, I have little to my name and nothing I would choose to lose.» Padraig kept his arm around Rosamunde, noting how the King’s gaze flicked between the two of them.

«Should his devotion falter,» Finvarra said to Rosamunde, «you are always welcome at my court.»

«I thank you, my lord, and thank you also for your hospitality,» Rosamunde said with a bow.

«You and your fellows will always find welcome at our home,» Padraig added with a bow of his own.

Finvarra smiled, his gaze trailing to his wife, who remained upon her steed and at a distance. «It is no crime to covet a beauteous gem,» he said softly, «but a rare triumph to possess one. I salute you, Padraig. May your love never be tarnished.»

With that Finvarra turned and led the prancing horse back to the company. Padraig felt the chill of the night air on his wet skin as he stood with Rosamunde fast at his side, but he could not tear his gaze away from the departing company. He doubted he would ever see them again. They rode forth, passing over the hills like a vision, leaving only the echo of their silvery laughter behind.

And Rosamunde.

«Thank you,» she said, smiling up at him.

«You are welcome. I am glad to see you hale again.» Padraig stared down at her, knowing his desire but afraid to speak of it too soon.

Rosamunde, as was typical of her, showed no such restraint. She twined her arms around his neck, sliding her fingers into his hair. «I am sorry, Padraig, that I erred so badly. I love you. I think I have always loved you, but I wish I had seen the truth of it sooner.»

Padraig bent to touch his lips to hers, his heart swelling that his dream should be his own. «I know that I have always loved you,» he murmured against her mouth.

Rosamunde laughed. «Then I shall have to spend the rest of our lives atoning for my error.»

«I do not think it will be so onerous.»

«Nor do I!»

Padraig laughed at the prospect, then he sobered. Rosamunde’s eyes were the richest green, filled with a conviction that stole his breath away. «Marry me, Rosamunde. Marry me and seal our bond for all to see. I have little to offer you but myself.»

«Your ship.»

«Your ship, and the contents yours as well. I have only myself.»

«And it is more than enough. I will wed you, Padraig Deane, and I will honour your love every day and night of my life.»

It was everything he had ever wanted, and yet more.

Rosamunde’s kiss sent a welcome heat through Padraig, a heat that her presence would never fail to kindle. Padraig knew that whatever he had suffered had been worthwhile, for he had gained his heart’s desire.

When he lifted his head, her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed. She glanced about herself and shivered. «Tell me, though, that we can sail to warmer climes.»

«I thought Sicily,» Padraig said, smiling as pleasure lit her expression. «With the morning tide. All is prepared.»

Rosamunde laughed. «A man of confidence, and one in pursuit of my own heart.»

«I thought I possessed that prize already,» he teased, loving the sound of her answering laughter.

«You do, you do.» Then Rosamunde raised a hand to his cheek, as solemn as he had ever seen her. Her voice dropped to a fervent whisper. «Oh, Padraig, never doubt that I am yours.» A tear glistened in her eye, a tear that he knew was rare for this bold woman. «I may have been late to see the truth, but I shall never forget it now.»

«I shall never let you forget it,» he retorted then winked. Rosamunde smiled and he swung her into his arms then strode from the lake. He had an idea of how they might warm themselves before the walk back to town.

One glance at his lady told him that their thoughts were as one. Yet again, they would challenge convention. Yet again they would follow their hearts. But from this day forth, they would do so together.

It was as close to heaven as Padraig Deane ever expected to be.