Tormented by Darkness by Claire Ashgrove Page A

Irish.”
    “ Uí Fhearghail.”
    “Huh?” His gaze snapped to her.
    Rhiannon flashed him a bright smile. “Descendant of Fearghal, those who fought with Brian Bóroimhe at Clontof and went on to become princes of Annaly. Farrells have been noble for centuries. Your heritage is rich in history.”
    “I, ah…” He cleared his throat. Damn. She knew more about him than he did. “I never really gave a damn. He was just the sperm donor.”
    Turning her palm up, Rhiannon laced her fingers with his. An impish grin danced over her lips. “How’s it feel to descend from a king? Shall I fall to my knees and bow at your feet?”
    Mick’s pulse kicked up a notch. He could think of a hell of a lot of other things he’d prefer if she was on her knees. But somehow, he doubted she’d appreciate hearing them. Reining in the misdirected path of his brain, he let out a light cough. “Ah—”
    “We nobles have to stick together,” she teased.
    Her lighthearted mood was catching, and Mick found himself chuckling at her bright voice. “You too, huh?”
    “My mother’s ancestors once ruled the Selgovae Celt tribe.” She turned to him, pride radiating in her features. “If this were then, I would be considered of great power. My birthday falls on Mabon, the autumn equinox. My ancestors would be celebrating the rare balance of light and dark, and the Celts considered this a day of high magic.”
    Oh shit—her birthday. In his hurry to get out of the house, he’d left the card on his bed. He grimaced inwardly. Smooth, ace. Real smooth.
    “Happy birthday,” he murmured as he squeezed her hand. “Tell me more about these Celts. Do you believe what your ancestors practiced?”
    Rhiannon unmistakably tensed. “I celebrate the Sabots,” she answered with a little more caution in her voice than necessary.
    “So you’re…pagan.” He tried the thought on, turned it around in his head until he’d analyzed it from all angles, and found it fit the rest of Rhiannon’s eccentricities.
    “I am. Does that bother you?”
    No. For that matter, it fascinated the hell out of him. What had she said—the rare balance of light and dark? He liked the sound of that. Liked the idea that the two could coexist. Only what little he knew about pagan practices supplied a more realistic logic. The autumn equinox split the day in half, and the dark and light Rhiannon spoke of had nothing to do with natures but hours of sunlight.
    He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s your faith, Rhiannon. What I think is irrelevant.”
    Mick felt her withdraw. One minute she was smiling at him, her fingers clasping his hand tenderly. The next, those elegant digits rested limply against his, and her attention pulled out the side window.
    He told himself it was better this way. Better to wound her now by subtly reminding her they had no future, than to let her get more caught up in this, whatever it was. The sharp pang behind his ribs, however, had him wishing he could take back his indifferent words.

Chapter Twelve
    Rhiannon had never been so glad to see the gravel road twisting through the overgrown trees that led to her family’s property. As Mick turned onto the drive, and twilight descended over the SUV, she gripped the armrest tighter. She had to get out of this car. Between the hurt swirling around in her heart, and the growing urge to avenge the injuries his words inflicted, sitting still had become almost impossible. With her hand in his, all she had to do was give the demon control. One rake of a deadly claw along the underside of his wrist, and it would all end.
    He eased to a stop near the base of a thick oak, and she scrambled for the door. But as she turned toward the crumbling cabin expecting to see Dáire’s red pickup, Rhiannon’s world ground to a stop. The place where they usually parked was empty. The fire pit not even stocked.
    Goddess above, where were her brothers?
    Panic pressed down on her as Mick pulled their things from the back of the