Because of Baby. Donna Clayton

      Prologue

      “Quit your messin’ about in there, Fern!”

      “Trouble’s brewin’. I can feel it.”

      “Leave me be.” Fern waved off the warnings called from the open window of the nursery. She cocked her wings at just the right angle and spiraled into a jaunty somersault that elicited a delighted giggle from the tawny-haired baby in the crib. The child would be taken far from Ireland this morning, and Fern was determined to spend every available second with little Katy.

      Just being this close to a human was frowned upon in Sidhe—the Irish fairy world. Actually interacting with the baby—entertaining her with fancy flying maneuvers, whispering rhymes that made her giggle—was strictly against the rules.

      But Fern simply couldn’t resist. Babes, and even tots, were pure, their thoughts and perceptions as yet untainted by worldly matters. Because of this, they had no reason not to believe that fairies did exist. Katy’s innocence enabled her to see Fern.

      Katy was an extra special baby. Fern took a nosedive and stopped short to plant a sweet kiss on a cheek that was rose-petal soft, then she zipped into the air and spun around to gaze into a pair of wide eyes that glistened with clever imagination. Ah, yes, Katy was just as special as her mother had been.

      Ah, Maire. Katy’s mother had been the light of Fern’s life for years. Fern had risked ridicule and chastisement from everyone in Sidhe by befriending Maire. But Fern hadn’t cared.

      However, Maire was gone. Long ago she’d left for a place called America. She’d returned sometime later with a husband in tow. An intriguing man with a mesmerizing mahogany gaze. Fern had understood completely how Maire had lost her heart to Paul Roland. Why, Fern herself would have fallen silk booties over wings for him had such a thing not been forbidden to her.

      The last time Maire had returned home, her belly had grown round, and Fern had overheard the humans talk about a baby that was soon to arrive.

      This year, however, Paul had returned to Ireland without Maire, and Fern had met Katy for the very first time. Fern had wondered about Maire’s absence, but playing with the babe was much more fun than fretting about the unknown. Pixies did their best not to do much worrying.

      “He’s coming! Fern, get out of there. Now!”

      Looking toward the door, Fern smiled when she saw Paul Roland. Her wings hummed like summer lightning and her skin felt prickly. He was the most striking creature—human or otherwise—that she’d ever laid eyes on.

      “Fern!”

      She tossed her friends an irritated glance. “Sure, he can’t see me. He’s no believer. I’m perfectly safe.”

      If the truth be told, Fern had lingered with Katy today because of Paul. She’d said her goodbyes to the baby; however, she longed for the chance to wish him farewell, too. Harboring this fondness for the oh-so-handsome human was dangerous, she knew. But he was going far away today and who knew when she’d see him again.

      “Hey, there, sweetie,” he crooned to his daughter.

      Like warm velvet, his voice was, and it made Fern sigh.

      “It’s time for us to go.” He reached into the crib, and Fern fluttered toward the foot of the bed. He set Katy up on her bottom.

      “Da-da,” the toddler grinned. “Go bye-bye?”

      “Yes, we’re going bye-bye, Katy. This visit with grandma and grandpa has been wonderful, but we have to go home. We have to get you ready.”

      Fern flew to the best vantage point from which to feast on his dark, enchanting eyes. She was close enough to Katy to smell her baby-powder scent, while one of the child’s whispery ringlets curled around Fern’s ankle. Paul looked away long enough to reach for the white sweater draped over the crib rail.

      But quickly his attention was directed back toward Katy again. Even though he couldn’t actually see her, Fern felt all warm and happy inside, like she did every morning when she watched the sun climb over the horizon of Sidhe to chase away the cool Irish mist.

      “Come on, now,” Paul coaxed his daughter. “Let’s put this on. It’s chilly outside.”

      “No!” Katy hugged her arms close to her chest.

      A silent chuckle erupted from Fern’s throat. She’d watched father and daughter play this game often over the past couple of weeks. The routine clearly amused Paul, and laughter rumbled from deep in his chest.

      She became so transfixed on his face that she was barely aware of the way in which he and Katy frolicked and fussed until Paul managed to slip one sleeve up his daughter’s arm.

      Oh, by me heart. Fern silently swore the age-old fairy oath without thought. How she would miss him. She’d miss the silken timbre of his voice, his heated, soapy scent, that quick smile…and those…amazing…arresting eyes.

      “Wady go bye-bye!”

      As Katy uttered the words, her chubby fist closed around Fern. The toddler’s fingers curled tight, and everything went dark in Fern’s world. Panic had her gasping in a lungful of air.

      “Lady?” Paul’s tone held a measure of both amusement and curiosity. “Oh, you are my little lady.” He chuckled as he pulled the knitted fabric over the dimpled hand that trapped Fern. Katy’s grip loosened and Fern found herself rolling, dragged along by the nappy knit, up, up, until she was lodged in the crook of the child’s elbow.

      Fern felt herself being hoisted up into the air. Her heart was hammering, but she was pinned, good and firm, between the sweater sleeve and Katy’s downy skin.

      “Me and my little lady are off to the airport,” Paul said. “We’ll be back in America before you can say lickety-split.”

      “Icky-spit!” Katy gleefully parroted.

      Fern could hear her pixie friends buzzing fran tically outside the nursery window, and she could only imagine their horrified expressions as she was whisked away.