The Faery Bride (The Celtic Legends Series Book 2) by Lisa Ann Verge Read Free Book Online Page A

Yes, it was rude to refuse a gift so fine. “I’ve had a bellyful of Welsh hospitality, truth be told. I’ll wait for my own clothes, thank you very much.”
    Aye, her fine serviceable tunic, the fibers spun with her own hands from her family’s own sheep, woven into cloth by her mother’s hands, sewn into a tunic by her sister’s quick fingers, and dyed along the edges with blue from woad. Aye, aye, she wanted her tunic, with its deep shoulders and comforting warmth and the lingering smell of salt–sea, with the tear in the hem where she’d torn it looking for bird’s eggs on the western cliffs.
    “I’ll see to it, but I don’t know what the master will be saying about this.”
    A short time later, dressed in her own wool which had been brushed to a fine clean nap, Aileen plaited her hair and fixed it with a bit of string that had unraveled from one of the sacks of grain. The door opened again, pouring the cold white light of day through the room, but this time a tall, broad–shouldered silhouette filled the portal.
    With a quiver in her stomach she turned to him, only to find herself face–to–face with the man who had come to her home that fateful day, the one–handed Welshman who had aided Rhys in capturing her.
    “I think,” he began, dipping his head to step into the food shed, “that if a gaze were an arrow, I’d be standing here shot clear through.”
    “I’ve met the devil. Now I meet the devil’s right hand.”
    “The devil’s right hand has a name. It’s Dafydd.”
    “I see you’ve no problem getting your tongue around the Irish now.”
    “My mother taught both me and Rhys.” He shrugged a broad shoulder under silk the color of summer grass. “Our mother and Marged, that is, who rarely allowed us to get a word in.”
    Our mother . . . She narrowed her eyes. She saw the resemblance now. They were of the same height. This man’s hair was a lighter black, the jaw not as sharp, the eyes not so piercing. As she stared, a smile lit those features.
    Of the same blood, she thought. But not of the same temperament.
    “So,” he continued, swiftly, casting his gaze over her tunic, “what of the silks I sent you? Did they not fit?”
    “ You sent the silks?”
    “And the bath and the food and Marged.” He shrugged again. “We’ve no woman in the house, so I hope you’ll forgive the belated hospitality.”
    “You’ve an odd way of showing it.” She turned away and wondered at her vague sense of disappointment. Why had she expected any kindness, even kindness with a purpose, from the man who’d stolen her away? “And I’m no Lady O’Brian of Connacht, to be painted in rich colors.”
    “The green would have done you justice.”
    “Rich gifts from guilty hands.”
    “Ah.” His brows shot up, and she swore she saw him suppress a smile. “I’d heard this about the Irish. My mother was stubborn too.”
    “Was she stolen from Ireland? Do the sons follow the follies of their father?”
    “I hope not, indeed.” His smile hardened. “My father sired nine sons, most on the wrong side of the blanket.”
    “If you’re looking for redemption, David,” she interrupted, the name tripping on her lips, “don’t be doing it with silks. Get me on a ship back to Inishmaan, and then mayhap your soul will find peace.”
    For a moment, looking at him, she thought she saw a shadow pass over his face. Could that be shame? Before she could be sure, he shifted his gaze to the horizon outside the door.
    “Three days in a musty place like this will strain the disposition of even the most gracious of ladies.” He reached up and tugged his mustache with his fingers. “Come and take a turn with me around the yard. The air is brisk, but—”
    “Aren’t you afraid I’ll try to escape?”
    “With mountains between here and the ocean, and an ocean between Wales and Ireland? No, lass. There is no escape . . . unless you can make a broom fly.”
    The hesitant grin on his face took the threat out