"Sonas"
is a Gaelic word meaning "happiness and prosperity."
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The ninth
and final book in the Celtic Journeys series, GODDESS OF EIRE, will be
a February 2006 release from Leisure LoveSpell.
Parlan has been tested and found worthy by the goddess Eriu to become
High King of all Eire, the land which was named for her.
But when he
falls in love with Eriu and insists he will have no other as his queen,
Parlan inadvertently brings down the Curse of the Black Dragon upon the
land and upon its goddess.
Now he must have Eriu's help to find the four Sacred Artifacts left by
the ancient gods so that he might defeat the Black Dragon. He
insists
that he will destroy the dragon and in doing so win Eriu as his queen,
but Eriu warns him that no mortal man can love a goddess and survive.
GODDESS OF EIRE
will be available in bookstores nationwide in February of 2006.
. . . from GODDESS OF EIRE by Janeen O'Kerry . . .
“It is not fair to your people that
you should rule alone," Eriu said.
"Surely you know that no king can fairly rule without a woman at
his side to remind him of the concerns of all women, for those concerns
are
easily forgotten when the men are free to revel in the pleasures of
battle and
the hunt.”
“I do understand this, my lady
Eriu. I want nothing more than to have a
strong and beautiful queen at my side, so long as that queen is you.”
She seemed not to have heard him, but
only looked up at the shadowy moonlit sky.
“Surely there are any number of women here at Teamhair Breagh
who would
be pleased and honored to be the wife of such a strong and handsome
king as
Parlan.”
He closed his eyes and turned his face
away for a moment. “There were three of
them who made this plain to me tonight.”
He fell silent, staring off into the windy, brooding darkness.
“You were not pleased by their
attentions?” Eriu looked down at the
mare, and shrugged. “Well, no
matter. Tomorrow you begin your year-long
journey around the coastline of Eire, that all might meet the new High
King and
give him hostages to peace. Surely,
within that year, you will find a woman who pleases you well enough and
who
your people will accept as their queen.”
“I care nothing for their attentions!”
he cried, snapping his head round to look at her. There
was savagery in his voice. “Not anymore.
Not since -- not since I have known you.
There is no woman anywhere who could compare to you.”
Eriu laughed, a gentle sound that
reminded Parlan of the high sweet notes of the harp.
“Of course no woman could compare to me,” she
said. “I am not a woman.
I am a goddess, a daughter of those most
ancient beings who live now in the place you call the Otherworld.
“Comparing a woman to me would be like
comparing a blade of grass to a new golden primrose.
But is the grass any less valuable? It
is worth more than flowers, most would
say, for the grass protects the earth and nourishes the animals that
sustain
you. The flowers alone cannot do that.”
“There is grass in abundance,” Parlan
growled, and with two steps he closed the space between them. “I would have the flower for myself, and
cherish it always.” He raised his hand
and reached out for her hair, her flowing dark brown hair shining in
the soft
moonlight.
“And what makes you think the flower
would have you in return?”
His hand stopped, and he lowered it
again. “I do not know why you should
want me in return. I only know that I
will offer you love and loyalty and honor enough even for a goddess.”
She laughed again, and paced a few
steps away from him across the wind-driven grass. “Surely
you realize that other kings have
offered me this same love and loyalty.
But what need have I for those? I
already have the love and loyalty of all those who live on these lands,
and who
care for them and nurture them.”
Eriu turned to face him, raising her
chin. A flash of lighting showed itself
in the cloud bank far behind her. “I
would never be any man’s queen unless I loved him in return -- and I
will never
allow myself to truly love any man.”
Parlan took a step toward her. The
distant lightning flashed again. “But why
should you not have the love of a
king? A king is a man who has already
dedicated his life to your honor and protection. Why
should you not live with such a man for a
time, and be his cherished queen?”
She smiled, but her eyes were
cool. “Think of it, Parlan.
If I allowed myself to love just one man --
to bond with him and him alone, even as a wife bonds to her beloved
husband --
how could I ever go to another man at his king-making and lie with him
as I did
with you?”
Parlan, tried to smile at her. “Because,
my lady, it is as you said . . .
one day I, too, will be naught but ashes and bone pressed into the
walls of the
Mound of the Kings. When that day comes
for any man, his wife is free to take another.”
Her green eyes narrowed, and she shot
a cold glare at him. “It is true that
any other woman could take another man -- but do you still believe I am
like
other women?”
She gazed at him even as the lightning
flashed again. “You constantly forget
that I am not a woman. I am a
goddess. My love, once given, is given
for ever. It will never fade.
It will never be forgotten. It will
burn within me just as intensely in
the thousandth year as it does in the first.
Were I to give that love to just one man, I could never give
myself to
another and make him a king. What would
your people do then, with no king to defend them?
“And there is something else. As
the years pass, a man might well grow
weary -- or even frightened -- of having a powerful goddess forever at
his
side. But he could never abandon her and
take a mortal woman instead, for the terrible jealousy of the goddess
would destroy
any other woman he looked to.
“And when the day comes that my mortal
husband dies, I would become a widow -- a widow forever in mourning for
that
which is beyond even my reach. The Land
itself would become the same, spending its own long and endless years
in the
same state as the Goddess herself -- a grieving widow who can never be
consoled. Barren and bereft, the Land
would no longer bring forth life, and all those who tried to live on it
would
perish as well.”
Parlan gazed at her. His heart beat
swiftly in his chest. Behind the goddess,
lighting flashed again,
briefly illuminating the heavy rolling clouds in purple-white light. The grey mare quickly swung her head around
to look, her brown eyes huge and glittering.
“It is a frightening thing to
contemplate,” Parlan said quietly. “But
surely a goddess could heal her own heart if she wished.
Surely she could allow herself to accept
another man once her own beloved has gone to his natural rest.”
Eriu shook her head. “The love of a
goddess is not like that of a
woman. If you wish it to be so, you
should go from here now and find a mortal woman to love you and be your
queen
-- and not approach a goddess with such an offer.”
“Yet I fear it is already too late for
me,” Parlan said. “If I cannot have you
for my queen, then I, too, will be as a grieving husband, empty and
broken
without the love of my life. Is my heart
any less worthy of protecting than yours, even though I am only a
mortal man?”
He closed the distance between them at
last and boldly reached for her hand.
She did not resist, and with a deep sigh he cradled her long
slender
fingers against his cheek.
“I have known other women,” he
whispered against her palm. “Wise and
beautiful women, but not one of them ever fired the sort of passion
that I have
found here this night with you.”
He pressed the back of her hand to his
chest, over his rapidly beating heart.
“And I speak not only of the body’s passion, but that of
companionship
-- of conversation -- of friendship. Of
finding the one that I know beyond doubt was meant to sit at my side,
whether I
am a king or whether I am not.”
Her arm turned as rigid as an iron
sword. She withdrew it and stepped back
to look at him, and as his gaze met her own he held himself very still. Eriu glared at him with a look as cold as the
harshest winter night.
“I have already made you a king,” she
said. “Do you mean to say you would turn
your back on me, and on the Land, and on your people, and become as any
other
man when the Goddess of the Land, the Goddess of Sovereignty, the
Goddess of
Eire, has made you a king?”
He raised his chin and looked boldly
into her cold green eyes. “I would,” he
said to her. “I would if that would
prove to you that my love for you is genuine.
I cannot live my life as a king without the only woman I would
have as
my queen. If I am forced to do that, it
is better not to be a king at all.”
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The eighth
book in the Celtic Journeys series, DAUGHTER OF GOLD, is an
October 2004 release from Leisure LoveSpell
and is now available in bookstores everywhere!
Niamh (neev) is a beautiful young woman traveling
with her simple farm family to the Lughnasa Fair, the great summer
gathering of five kingdoms. Everyone goes to the Fair to trade
horses, compete in sports and games, and find partners for love and for
marriage. Niamh, too, hopes to find a man to love and marry, but
is determined to find the right one. She will ask him what three
things a woman wants most from the man in her life, and will accept no
man unless he can answer her riddle.
Bryan, a noble-born man of the Fianna, is at the
Fair to
prove his worth to become the next king -- but he has a rival for the
kingship
and their competition could prove deadly, for no bloodshed is allowed
at
the Fair on pain of death. Bryan and Niamh are soon drawn
together, but Bryan is a man who does not want a permanent marriage --
except, perhaps, to get a queen when he becomes king -- and Niamh is
sure she could never leave her forest home for the high solid walls of
a king's fortress.
But when the wild, dangerous, and supernatural
creature called the puca begins
plaguing the Fair, Bryan and Niamh must work together to solve the
mystery of this terrifying beast. And when Bryan's rivalry for
the kingship ends in a death, his life will depend on his own courage,
his love for Niamh, and her ability to charm the monster known as the puca.
. . . DAUGHTER OF
GOLD
is now available in bookstores across the nation.
You may also order your own autographed,
mint-condition, never-read copy. Just send $6.00 by check or
money order (this includes shipping)
to:
Janeen O'Kerry
4410 West Union Hills Drive #7-95
Glendale AZ 85308
. . . DAUGHTER OF GOLD is also available from Leisure LoveSpell and
Amazon Books.
. . . from DAUGHTER OF GOLD by Janeen O'Kerry . . .
“Stop!” Bryan shouted, as the animal
bore down upon tall young woman. To his amazement the woman did
stop -- and so did the hideous pony, jolting to a halt right in front
of her
and tearing up the grass with its hooves.
Leary continued to cling to creature’s neck.
His face shone white with fear and he was nearly sobbing with terror.
The woman walked close to the beast. Though
Bryan’s heart leaped and he began to reach for his sword, the black
pony’s ears came forward as it regarded her and its awful eyes softened
somewhat. The woman halted a few steps away from it, looked
steadily into its glowing eyes, and calmly folded her hands in front of
her.
“What is this?” she asked, in a soft and gentle
voice. “What has happened here?”
The pony snorted. And then Bryan heard a deep,
raspy voice say a single word: “Revenge.”
At first he thought that Leary must have spoken, but
one look at his brother’s terrified face told him this could not have
been the case. Leary was too frightened to squeak out a sob, much
less speak with such a deep voice.
“Revenge,” the voice said again, and
this time Bryan saw that the creature’s lips twitched and its mouth
moved. For an instant he felt as terrified as Leary. Not
only did the monster steal men for horrific rides and have eyes which
glowed like burning flames in its head, it could speak, too!
“Why do you speak of revenge?” the woman
asked. “Please -- let your rider go. I will listen to
you. You can tell me why you seek revenge and I will help you if
I can. But first, please, let this man step back down to earth
where he belongs.”
In answer, the pony raised his head and snorted once
more. His ears went flat and his eyes burned bright as he swung
round and tore off again, with Leary’s screams filling the
clearing. The beast
made another wild run along the riverbank, right along the worst of the
rocky
uneven ground -- and then stopped dead, lowered his head, and sent
Leary
flying into the river with a huge splash.
Apparently satisfied, the creature trotted over to
stand beneath a tree and watch as Leary floundered in the waist-deep
water, struggling to breathe while overwhelmed with terror and pain and
cold river water.
“Leary!” Bryan jumped down from Luath and
raced to the riverbank, reaching out to pull his brother the rest of
the way to the shore. Together they collapsed on the damp
grass.
“Where is it? Has it gone? I’ve got to
get away from it!” Panic took hold as Leary struggled to get his
shaking legs under him and run away -- but he only stumbled and fell
again. “I’ve got to get away!”
Bryan grabbed hold of his arm and held him
still. “Wait. Wait! Look it’s way over there, beneath
that tree. Do you see? Right there -- “
But there was nothing under the tree except empty
grass.
Sheer terror overwhelmed Leary again as his eyes
darted around the firelit clearing. “Where -- where is it?
It will catch me again! It will come back, I know it!”
“Please do not fear, Leary. It has gone.
We will not see it again tonight, I think.”
The voice was soft and gentle and feminine.
Bryan looked up and saw the same tall young woman who had so boldly
walked out to face the terrifying beast that had captured his
brother.
Bryan got to his feet, leaving Leary to curl up in a
ball in the wet grass and cover his eyes to shut out the sight of the
monster he was sure would return.
“We thank you for your help, my lady,” Bryan said,
walking toward her. “Are all of you safe?”
The woman nodded at her family, who stood close
together by the fire. “We are,” she said.
Her long hair, dark and gold like the oak leaves in
autumn, hung freely to her slender hips and rippled in the fire’s
light.
Her face glowed, outlining her fine features. Her eyes shone
almost
like pale gold, so light a shade of hazel were they; her nose was
straight
and delicate, and her lips slender and gentle. She wore a simple
gown of pale undyed linen and a rectangular cloak of lightweight dark
brown wool, the same color it had been when the sheep had worn it
before shearing. A worn copper brooch fastened the cloak at her
shoulder.
“Those are my parents and my sister, and the two
working men who travel with us to the Fair. All are safe --
though a bit shaken, I will admit. What sort of creature was
that?”
Bryan shook his head. “I was hoping you might
know. I have never seen its like before. And I don’t think
my
brother will ever forget it.”
They both looked over at Leary, who had managed to
get to his hands and knees but still could not bring himself to look
up. The tall young woman walked over to him, and Bryan found himself
captivated by the way her rippling dark-gold hair cascaded across her
back as she bent down
to Leary.
“Come now. Come, now! The creature is
gone. You are safe here.” She placed her slender hands on
his shoulders and gently lifted him up, and to Bryan’s surprise his
brother got slowly to
his feet. The woman began to steer him towards the fire.
“Stay
here with my family for a time. You will be safe there with them,
safe by the fire.” She walked with him until her parents took him
by the arm, and then turned and walked back to Bryan.
“Again I thank you, my lady. I don’t know how
I ever would have got him up from the ground, much less back to our
camp.”
He saw her eyes flick over him, taking in his good
wool tunic and new brown leather trews and his wide green-and-gold
plaid cloak. She did not fail to notice the heavy gold brooch
which held the rectangular cloak at his shoulder nor the good iron
sword in its oaken scabbard, its hilts set with softly glowing
amber. He knew he was quite a contrast to her and her
simply-dressed farm family. Most likely she did not often
see the king’s warrior men or other such nobles from the great
fortresses.
“I did not know anyone else was camped nearby,” she
said.
“Oh, you are right. We are not nearby.
We are all camped far back up the road -- “
“We?” She cocked her head with a faint
smile. The gold comb gleamed in her hair. “How many of ‘we’
are there?”
“Well -- I am sorry, I -- that is, we -- “
Bryan stopped, and made himself start over. He did not know which
had unsettled him more, the monster which had terrorized his brother or
this cool golden beauty who seemed shaken by nothing.
He drew a deep breath and looked directly into her
pale gold-hazel eyes. “My name is Bryan, and this is my younger
brother Leary. We are from Cahir Cullen, a kingdom to the north
of here, and we are riding with King Nessan’s Fianna to the Lughnasa
Fair.”
”We, too, are going to the Fair,” she said.
“We live not far from here, within these borders of King’s Conaire’s
lands. But King Nessan’s patrolling warriors must be a small
group indeed to consist only of you and your brother -- and one very
strange mount.”
“Oh -- but it is much more than just Leary and
I! There are thirty-one warriors who ride the borders and guard
the roads and fords of Cahir Cullen, and all of us will be at the Fair
with our king.”
“As will the folk of four other kingdoms. It
will be quite a gathering, as always.” The lady flicked her eyes
first left, and then right, and then cocked her head at Bryan.
Her long hair rippled in the firelight behind her. Clearly she
wished to know where these twenty-nine other warriors were
hiding.
“Well -- you see -- my brother was forced to give up
his horse to another man of the Fianna, who injured his own mount in a
foolish race. I felt that I should stay with Leary.”
“Because you wished to see to the horse? Or
because your brother is very drunk this night?”
Bryan looked away for a moment. “Both reasons,
I must confess.” He glanced toward the fire again and saw Leary
sitting as close to the flames as he could get. One of the women
there, no doubt the mother of the family, handed him a cup which he
quickly accepted. “But we have troubled you long enough,” Bryan
said. “I will get my brother and go. I thank you, and your
family, for your hospitality.”
She took a step toward him, and her slender lips
curved into a smile. “It is no trouble, Bryan of Cahir
Cullen. This night is a strange one indeed, with all manner of
strange creatures roaming about. I am sure my family would be
much more at ease with two good men of King Conaire’s Fianna among
us. Why not get your injured horse, and make your camp here?”
Bryan smiled back at her. “All manner of
creatures, indeed. I thank you, my lady, We will make our
camp with you tonight.” He glanced out into the darkness
again. “I do not brag when I say I have crossed swords and won
against every sort of opponent, and
never known a moment’s fear -- but the beast that appeared tonight is
like
nothing I have ever seen before. Do you know anything of what it
might
be?”
She shook her head. “I have never seen such a
thing, never heard of any such beast -- not even in the oldest
tales.”
She looked up and met his gaze, her expression serious now. “I
saw
a monstrous creature which should have been a horse, but instead had
eyes
of fire and a rider trapped on its back -- and it spoke in a most
unnatural
voice.”
“And I saw, and heard, the same.” Even now,
the sound of that awful rasping voice saying Revenge was enough to send
a chill up his spine. “Your senses did not mislead you. It
also ran at speeds that even Luath could not match, and he has never
been bested by any horse in Eire -- not by any natural horse.”
The lady also drew a breath, and her eyes flicked to
the deep black forest. “Please, go and get your brother’s horse,
and stay with us tonight. I am one who has always lived among the
creatures of the forests and fields, and never have I seen such a
beast. We would all be glad to have you.”
“I thank you. I will go and fetch Anfa.”
“He must be quite unnerved at being left alone in
this forest in the dark, especially with such a creature about.”
“One would think so -- but in this night filled with
strange happenings, I can add one more. Neither Luath nor Anfa
showed the slightest fear of this creature. They actually stepped
up to greet it when it approached them.”
Her fine features drew together in a frown.
“This bears watching,” she said. “I am certain we have not seen
the last of it -- the last of this puca.”
“This -- what?”
She smiled. “Puca. An angry
spirit. It was clearly driven by rage and uttered only one word: revenge. A more furious beast I
never hope to see.”
Suddenly both of them tensed and looked toward the road.
There was a sound of hoofbeats coming through the line of trees.
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The seventh book in the Celtic Journeys series, MAIDEN
OF THE WINDS, is a July 2003 release from Leisure LoveSpell.
It
quickly sold out its print run, so see below for how to order your own
autographed, mint-condition copy!
Keavy is a beautiful young woman of ancient Eire who
has never forgotten her magical encounter years before with a
magnificent golden eagle -- an eagle which, she is convinced, was
actually a man with the legendary ability to take the form of a
bird. She has never lost the feeling that she was meant for this
man and no other.
When Keavy’s frustrated family insists that she must
take a husband or be sent off
as a servant, she relents, for the equally pressured young
groom agrees to a union in name only. But once the marriage is
made, Keavy learns -- much to her shock -- that a bride in this faraway
place must spend her first night with the king and not her
husband.
King Aengus proves to be a powerful and handsome man who follows her
every move with the eyes of an eagle, and their encounter brings
consequences
that threaten to end in war between both their kingdoms.
"A delightful romantic fantasy with two warm
characters struggling between love and duty. Fans of the series will
enjoy the latest entry."
-- TheBestReviews.com, June 2003
MAIDEN OF THE WINDS has sold out its print run, but I have
autographed, mint-condition, never-read copies available.
Just send $6.00 by check or money order (this includes shipping) to:
Janeen O'Kerry
4410 West Union Hills Drive #7-95
Glendale AZ 85308
from MAIDEN OF THE WINDS by Janeen O'Kerry . . .
The sound of his great wings
made her look up.
Keavy nearly dropped her basket. “Oh,” she
whispered, and took a step forward.
The eagle folded his wings and remained very
still. “Well, beautiful eagle,” Keavy said, also standing still,
“I am happy to share this day with you. I find that I am often
followed by
wild birds, who seem to like my company for some reason: but they are
usually wrens or larks or sparrows. Never have I been in the
company of a golden eagle.”
She took another careful step forward, and
another, until she stood just in front of the low branch. The
creature was almost near enough to reach up and touch.
The eagle watched her closely as she
approached, tilting his head and fixing her with his deep amber
stare. She was even more beautiful up close than she had been
when he saw her from the sky . . . tall and slender, graceful and fair,
with light green eyes and her long hair streaming in the fresh spring
winds . . . and still young enough to fly from him like the maiden she
was if he had shown himself to her in his true form. But a
creature of nature, even one as powerful as a golden eagle, would not
frighten her at all.
“I hope we have not intruded
on your territory,” Keavy said. “My friends and I simply could
not stay in any longer on a day such as this, the first day to bring a
little of the warmth and sunlight of spring with it.” She
smiled. “You seem to have felt the same way.”
The bird drew itself up taller and ruffled his
feathers, never taking his fierce gaze from Keavy. She took one
last step toward it. “I want to remember this,” she said, lifting
one hand a little as though she longed to reach
out and touch the great fearsome eagle but dared not. “Already
this was a special day, and now it is even moreso . . . “
Then Keavy did raise her hand, slowly and
cautiously, clearly hoping to touch the soft golden-brown
feathers. Yet she did not have to reach far. The eagle
raised itself up, and stretched out his wings, and then extended the
tip of one great wing straight towards Keavy’s face.
She closed her eyes as the smooth dark-gold
feather brushed gently over her cheek and over the surface of her
hair. Then the bird settled back onto the branch, still watching
her closely.
Keavy could not speak for a moment. She
could only gaze back with a look of wonder in her shining green
eyes. “All my life I have heard the tales of such things as
this,” she whispered. “Tales of those who had the power to change
their shape if they chose, into a hunting wolf or a leaping salmon or
even a great golden eagle. I can only believe that this must be
what you are.”
The bird ruffled his feathers again and opened
and closed his sharp curving beak, though he made no sound. “And
if you have power enough to take the form of one
so magnificent as the eagle, you must be a great druid -- or maybe even
a king.”
The bird gave a short cry and cocked his head
at Keavy. “Always I will remember this,” she said, her eyes
shining, and took a step back. The eagle raised his wings as
though ready to take flight; but instead, he carefully preened the
feathers of his right wing and then dropped one golden-brown feather to
the fresh new grass below the birch tree.
As Keavy watched, entranced,
the eagle did the same with his left wing and a second gold-brown
feather fell to earth. Finally he ducked his head and ran his
curving black beak through the feathers over his heart, and dropped
a third feather to the grass.
With a loud cry the eagle leaped up from the
branch and climbed into the air on great strokes of his powerful
wings. Keavy swung her head to follow his flight,
her pale hair shining as it swept behind her. The eagle circled
overhead, waiting until she picked up the three feathers from the
grass; and then, with a last cry of farewell, he soared away on the
currents of the sky until he was lost to her sight.
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The sixth book in the
Celtic Journeys series, KEEPER OF THE LIGHT,
is a January 2003 release from Leisure LoveSpell and
remains available in bookstores nationwide.
Rioghan is a healer and mistress of magick living alone in a
forest cave among the Sidhe, the Little People of ancient Eire.
She is courted by Donaill, the handsome and jovial king’s
champion.
But after Rioghan helps a betrayed wife get justice against the woman
who stole her husband, Rioghan finds that the man she herself loves has
been placed under a dark and terrible enchantment -- and unless his
love
can be proven true, he will remain so forever.
Now Rioghan must choose. Will she use the power of dark
magick to battle an
evil sorceress in a desperate effort to set Donaill free? Or will
she do as the Little People urge her to do, and trust that the man she
loves will find his way back to her because his heart is true?
Will she become a wielder of dark power, or will she remain a KEEPER OF
THE LIGHT?
"Beautiful love story . . . this enjoyable
paranormal historical romance acts like a roller coaster going slowly
up the first incline before picking up speed."
--
TheBestReviews.com, December 2002
I have autographed, mint-condition, never-read copies of KEEPER
OF THE LIGHT available.
Just send $6.00 by check or money order (this includes shipping) to:
Janeen O'Kerry
4410 West Union Hills Drive #7-95
Glendale AZ 85308
. . . KEEPER OF THE LIGHT is also available from Leisure LoveSpell and
Amazon Books .
from KEEPER OF THE LIGHT by Janeen O'Kerry . . .
“Rioghan!” cried Donaill, slowing his
horse to a trot and then to a walk. “Rioghan! I know you
must be near. You could not have gone much farther than
this. Please come out to me. I will take you to Sion, if
you will allow me.”
He halted briefly, but when he got no answer he
jogged the black horse on again. “Rioghan!”
“Donaill.” He turned the horse around to
see her standing in the center of the road, the two dogs close at her
side. With a wide smile, his blue eyes shining, he walked the
horse
back down the road to halt in front of her.
She looked up at him as he smiled down at her, and
though she knew him it seemed that she was seeing him now for the first
time. He was a man in the full strength of maturity, perhaps
thirty years old, as tall as any other man at Cahir Cullen and with the
broadest shoulders and most heavily muscled arms she had ever
seen. Even his neck seemed to have the strength of iron, the way
his stallion’s own neck arched with muscle.
Yet even with all of this power, those were
slender and sensitive fingers which held the reins. His face was
shaved clean and his light brown hair fell past his shoulders, drawn
back by a black leather cord. Above the wide jaw was a curving
mouth and a slim straight nose, and blue eyes which held gentleness
and a glint of humor.
“Rioghan,” he said. “I am so glad
I found you. Will you let Cath and I take you back to Sion?
It is a long walk.”
“It is not so long,” she said. “But I thank
you.” With that she, turned and continued on her way. The
dogs trotted close by her side.
Donaill walked the horse after her. “It is the
least I can do after you have come all this way.”
“It is no trouble,” she said, keeping her eyes on
the road. “I have come to Cahir Cullen many times, and always I
have walked home.”
“But, my lady Rioghan -- “ She stopped and
waited patiently, still looking straight ahead. “I would enjoy
your company,” he said, seeming to be almost embarrassed.
Rioghan smiled. “Thank you. I will
accept your offer.”
As she had the night before, Rioghan took hold
of Donaill’s strong wrist and swung up behind him on the black
stallion. But this time, instead of making a mad dash through the
darkness, they walked at leisure through the cold grey morning with
only the pair of dogs, a few wintering thrushes, and the occasional
solitary raven for
company. Rioghan held her black leather bag with one arm and
allowed
her other arm to rest on her thigh as the horse walked calmly with long
swinging strides.
“I am so glad you have accepted my offer. For
quite some time now, I have wanted to get to know you better.”
She looked up. “Quite some time? Until
last evening you did not even know who I was, King’s Champion Donaill.”
“Well, that may be true. I remember you only
as an occasional shadow visiting Cahir Cullen in the night. But
now that I have met you face to face, I do indeed wish to know more
about you.”
Rioghan smiled. “There is little to tell . . .
.little that would be of interest to you, I fear. I have the age
of twenty-three years, and for all of those years I have lived at Sion.”
“Many of us have wondered about Sion. I have
been told that a family once lived there, but that only the midwife
remained for the past several years.”
“That is true. My family is not of noble
blood; they were farmers all, and some of them were believed to be
of the Sidhe a few generations back. For countless years they
lived side by side with the fair folk and made their home in the cave
beneath Sion.”
“Yet you are the only one left there now. How
is that? Why do you not come to live among us at Cahir Cullen?”
“It is . . . it is simply not my home. I have
never lived there and I would never really belong.”
Donaill glanced over his shoulder. “King Bran,
and all the others there, would surely welcome you and your
skills. Would you not like to have other young woman to talk
with, to work beside, to be there with you as companions?”
“Do not misunderstand . . . I have always found
Cahir Cullen to be a lively and interesting place. I do enjoy the
company of the other women there. But as I said, it is not my
home. I am not like the others.”
He grinned. “I can see that you are not.
But tell me, please, how it is that you came to live alone at a place
like Sion, beautiful though it is.”
She looked away, her thoughts drifting back.
“My parents went to their rest long ago. After they were gone, my
brother became a craftsman and found a bride at the fortress of Dun
Orga, where they now live. My two sisters feared to live alone in
the woods and also made their way to Dun Orga, where they soon found
husbands.
“They are all content, and have invited me
to live with them many times . . . yet I found that the only place for
me was at Sion. I can live as I choose and I have the
satisfaction of helping many with the healing skills that I have
learned. It is a very good life.”
“I suppose it is. But . . . are you never
lonely in that place, Rioghan? Such a beautiful young woman, with
only dogs and little people for companions, so far from the company of
men -- “
“I often think I prefer the company of dogs
to the company of men.”
After a brief moment of shocked silence, Donaill
laughed. “Now you must tell me why a lovely young woman -- one
whom any man would love to know -- would say such a thing.”
Rioghan shifted the leather bag under her arm.
“It is the same story that so many women have. I did go to Dun
Orga with my sisters for a time, and I too met a man . . . a man I
loved, a man who loved me in return . . . or so I thought.”
“But he betrayed you.”
She glanced down at the road. “It is the most
common of stories. He was simply another man who thought to keep
a wife at home and as many women as he wished elsewhere.”
Rioghan paused, glancing toward the forest as a
shining black raven flew over the trees. “I thought him
special. I thought him different. I thought him a
hero. But he
was just like any other man, and the fact that I loved him could not
change what he was.”
The stallion’s hooves thudded softly on the road.
Donaill cleared his throat. “The day will come
when you will find the man who is worthy of you. But I
will say that I am not surprised to hear you have not yet found that
man.”
Rioghan rode in silence. She was not quite
certain whether she had been insulted. “Why do you say this?” she
said at last, keeping her voice as even as she could.
Again, he glanced over his shoulder. She could
see him smiling. “Only because you are, as you say, so different
from all other women. You are secretive and mysterious, and that
is always an attraction to any man. You are independent, far more
than any woman I have ever known.”
He halted the horse, and twisted around to look at
her. “And you are very beautiful. I only wish I had known
who you really were before now, for you have certainly caught the eye
of the king’s champion.”
Donaill’s face moved very close to her own.
His breath was warm on her face in the cold damp air. His eyes
began to close as his lips approached hers . . .
“I may be different from all other women,” Rioghan
said, sitting very still with his mouth only a hair’s breadth from her
own, “but I find you are the same as all other men -- bragging,
boasting, and concerned only with your station in life.”
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The fifth book in the "Celtic Journeys" series, SPIRIT
OF THE MIST, is a July 2002
release from Leisure Books.
Muriel is a young woman of ancient Ireland who must
marry no man but a king, for she will lose her magick if she marries
any other. One night she saves the handsome Brendan from
certain death at sea. He says he is a prince, one day to
be a king . . . but evcn as her love for him grows, so do prophetic
signs which say he is anything but royalty.
. . . "Janeen O'Kerry breathes the misty
atmosphere of ancient Celtic Ireland into a tale that mixes warriors,
magic, legend, and a love that will not be denied into a romance that
satisfies both the historical and paranormal reader."
-- Romantic Times
Magazine
, August 2002
I have autographed, mint-condition, never-read
copies of SPIRIT OF THE MIST available.
Just send $6.00 by check or money order (this includes
shipping) to:
Janeen O'Kerry
4410 West Union Hills Drive #7-95
Glendale AZ 85308
. . . SPIRIT OF THE MIST is also available from Leisure LoveSpell and
Amazon Books .
from SPIRIT OF THE MIST by Janeen O'Kerry . . .
Muriel ran headlong into the howling storm,
struggling to fasten the heavy bronze brooch which would hold her cloak
at her shoulder. She could see almost nothing in the heavy
darkness
and had to find the path to the sea from memory. Never had the
journey seemed so long.
At last, reaching the wet sand of the beach, she
untied the strings of her folded leather boots, pulled them off, and
threw them aside. Closing her eyes as the rain poured down, she
waded ankle-deep into the cold white surf.
Now in contact with the water of the sea, and the
life within it, she held out her arms and spoke to the ones she
treasured most . . . two sleek grey swimmers, smooth and swift, who
laughed at storms and considered the roughest waves to be their
playground.
Come to me . . . come to me. There is one who
needs your help.
The lightning flashed and the thunder rumbled.
A short distance away two dolphins arced up out of the ocean, one
after the other.
Near the rocks . . . the storm has him, but you are
stronger. Help him . . . bring him here . . . bring him to
me.
The dolphins leaped again, and vanished beneath the
waves. Muriel shielded her eyes against the cold rain
and looked out toward the rocks, where she knew the man in the curragh
struggled against the storm. He must surely be looking death in
the face right now.
Another flash, and this time she saw it -- the
curragh riding high on the white-capped waves, heading straight toward
the boulders at the foot of the cliff. Then there was only
darkness and howling wind, and lashing rain and crashing surf.
She took another step into the rushing sea.
The sand tugged hard at the soles of her feet each time the waves
receded. Help him , she said to the dolphins again,
closing her eyes and stretching her hands towards the cliffs. You
can do this thing . . . you can bring him here . . . you can save his
life.
She was almost afraid to open her eyes, fearing she
would see nothing but roaring waves. But she did open them,
blinking against the rain, and looked hard into the darkness -- and a
brilliant rippling flash showed her the little curragh bouncing and
leaping toward her on the waves, pushed and guided by the two dolphins.
But there was no sign of the man. Had
she been too late? Had her friends rescued only a curragh, and
not its passenger?
The two creatures slapped the waves with their tails as they forced the
craft to shore, almost at Muriel’s feet, and then turned away and
headed back out to sea.
Thank you . . . thank you! The two dolphins
leaped up out of the sea once more, and then were gone.
She grabbed hold of the boat’s sides and looked
in. The man lay on the floor of the boat, exhausted from the
struggle and from the cold, the last of his strength spent in his
battle
against the waves.
“Get out! You must get out!” Muriel
struggled to drag the heavy craft up onto the beach before the waves
could grab hold of it again. “Get out!”
But the man lay unmoving on his side, his face
half-covered by the cold water pooling on the bottom of the boat.
She reached in and got him by the shoulder.
With some effort she managed to pull him over onto his back. Was
he dead? She placed her fingers at his neck. The skin was
cold with rain, but warm beneath, and the pulse steady and strong.
He was alive -- but she had to get him out of
the curragh before the sea dragged it away again. “Wake up!
Come with me! Wake up! Wake up!”
The man stirred a little, but then fell back
again. She raised her hand and slapped him sharply on the face --
enough to sting his cheek and make him open his eyes.
He sat up suddenly and caught her wrist. In an
instant he had come fully awake. “Who are you?” he whispered,
staring up at her.
The lightning flashed and she caught her breath, for
he had the strangest eyes she had ever seen. She’d only
seen them for an instant, in the lightning, but they were unlike the
eyes of any other man. The sight of them was enough to make her
wonder just what it was she had rescued.
Even as she stared at him, and the rain pelted her
face, he began to lose his grip on her wrist. Muriel thought he
had pulled away from her -- but he had not moved and neither had
she. It was the sea grabbing hold of the curragh and dragging it
off on the waves again.
Muriel leaped back. “Get out! Get out!”
she cried, as the boat moved farther and farther away. “I have
not the power to help you again tonight! Get out!”
In one move he vaulted out of the little boat
and into the chest-high surf. He struggled against it, battling
the sea with the last of his strength -- and then the waves took him
down and he vanished beneath them.
Muriel started to cry out, started to go to
him, but there was nothing she could do. The sea would take her,
too.
Come back, come back . . . come back to me!
<>
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The
fourth book in the "Celtic Journeys" series, SISTER OF THE MOON, is a December 2001 release from Leisure Books.
This story is set against the ancient pagan festival of Samhain, better
known to us as Halloween.
Scahta is Queen of the Sidhe, the secretive Fair Folk of ancient
Ireland. The invading, iron-wielding Men are slowly destroying Scahta's people, but she has learned that hope may lie with
a strong and determined Man called Anlon -- if she is willing lure him
away and take
him as her husband.
"Janeen O'Kerry casts a delicate spell of wonder and
wishing in this tale of ancient Ireland."
-- Romantic Times Magazine , December 2001
I have autographed, mint-condition, never-read copies of
SISTER
OF THE MOON available.
Just send $6.00 by check or money order (this includes
shipping) to:
Janeen O'Kerry
4410 West Union Hills Drive #7-95
Glendale AZ 85308
. . . SISTER OF THE MOON is also available from Leisure LoveSpell and
Amazon Books .
from SISTER OF THE MOON by Janeen
O'Kerry . . .
Now began the most magical time of the day. Now began the time
when it was truly neither day nor night. It was not day, for
the sun was gone from the sky; yet neither was it night, for light
remained.
Now was the time for Scahta to show herself.
From the edge of the forest where she had watched
the Men, she moved through the trees to the place where their roots met
the lake. Again she turned toward the campsite of the Men, where
the Fianna talked and drank and laughed, where the fire leaped and
crackled -- and, she knew, would reflect off the long, straight,
polished bronze pin which held her cloak at her shoulder.
For a time Anlon merely swam in the cool clear water
and breathed deep of the sweet evening air, no doubt quite happy for a
chance to relax and refresh himself after his endless hours of
work for the other Men.
Scahta took another step towards the water,
turning slightly. She spoke his name, so quietly that even she
could not hear it, allowing only the wind to catch her words and carry
them out to where he swam.
Suddenly he stopped. Something had clearly
caught his attention. He looked quickly around and then gazed
straight into the forest, straight up at her.
She moved toward him, knowing that he would
see little more than the gleam of her bronze pin. "Hello, Anlon,"
she said, and moved a little closer so that he could see her shadowed
outline against the trees.
His hazel eyes were large and searching.
"Hello, beautiful lady," he answered. His voice was gentle
but still taut with excitement.
"You do not fear me?" she asked.
"I do not." His strong arms moved beneath the
water, keeping his place before her against the current of the
lake. "You are a woman of the Sidhe."
"So, you know of the Sidhe-folk."
"I do. They are the ancient people, the
ones who live in the hills and the caves and the deep forests --
the ones who lived here long before the coming of the Men."
He smiled, and raised his palms out of the water. "I regret that
I have nothing to offer you. When I return to the camp, I will
share what I have with you at the edge of the forest."
"The other Men share nothing with the Sidhe,
Anlon. Why should you?"
He allowed himself to drift a bit closer. "I
am no nobleman's son," he said, with a shake of his head. "My
father was a herdsman. I grew up in the thick of the forest and
on the heights of the hills. The Sidhe wanted only to share a bit
of our food from time to time. And they, too, were generous."
"Generous?"
"Once, when I placed milk and bread beneath
the trees for them, they left me a beautiful bronze pin made straight
and slender in the old way. It is the only fine thing I own."
"I am not so sure that it is the only thing."
Scahta smiled down at him. "Come to me."
He hesitated, and again she used the
wind-voice. Come to me . . .
He moved to the rocky shoreline and climbed out of
the lake, walking slowly up to Scahta until he was almost close
enough to touch. Now there was nothing to set him apart from the
other Men, nothing to say whether he was noble or servant or
King.
Instead of rough clothes and grime he wore nothing but night wind and
twilight.
Yet he was not ashamed, not uncomfortable before
her; he did not even seem to feel the cold evening air on his wet
skin. There was a gentleness about him, an innocence, that she
had never seen in other Men.
The first thing she noticed was his great
height. The top of her head would just come up to his
shoulder. His
body was hard and muscled from hard work and training, yet long-limbed
and graceful at the same time. There was more than a little of
the fine grace which was usually seen only in her own people. His
face, smooth and shaved clean, carried fine young features, with gentle
hazel eyes and shining dark hair.
"The other Men work you like an animal," she
said. "Why do you allow this?"
He smiled, and she noted the tender, curving
mouth. "One who is not born to the ranks of the Fianna must work
his way into them. It is rare that a chance is even given."
He shook his head. "A herdsman's life can be a
good one, but I cannot help but believe that I am meant for something
more. And I want very much to find it."
"Perhaps you are meant for something more .
. . something much more." She walked around him, still in the
deep shadows of the trees, studying the long lines of him and gazing
calmly at his fair skin glistening in the rising moon. "You say
you are a herdsman's son. It is not often that any herdsman is
possessed of such beauty."
He smiled back at her, almost shyly -- yet she could
see the pride and strength shining through in his hazel eyes. "I
know little of my father's family. I know only the story
his own mother tells, that he was sired by a man of 'exceptional
beauty' who came to her at the Beltine fires."
Scahta smiled back at him, nodding gently.
"So, Anlon, your father was a child of the spring rites. Do you
not know that he, and you, must both be sons of the Sidhe?"
"I always believed it might be true. I know
that the Sidhe do sometimes approach the Beltine fires, to find mates
just as we -- just as the Men do on that night."
"That they do. Our women seek strong children,
strong enough to survive in the world of Men. The men of the
Sidhe have no wish to see their own blood vanish from the world, and
know that the women of the Men often find them quite beautiful."
They gazed at each other, stirred by thoughts of the
spring mating ritual around the flaring bonfires, each drawn by the
strange beauty of the other.
"Anlon!" came the distant shout, drifting across the
water on the breeze. "Anlon, the fire is dying down! Anlon!"
His eyes flicked toward the sound, and then
back to her. "I must go now," he said. "But as I said,
I will leave a gift for you at the edge of the forest."
"That is kind of you," she said. "Perhaps I
will leave a gift for you as well."
He started to lift one hand, as though to reach for
her, but she only said, "Go now, Anlon. Go."
He paused, and smiled, and then walked back into the
water and began swimming to the camp.
Scahta watched as he cut smoothly through the dark
water, and smiled to herself. He was exactly what she
was looking for.
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MISTRESS
OF THE WATERS is a time-travel romance which takes on the
ancient and powerful ritual of life and fertility called Beltane
-- although our heroine knows it only through its much-diluted modern
descendant, May Day. Strange things can happen, she discovers,
when one is chosen Queen of the May, and the hawthorn flowers are
cut to make a crown . . .
"A moving story
of ancient rites and beliefs . . . readers who like Gothic and magic
will love this story."
-- Romantic Times Magazine , May 1999
I have autographed, mint-condition, never-read copies of
MISTRESS OF THE WATERS available.
Just send $6.00 by check or money order (this includes
shipping) to:
Janeen O'Kerry
4410 West Union Hills Drive #7-95
Glendale AZ 85308
. . . MISTRESS
OF THE WATERS is also available from
Amazon Books.
from MISTRESS OF THE WATERS by Janeen O'Kerry . . .
Ah, now, this was more to his liking. Lasairian had been
wondering if any of the ladies would slip away from all the
preparations and come up here to join him. Ever since his father
and the king had ordered him to serve as a cowherd for the summer, most
of the other young men and women had
carefully
avoided him. None wanted to be associated with the target
of the king's displeasure.
Lasairian had even put away his fine clothes and
gold and taken to dressing in the plain coarse wools and simple copper
ornaments of a herdboy, hoping that his father would be so appalled by
the sight that he would intervene and persuade the king to change his
mind . . .
He had to admit that it did not seem likely.
Of course, most of the people of Abhainn Aille would
be quite well occupied getting ready for tonight's ritual, even as he
was -- practicing his new music -- but he had hoped he would not have
to pass the whole afternoon alone.
He looked carefully through the branches of the
hawthorn, where the lady stood hidden behind the leaves and
flowers. Which one was it? He couldn't be sure. He
saw only a slight and slender figure dressed in a very unusual shade of
green -- a very pale, almost unnatural shade which he'd never seen
before, with a wide belt as yellow as a samhaircin flower
wrapped around her waist. On one finger he noticed a gleam of
gold and the glimmer of some fine stone.
Lasairian smiled. "Keelin? Monat?" he
called, peering through the branches and trying to move them out of the
way. He still could not quite make out who his visitor
was. Well, if she wanted to play a little hiding game, he would
be happy to oblige -- yet his curiosity was growing.
Behind the rustling leaves he could see pale shining
hair, long and fine, almost like a child's in the way it fell down
loose past her shoulders; it was yellow, as though she had borrowed a
touch of color from her sash. Skin smooth and fair as milk,
with a faint blush of pink Her eyes, clear blue, were
enormous and staring.
"Ian," she said, in a voice little more than a
whisper. "Ian?"
He stepped out from behind the tree, and smiled at
her. "That is not my name, beautiful lady," he said.
"Though it could be, if you wish it so."
She stared up at him, and up -- she was not
very tall, he noted, her head would just come up to his shoulder
-- and shook her head slightly. She kept her frightened gaze
fixed on his face, as though she feared to look around.
She spoke again, more rapidly this time, and he
could not catch a word of it. "I am sorry, but I do not
understand any of what you are saying. Do you not speak the
language of
Eire?"
"Eire . . . " Now, though she did not
move, her glance darted left and right and then back at him, as though
she could not believe what she was seeing.
And at last she spoke to him in words that made
sense. "Who are you? What is this place? Why am
I here?"
She spoke haltingly, and with a strange accent, one
he had never heard before. But he was most concerned about her
demeanor -- trembling and pale, eyes wide with wonder, lips parted as
though she wanted to speak again but didn't know where to start.
After the briefest of glances left and right, she
stared straight into his eyes. "Is this -- is this Eire?"
Lasairian felt a chill. Just exactly what had
he encountered here? He was certain he'd never seen her
before. He would never have forgotten so pretty a young
woman. "Why
do you doubt that you are in Eire?" he asked gently, moving another
step closer. "What has happened to you?"
"I don't know," she said. "I remember only
walking around the tree behind my home -- and singing the song --
and it all faded away, and all I heard was the music, and then I was
here . . . here with you."
Lasairian smiled, feeling certain that he could
reassure her, win her over as he had always been able to do with every
woman he'd ever encountered. "I can tell you that you are not
from anywhere within a day's ride of here," he said. "But I can
also tell you that no matter where you may have come from, you are
indeed
in the land of Eire."
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QUEEN OF
THE
SUN, a time-travel romance, takes as its setting the very
magical occurrences surrounding the celebration of the Summer Solstice.
I'm happy to tell
you that this book received four stars from Romantic Times !
" . . . an
engrossing tale of ancient Ireland . . . with accurate historical
detail and well-crafted characters."
from QUEEN OF THE SUN by Janeen
O'Kerry . . .
“Let me tell you what I am searching for,” Conaire said. “I will never
take an ordinary woman as my wife, for an ordinary woman would never
make a queen. She would wither and fail in the attempt, and drain the
life and strength from her people as she did.
"Mind you, I am not looking
just for 'my' queen. I am looking for the queen of Dun Cath, of my
family, of the people who follow where I lead and depend upon me to
protect them. No, I am quite serious when I tell you that I will have
nothing less than a woman worth dying for as the queen of Dun Cath.”
“I can understand that,”
Terri said, after a moment. “But why are you so sure I’m the one?”
“Oh, I’m not sure.
I’m not sure at all.”
Her temper flared.
“Not sure! When you’ve been telling me all this time that I’ve been
sent here just for you? To be your wife, to be your -- “
“I believe you should be my
queen. But you will have to be tested first.”
She put her hands on
her hips, not believing what she was hearing. “Tested.”
“Of course.” He sat down
against a lone young tree, the sun shining on his face, and grinned up
at her, locking his fingers behind his head.
“Do you want to tell me what
these tests are?”
“Since you are so interested
-- and I’m so pleased that you are -- I will tell you.” He unclasped
his hands and sat up before Terri could say a word.
“There are three things that
I require in a queen.” He began counting on his fingers. “One --
beauty. Two -- humility. Three -- courage.”
“That’s all?”
“That's everything.”
“And you’re telling me that
you have found no woman here who is beautiful, and humble, and brave?”
He shrugged. “Oh, many women
have exhibited one of those traits, and a few have shown me two, but
not one has ever shown all three. Only when I see all three will
I know that I have found my queen.”
Terri stood right over him,
looking down at his smooth bearded face with the coldest glare she
could muster. “King Conaire, if you believe that I will go through some
kind of test for you -- when I don’t even want to be queen in the first
place! -- you are wrong! You will have to prove those things to me --
and I may not stop with just three things!”
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LADY OF FIRE,
a time-travel romance, involves a Celtic celebration of early spring
called Imbolc -- a celebration which happens to fall on
the same date as the heroine's birthday.
"Readers
are whisked into the land of mists and warriors, Druids and legends, as
Ms. O'Kerry spins a delightful yarn of undeniable love."
-- Romantic Times Magazine , August 1996
. . . LADY OF FIRE is currently out of print! Used
copies are available through
Amazon Books.
from LADY OF FIRE by Janeen O'Kerry .
. .
He was long-legged and broad-shouldered, and even under his
conservative wool tweed jacket and crisp white shirt Christine could
feel the enormous strength and power in him. The very room was
filled with it.
This man was no desk-bound academic. He looked
to be in his thirties, older and far more sophisticated than the
average student. His hair was feather-soft and blonde, neatly
trimmed just to the edge of his white shirt collar. His eyes
shone bright and his fair skin was flushed with excitement. And
at this moment, the full force of his personality was directed at her
with the intensity of the sun’s focused rays.
“Bridget Christine . . . “
She blinked. He was an incredibly handsome
man, and she had no doubt that if she’d ever seen him before she would
have remembered him. Yet he seemed to know her. How was
that possible?
“My name is Bridget Christine,” she said, matching
his burning gaze. “Are -- you looking for someone by that name?”
Some of the light faded from his eyes. He
seemed to draw inward, as if he had lowered a shield on the radiant
force emanating from him and carefully placed himself at arms’s length
from her.
“I am,” he said. “I am looking for Bridget
Christine, a red-haired lady of great beauty and extraordinary
spirit.” His voice was gentle and warm, with a soft Irish
accent. “But the Bridget Christine I seek already knows me.
I am -- sorry.” He looked away, as if it hurt him to say the
words.
“I -- I only go by Christine,” she said hesitantly,
as if that explained everything.
There was a small sound of throat-clearing behind
them. “Ah, this is the visiting historian I mentioned,” said
Professor Vaughn. “May I introduce Mr. Donalson, of County
Donegal,
Ireland. Mr. Donalson, this is a former student of mine, Miss
Christine Connolly -- as you already seem to know,” he muttered,
sitting
back down at his desk and shuffling yet another stack of papers.
“I am sorry to have disturbed your meeting with the
professor, Chris -- Miss Connolly.” With great reluctance, the
handsome blonde man took a step backward and began reaching for
the door. “Perhaps I should -- come back another time -- “
“Oh, no, no. Here -- let me show you.”
She fumbled in her purse and hastily pulled out the golden torque.
For a long moment, he gazed in silence at the
strange object in her hand. His face softened and his eyes
shone bright and clear, so bright that it seemed to Christine they were
touched with tears. Slowly he raised one hand, reaching out as
if to touch the torque, but then drew back again.
“Do you recognize it?” she whispered.
“Do you know what it is?”
When he made no answer, something else occurred to
her. “I bought it today at a yard sale on the edge of the
campus. Is it yours? Was it lost, or stolen from you?”
He looked up at her, and smiled gently.
“It is not mine. It belongs to Brighid.”
Now she was really confused. “To -- who?”
He gestured at the torque, watching it closely as
she turned it over in her hands. “Do you see the faces of the
women at each end of it?” The red stones set into the sides
behind their hair? This piece was dedicated to Brighid, long
ago.” He paused, and whispered almost to himself. “A very
long time ago.”
Bridget . . . “Oh, yes,” Christine
said. “Saint Bridget. The Irish saint. I know.
I was born on her day, and named for her.”
“So you were,” said Mr. Donalson. “But Bridget
is an old and beautiful name. Why do you not use it, if
I may ask?”
Christine smiled at him. “Well, the other kids
used to call me things like 'Bridget Bardot' and ' Bridget the Midget,'
so I always insisted on being called Christine. But -- "
She glanced down at the torque, studying the strong
young faces of the women. “This piece looks awfully -- well, pagan
to me. How could it have been made for Saint Bridget?”
“Oh, it was not made for a saint, Miss
Connolly. I am sorry. I did not mean Saint Bridget.
Your torque
as made for her predecessor, Brighid, a Celtic goddess.”
“A -- goddess?”
“A goddess.” Once more he gazed at her, his blue-grey eyes
shining right through to her very soul. “In the old Celtic world,
Brighid was called the Lady of Fire. She was the keeper of the
hearth and the patroness of words.”
“Of words?” she whispered.
“Of words. She loved to hear poetry and song,
and especially loved to hear it sung on the battlefield by warriors
asking her for strength and courage.
“Her festival day was the first day of spring --
that was the first of February, back in the ancient world. We
still remember it today as St. Bridget’s Day, or as Candlemas,
or -- in your case -- as your birthday.”
Christine simply gazed at him, held spellbound by
his words and by his eyes and by the sheer magic of his presence.
Never had she been near a man like this one. He was something
completely new to her, a combination of warmth and intelligence and
sheer physical power, something that she had never thought existed.
She could have stood for hours, or days, just
listening to the sound of his gentle Irish voice.
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from APRIL'S CHRISTMAS by Janeen S.
DeBoard and Hazel
Ann Williams...
APRIL'S CHRISTMAS is a contemporary
romance
set in Columbus, Ohio. To April Dawn McGuire, born and raised in
the
mountains of Kentucky, Columbus is the big city; but to L.A.'s Harlan
Kennedy,
stuck in Columbus over the holidays, it's just a little backwater town.
Can the country girl and the big-city boy find love and romance
over Christmas, and maybe for the rest of their lives?
. . . APRIL'S
CHRISTMAS is currently out of print! It
is available at many public
libraries,
or you may order your own hardcover,
mint-condition, never-read copy. Just send $5.00 by check or
money order (this includes shipping)
to:
Janeen O'Kerry
4410 West Union Hills Drive #7-95
Glendale AZ 85308
A
few
minutes later, the horse and carriage rounded a corner. The
harness bells rang out as the grey horse trotted down the long street
leading back to the hotel, straight through the heart of the downtown.
Harlan moved as close to April as he could and
pulled the lap robe all the way up to his chin. His teeth were
beginning to chatter and the knife-edge of the wind blew right through
him, but he had to admit -- he was still having a good time.
It seemed that no matter where he was or what he was doing, if April
was there things always turned out for the best.
"Say! That reminds me," Harlan said, reaching
for April's gloved hand with his frozen fingers. "Pretty lady - how
would you like to go to a Christmas party with me?"
"A Christmas party?"
"Yeah! I don't know how I could have
forgotten. Luke Hazelton and his wife are having a fancy party
out at their
house in the country. I'm invited, and I'm allowed to bring
a date -- and there's no one in Columbus, Ohio I'd rather go
with.
What do you say?"
"Oh . . . it does sound grand . . . "
April stared at his face, so young and handsome even with his skin
reddened from the snowy wind, and a small sting of pain ran through
her. No one in Columbus , he had said. But -- she
would not let that stop her! She had already vowed not to turn
away again.
"I would love to go, Harlan," she said, in a
breathless whisper of excitement. "I -- I wouldn't miss it
for
the world." April was determined to spend every minute she
could with Mr. Harlan Kennedy . . . and she hoped and prayed that
he would feel the same way about her.
"Good. It's on Saturday the twenty-second,
seven in the evening."
"That sounds wonderful, Harlan. I'll be
there." I'll be anywhere you want me to be, she thought, with a
sudden stab of certainty. Anywhere at all. She could
no longer imagine her life without him. If this man were to ask
her to go to Los Angeles, or to New York, or to the moon, April Dawn
would
gladly go with him -- as his wife.
Harlan squeezed her hand, and they cuddled close
together beneath the pink-and-white lap robe. The holidays
were certainly turning out much better than he'd thought they
would. It was very nice to see April beginning to relax and enjoy
his company, and he found himself actually looking forward to the
Hazelton party. Now it would be more than just another business
obligation.
No, it would not be easy leaving April Dawn
behind when January came and his work in Columbus was finished.
But while he was here, they could certainly make the most of whatever
time they had together.
The harness bells jingled merrily as the dapple grey
horse trotted into the snowy night.
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