Chapter Two

A small sense of satisfaction stole over Beth as Fintan visibly did a double take. She told herself the bright appreciation behind his steely grey eyes was monumentally better than pity, and that the nervous jitter in her belly had nothing to do with liking the idea he found her attractive. She smiled and extended her hand, doing her best to maintain her professional façade and hide the topsy-turvy nature of her stomach. “Fintan. Good to see you again.”

“Good to see you, Beth.” Long, powerful fingers slid against her palm as he rose from behind his desk. His grip was firm, affectionate, and familiar.

A strange tingling raced up her arm all the way to her shoulder. Something she’d never before encountered with Fintan, though she’d shook his hand a dozen times before, not to mention the times they’d embraced. She let go quickly, unable to decide whether the unsettling sensation was pleasant or disturbing. Just as hastily, she turned her back on his penetrating gaze to admire the high stone walls around her and the faded woven tapestry hanging on the wall. “You have a lovely home, Fintan. You’d said castle, but I hadn’t quite expected the real thing.”

“Real indeed.” Chair legs scraped across the floor a heartbeat before he crept into her peripheral vision, then crossed in front of her to run a hand down the majestic portrayal of huntsmen chasing a white stag. “My eldest brother, Cian, discovered this in one of the abandoned tower rooms.”

“Why are the huntsmen wearing horned masks?”

A smile spread across Fintan’s face, enhancing the warmth of his eyes and accenting a solitary dimple at the left corner of his mouth. “It’s Midsummer.” He touched a tiny yellow dot amidst the leafy green canopy of trees. “You can tell by the fairy lights. The masks are part of ritual, and the huntsmen chase the stag, unaware they are being led to Otherworld.”

She looked away from the tapestry and braved eye contact. As usual, when his stare held hers a breath too long, warmth seeped into her bloodstream. Damn. She’d hoped that would stop this trip.

Beth abruptly averted her gaze, murmuring, “It’s beautiful.”

“Sgàil na Faileas—Veil of Shadows—has been in my family for centuries. I’ll give you a tour if you’d like, after our evening meal.” He moved around to his desk once more and took a seat, lounging with one ankle crossed over a knee. With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the candles strewn across his desk. “Unfortunately, in just a little while, my assistant will be here to collect these for the upcoming Imbolc ritual. Otherwise I’d take you now.”

Ritual. The word stopped the wild butterflies in her belly. Beth had tried to forget that Fintan was High Priest to a local coven. Paganism didn’t fit with her staunch Baptist upbringing. It was the one, very deciding, factor about him that she couldn’t overlook—and one complication she couldn’t excuse away. All the more reason she was glad she’d booked a short trip. She had no desire to participate, or even witness, this pagan holiday ritual. But damned if she didn’t want to hug him hello as she had hugged him goodbye the last time.

Beth forced the unacceptable longing aside and nodded politely. “A tour would be nice. If you want to show me to my room, I can keep myself busy until you’re free.” Maybe it would be better to keep her distance until she could get her body under control.

He let out a light laugh and shook his head. “I’m free, Beth. Aside from this matter, I’ve cleared my schedule for you.”

Something about the way he said that set off the disturbing flutter in her belly again and intensified the languid warmth flowing in her veins. She moved away from the warmth of the fire.

“So.” He set both palms on the desk. A boyish grin curved one corner of his mouth. “Let me see this document you found. And by the way…” A dark eyebrow raised ever-so-slightly. “I like the change. You look beautiful.”

That did it—if she’d been uncomfortably warm before, she was stifling now. Why, oh why, couldn’t she be immune to this man who was so obviously wrong for her? He was pagan, he lived in Scotland, and he encouraged her to do silly things like waste valuable time painting. They shared absolutely nothing in common, except for a love of her Celtic roots.

Determined not to stutter in embarrassment, or hide behind her hair as she’d once done so readily, she forced herself to maintain eye contact. “Thanks.” She gave a shrug she hoped came off as nonchalant. “It was time.”

Before Fintan could catch her off guard with another too-probing look or too-beguiling grin, she pulled her oversized purse in front of her and withdrew the old, leather-bound document. As it did each time she touched it, something she could only define as energy—and that took a lot of swallowing to admit—thrummed beneath her fingertips. Only now, the sensation wasn’t quite as foreign. Strangely enough, it mirrored the odd tingling that came with the grip of Fintan’s hand.

Beth swallowed uneasily. This wasn’t going at all as planned. She couldn’t get caught up in distractions. Get the genealogy, keep your distance. You don’t need the hassle.

Taking the chair opposite his, she set the bound runic writing on his desk between two piles of candles and pushed it closer to his reach. “Here you go. You’ll find the name on the first page. It’s the only combination of runes I could translate.”

When Fintan didn’t immediately open the delicate binding, she reached across the desk and did it for him. But reading runes upside down was twice as difficult as reading them right side up. She turned the journal around to face her, scanned the elegant hand-drawn images, and tapped the series that defined Drust. “Right here.”

As she looked up, Fintan stared not at the journal, but at her. Steel grey eyes were wide and fringed with a touch of disbelief. His posture had turned to stone.

“What?” she asked, unreasonably self-conscious. “Is something wrong?”

****

Beth’s question met Fintan’s ears like she spoke through a long wind tunnel. He saw her lips move, heard the melodic cadence of her husky voice, but couldn’t connect the sounds with logic. All he could do was stare at the embodiment of a woman who had changed the course of the Selgovae Celts existence. From the fire-kissed highlights in her hair, to her high, regal cheekbones, to the curious light that sparkled in her eyes, Beth Whitley mirrored Ealasaid, the priestess who studied under Fintan’s mother centuries ago. To perfection.

Worse, she now bore the iridescent stain of his mother’s magic on her fingertips. It glowed in the fading afternoon light, an iridescent blend of purple, blue, and gold, that marked centuries of hidden power…and the means to eradicating Fintan’s abominable sire. Which made the deep yearning to relive the one accidental kiss they’d shared completely unacceptable, though the memory of that chance embrace was so powerful it hollowed out his gut.

Gradually, he realized she’d asked him if something was amiss, and he shook off stunned stupor. He swallowed down the rise of forbidden longing. His gaze dropped to the journal she’d dragged across an ocean. He didn’t dare touch it yet. The demonic half of his soul recoiled at the very sight. Instead, he nodded slowly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Only that she’d brought the one document Brigid would kill for.

“I have seen something this old…only once.” He chose his words carefully. What he understood about Beth marked her as a woman who wouldn’t begin to accept the truth behind the writings she discovered. Maybe the old Beth might have—back when she’d been vulnerable and teetered on the edge of following her heart or following edicts placed upon her. But not this one. Not the confident attorney who radiated composure and control.

“You like it?” Her smile broke free, accentuating the brilliance of her jade green eyes.

Like it—it was the one document he craved more than anything. He nodded as footsteps clicked down the hall. “Very much. It’s…amazing.”

And potent. The energy rolling off the bound, wax-coated parchment was as forceful as a stone hammer. Energy that Drandar would sense, as well as Brigid.

Energy that could spell Beth’s doom.

With two fingers, he pushed the journal closer to her, anxious to have it tucked out of sight before his mother’s power drew undesirable attention. “We’ll look at it later. There’s a lot more there than I’d expected, and I hear Muriel coming. My assistant must be here.”

Thankfully, Beth took the queue and tucked the journal back into her purse. With an inward sigh of relief, he noted the satchel was also leather. It would contain the power they unwittingly released by opening the journal.

He exhaled heavily as the study door opened, and Muriel escorted a fair-haired young woman inside.

“Andra, good of you to make it.”

Andra’s gaze flitted to Beth, took her in from head to toe, before she nodded at Fintan. “Big plans coming up. Don’t dare forget to collect these. Are they all going? I spoke to Steven. He’s comfortable with drawing the circle. I guess…”

As Andra rambled on, Fintan nodded absently. He couldn’t keep his mind off Beth, or the journal she’d lugged across the sea. When she’d left the last time, he’d felt certain she would never come again. Since she’d phoned, however, all he could think about was her arrival. Two years—had it really been that long? Damn it, he’d leapt at the opportunity to dig further into her roots not really believing they’d find anything. She would be here, under his roof, at his side night and day, working under a guise he was confident would lead them nowhere. Only now, he no longer needed to research the meaning of Drust, no longer needed to hunt for which Drust might pertain to her genealogy.

No, the answers stared him straight in the face. Except she would never believe the explanation that Drust was not a man, but the word for tumult, or that it applied to Fintan’s father. That it documented the turmoil Drandar set upon the Selgovae.

He’d found her roots all right. Two years of searching, and now he didn’t know how to tell her that she was a descendant of his people, or that her ancestor, Ealasaid, had worked alongside Nyamah to destroy Fintan’s incubus father. Nor did he know how to convince her that she needed to leave immediately, before two years of fond memories damned her to the unthinkable.

“Uh, Fintan?” Andra prompted as she wagged a candled in front of his face.

Fintan shook his head to shake off the preoccupation of his thoughts. “Sorry, Andra. The ritual is so close—I’ve a lot on my mind.”

“I bet. All right then, I’m out of here. You need anything else before we arrive for ritual?”

“No. We’re good.” The only thing he needed was to be locked far away from Beth so the desire that simmered in his bloodstream didn’t turn into something deadlier. For beyond the realization of her roots, he realized something else, something he hadn’t allowed himself to consider for centuries.

Beth Whitley didn’t just hold the means of damaging Drandar. She held the power to consume Fintan’s long-buried heart.