The Immortal's Unrequited Bride. Kelli Ireland
Laughter colored Lachlan’s deep, charming voice. “Where did your bonny thoughts take you, my love?”
She forced herself to turn around and face her husband, swallowing repeatedly. Her regrets were far too many, the memories she’d count on to see her through far too few. Worried he’d recognize something amiss, she arched an eyebrow and waved him on. “Out with it, then. Tell me what I know.”
“And why would I?” he asked, humor flashing through his eyes.
“To spare yourself the tongue-lashing you’d receive should you think to withhold information from me?”
Lachlan grinned, his dimples flashing. “Lucky am I that you’re not inclined to harp. Now, this tongue-lashing...”
She snatched a mushroom from her collecting basket and hurled it at him playfully. “Lecherous wretch.”
He fielded the mushroom and absently tossed it back into her basket. “These premonitions of yours are helpful only in that they tend to save me having to repeat myself in order to keep you informed.” He reclined again, resting large hands over his muscled abdomen. His eyelids fell to half-mast, and what little she could see of his irises’ color deepened. “You realize, wife, that we finally have a few moments alone. Surely you wouldn’t waste such a boon discussing politics.”
She pulled the pins from her hair and let the mass tumble to her waist. “I’d rather not talk at all, and well you know it, but you’re the Assassin and these are dire times.”
“When discussions of the War of the Roses, the Tudors and the gods’ petty differences come between, or before, my sworn duty to see to my wife’s needs?” He grinned. “Dire times, indeed.”
All those who recognized this man as leader of the Assassin’s Arcanum, the elite group of men the Druids selected within their own to protect all they revered, knew well enough that his lazy slouch was for effect. Isibéal understood this better than any other.
Her husband was dangerous in a thousand ways that were visible and a thousand more that were decidedly not. Deadliness didn’t render the man entirely immortal, though. A killing blow would take him as it would any other. His skill sets only ensured the blow would be more difficult to deliver. More difficult did not translate to impossible.
And he thought to bargain with gods and demigods alike.
Foolish man.
And how are you any better? her conscience whispered.
Perhaps she wasn’t better, but there was a difference. Lachlan’s service to the Arcanum meant that, should she die, he would have to go on without her. Obligation necessitated his leadership, even in the face of unassailable hardship. She had no such requirement. If she were to lose him, she would be less than the shell of the woman she was. There would be no living. Breathing in and out would not constitute life. Her only choice would be to follow him through the Veil into eternity. The end result would be two deaths on the side of Light instead of one.
The gods would never condone such a thing.
Staring at Lachlan now, she felt an ache in her chest with the sense of loss too vast to comprehend. He never had realized the charm he wielded or what a beautiful man he was. Instead, he forever seemed unaware of his appearance or the effect he had on people, particularly women. She would always appreciate that about him. Like now, as he lounged in the grand chair, his blond hair tied back with a leather thong, his everyday clothes fitted and fine but far from formal. Restrained violence settled around him like a cloak, but the teasing laughter never left his face. How he managed to rein in both was beyond her.
Her heart raced and her breasts tightened with arousal.
What she wouldn’t give for an hour alone with him.
And had he not just said they had time to themselves?
Her very soul sighed, the rush of relief highly tangible for all it was inaudible. She would steal that precious time with him—experience his mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, the weight of his body pressed against hers, the way he moved within her with control and purpose. She would seek, and take, everything he offered, and all with the crushing knowledge that this turn of the wheel was nearly over for her.
She laid the back of her free hand against her cheek. Gods save her from her thoughts, both carnal and mortal. They’d been married more than four years, and the overwhelming desire she had for him had never faded.
Memories teased the corners of her mouth, coaxing a smile like a daylily, its bloom fading as soon as it was born. Laying her fingertips over her lips, she pressed the sensitive skin against her teeth until it hurt, all in an effort to allay the pain and fear of choices made.
“Iz?”
Her eyes snapped into focus and she looked at him, blinking rapidly. “Yes?”
Lachlan pushed out of his chair and closed the distance between them with purposeful strides. “You’re far too canny a woman to allow your good conscience to be fraught with worry over political machinations.”
“Mankind has no idea what they’ve wrought upon themselves.”
Stopping before her, he cupped her face and dipped low for a swift kiss. “You and I are well aware that things are rarely as they seem. I’ve been asked to be on hand to apply that wisdom to a group of men who bicker like six children given five marbles to share. History will record these events justly, provided mankind does not gloss over the outcome. Either way, we must do our duty to the gods. Then?” He traced a thumb along her cheek. “Justice will surely prevail.”
“Is there no other way? No way for us to refrain from becoming involved?”
“You know there is not, Isibéal.”
She blinked through an unwelcome sheen of emotion.
The corners of his eyes tightened as he thumbed away a tear from her cheek. “What’s this, my lady?”
Her throat burned as if she’d gulped down a flagon of raw alcohol. “What has been set into motion cannot be stopped.”
But what if she was wrong? What if her vision was flawed? What if she’d been led false? Or...what if the bargain she’d struck this morn did, indeed, change this man’s free will? Could she save him?
She gripped her husband’s forearms, fingernails digging into sun-kissed skin pulled taut over defined muscle. “You must cancel the meeting, Lach. Please.”
“It...and I...will be fine, mo chroí.”
“You call me your heart and ask me to have faith, but what of you? Have you no faith in my gift of seeing? Of knowing? I am certain this will not go well, Lachlan.” She gripped the back of his neck and pulled him down until their foreheads touched. “Would you declare me naught but a foolish wife and incompetent witch in this matter?” she breathed.
“Neither is true, and I would take to task any man, woman or child brazen—and ignorant—enough to speak such nonsense.” His gaze bored into hers. “You must trust me in this, Iz. Daghda himself has ordained that this meeting is both just and necessary. By the gods’ own laws, this is the appropriate venue for the parties to issue their grievance. Yet he cannot preside over a hearing involving his own kin. They asked for my time and opinions, and I’m of the belief that this is right and fair. The Arcanum is, and always has been, the gods’ sword arm to justly wield.”
Isibéal shook her head slowly. “Neither you nor the Arcanum should ever be ordered to strike out in revenge, particularly on the gods’ behalf.”
Lachlan stilled his caress. “I have not been called to fight but, instead, to listen. To mediate. The All Father would no more lead me blindly into harm’s way than he would manipulate my service to render it unjust. I’ve served him more than a mortal lifetime, and he has seen the Druids through the worst of Ireland’s troubles.”
“So far,” she interjected.
“So