Beyond the Highland Myst(593)

He cocked his head. ''I'm a Tuatha Dé Danaan." Dark brows drew together in a frown. "You know that."

"I meant." she clarified peevishly, "your torque."

"Ah." Those slanted brows relaxed. "I'm the last prince of the D'Jai House."

"P-p-p-prince?'' she sputtered.

"Yes." His eyes narrowed. "Problem with that?"

She didn't trust herself to speak.

"I'm not elitist, if that's what concerns you. I bed commoners all the time." A faint, provocative grin.

"I just bet you do," she muttered. "But not this one."

"Not yet," he agreed, far too mildly for her comfort.

"And I'm not a commoner. We don't have those kinds of class divisions anymore."

"Actually," he agreed with her, "that's true. You're not a commoner." He dropped onto the foot of her bed and tucked one leg under the other, sitting cross-legged.

"What do you mean?" she asked warily, watching him carefully. Braced for him to try something. But he made no move toward her, just sat there perfectly at ease on the end of her dainty bed in her frilly, feminine bedroom: a big dark giant of a man, surrounded by lacy pillows and silky embroidered throws, and all the girly-stuff just made him look that much more masculine.

"Drink your coffee and I'll tell you," he bribed.

An awful suspicion occurred to her. "Why do you care if I drink it? Is it drugged or something?"

He rolled his eyes, picked up the cup, took several sips, then handed it back to her. "Of course not, Irish. I merely want your day to start well. I want you to be happy."

"Yeah, right." But the aroma of fresh-ground coffee teased her nostrils, and something deep inside her sighed hugely and capitulated without further argument. She took the cup and sipped. Heavenly. Hot and dark and sweet, just the way she liked it. He'd even gotten the amount of sugar right. When he glanced away for a moment, out the window, she turned the cup to where he'd sipped, and closed her mouth on the rim.

Coffee in bed— when had anyone ever brought her that? Never, that's when. And exactly the way she liked it, with exactly what she usually had for breakfast. A croissant and fruit, so she could justify all the candy she tended to snack on the rest of the day, not to mention her weakness for cheese-smothered french fries. And Skyline coneys. And everything else that went straight to her hips. But so long as she had her healthy meal first thing in the morning each day, she felt good about herself for the rest of it.

"Okay, so how am I not a commoner?" He'd piqued her curiosity. Here was a man, er, fairy, who knew more about history than any living person, and from firsthand experience. What might he be able to tell her about her ancestors?

"You're a Sidhe-seer: In days long gone, in ancient Ireland, thousands of years before the birth of your Christ, they were prized among humans and treated as royalty, for they alone could protect the people from the Unseen. The mightiest warriors in all the lands competed in tournaments for the privilege of a Sidhe-seer's hand in marriage. Many a man died trying to win such a maiden. She answered to no one, not even human kings, so highly was she regarded. A Sidhe-seer lived in the finest of comfort and, in exchange for her protection, was protected and cared for by her people all the days of her life."

Wow, Gabby thought, what a far cry from her life. She— who had such a hard time keeping a boyfriend— would have once been fought over by warriors. She wouldn't have been considered a freak but would have been valued for her curse. Rather than being ridiculed or carted off to a loony bin if someone found out, she would have been respected, born to a family whose fortunes would have been bettered by having her. Born to a mother who would have been proud.

"Even now you continue the tradition," he said softly.

"What do you mean?"

"The Sidhe-seers were also brehons: lawgivers to their people. Though human law-has become a very strange thing indeed, it is what you chose as your life's work. Blood will tell."

Gabby was silent a moment, sipping her coffee and looking at him over the rim of it.

He's getting to you. O'Callaghan, a faint inner voice warned.

No he's not, she retorted silently. What harm is there in having coffee and talking about history with him? She hadn't had anybody to talk to about fairy-things since Gram died. Four years was a long time. She hadn't realized how much she missed it.

This is how he's seducing you.

Hardly. He hasn't even tried to kiss me again. She was almost beginning to wonder why not. How long since he'd exploded through her door— two days? Three? Four? Heavens, she was beginning to lose track of time.

But he's doing it all deliberately, to slip past—