The Immortal's Unrequited Bride

A love that endures beyond death itself...

Ethan Kemp is a healer, not an assassin. But he’s found an unexpected home in the Irish stronghold that houses the Assassin’s Arcanum—men who will kill to protect their Druid brethren. Too bad there’s a ghost that won’t give him peace...

Centuries in the grave, Isibéal Cannavan has longed to be reunited with her beloved. Finally, he’s returned to her. She’d recognize Lachlan anywhere, even as an American warlock called Ethan. But her path to reuniting with him in the land of the living runs through hell itself, and she’ll have to take Ethan with her...

“Isibéal.” Ethan’s voice rang with power. “Isibéal Cannavan.”

She slowly opened her eyes and met his blazing gaze. “I am.”

He slowly dropped his hands to his sides. The connection was broken then between the men’s hands, and the blended magick separated with a sharp crack.

The sound was a tangible whip that lashed through Isibéal’s abdomen. Clutching her stomach, she staggered.

Ethan lurched forward, hands outstretched, but it was too little, too late.

She faded out of sight, returned to the miserable existence of a monochromatic world punctuated by bone-crushing cold. But not before she heard him. Two words—the most powerful two words she’d heard since she’d been bound to the grave.

“I remember.”

KELLI IRELAND spent a decade as a name on a door in corporate America. Unexpectedly liberated by fate’s sense of humor, she chose to carpe the diem and pursue her passion for writing. A fan of happily-ever-afters, she found she loved being the puppet master for the most unlikely couples. Seeing them through the best and worst of each other while helping them survive the joys and disasters of falling in love? Best. Thing. Ever. Visit Kelli’s website at www.kelliireland.com.

The Immortal’s Unrequited Bride

Kelli Ireland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is an epic love story, one that transcends the bounds of everything we claim to know with certainty about the hard lines of time and space.

Turns out we don’t know so much. It is with intense joy, immeasurable love and the understanding he’s my One Thing that I dedicate this book to Mr. Kelli Ireland. You’re my always and I’m your forever.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

The Year of Our Lord, 1485

“Your personal powers of destruction paired with your sense of justice may yet bring about the end of the world.” Isibéal Cannavan, wife of the Druid’s Assassin and powerful white lady in her own right, crossed the great hall and stopped beside the massive oak table, shaking her head in wordless censure. “In the time it took me to gather fresh herbs and root stock for the infirmary, it seems you have agreed to mediate a grievance between a god and two demigods while in the presence of the All Father, Daghda. Quite the morning you’ve had, husband.”

Though nothing compared to mine.

She gripped handfuls of her skirt, and her heart seized as Lachlan Cannavan—dark blond, thoroughly sensual, immensely powerful—slid low in the large, ornately carved Tuam chair situated at the head of the table. The worn leather protested his movement with a sharp creak. Indifferent, he folded his hands over his abdomen. The dark phantom of negotiations—his and hers alike—hovered between them, a divination she alone could see. Again Isibéal thanked the gods that it was she who held the power of visions, not her husband. For if he knew what she’d done...

She’d had no other choice, though. Not after the vision had struck her unannounced, revealing that the strife brewing between divine beings would rip her husband from her grasp.

Lachlan was engaged in an authentic struggle. This was no training exercise or sparring session. This was a battle where those who had lifted sword or fist would either claim victory and, as such, live, or they would suffer the highest loss and make restitution in death.

The fight grew more brutal with every passing second. Men shouted and metal blade beat against metal blade so that the whole of the battle was reduced to harsh sounds that stung the ear. But it was the two men in front of her who claimed the whole of her attention. The swing of the men’s blades whistling through the air, steel impacting steel and making her teeth ache, the harsh declarations of extreme effort as each combatant hoisted his respective weapon—each sound was horrifying when singly wrought. Together? They overwhelmed her mind and shouted at her to flee.

Sweat slicked Lachlan’s arms and trailed down his bare chest. He gripped his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles appeared skeletal beneath his sun-kissed skin.

A vicious blow and he knocked his opponent back, down, and afforded himself a brief advantage. But that small triumph changed neither the tenor of the fight nor its probable outcome.

The strength and valor of the honorable could not hold its ground in the face of malicious deception and heartbreaking betrayal.

Lachlan would not, could not, fight an opponent who was possessed with such disregard for honor, but this particular opponent hurt him on a deeper level than any other. The blood tie between them demanded as much. And that, Lachlan’s inability to double-cross the man who would have his head before he’d even hear his brother’s plea?

That would be the cost of Lachlan’s pride and a brother’s love.

Lachlan would lose this fight.

His attacker rose from the ground and charged. Swords clashed. Men shouted unintelligible words. The battle raged. These two men were pitted against each other, a violation of nature’s intent. Their animosity was so strong it fouled the air even as it clung to them, a sticky cobweb of hatred that spun from one and bound the other, back and forth as they moved through the steps of death’s dance.

Lachlan’s opponent lunged at him, and, with what could only be described as willfulness...nay, willingness, Lachlan stepped into the man’s blade. It struck true, the resulting sound disturbingly similar to a butcher’s meat cleaver striking the thickest part of a mutton’s leg—heavy, viscous, dense.

Lachlan stumbled back and the damning sword slid free with a wet, sucking hiss. Eyes bright in a fast-paling face, Lachlan grinned with grim satisfaction. He coughed once. Twice. “I will thank you for this.”

“Then you are far greater a fool than I believed,” his attacker, killer, said, voice muffled as though he spoke with a rag over his mouth.

Lachlan shook his head. “I said I will, not that I do. Not yet.”

“And what, then, is the difference?” came the arrogant reply.

Lachlan lifted his long sword in his dominant hand, stealing his opponent’s attention. Then, his nondominant hand yielding his short sword with untraceable speed, he raised his weapon and swung down as hard as he could. The blade was smaller but not lesser, proving sufficient to near cleave the man’s head from his neck in one blow.

The man dropped his sword and fell to his knees. Defeat fouled the air around them.

“The difference,” Lachlan said with cold indifference, “is that I will thank you for striking my deathblow, as it afforded me the opportunity to reciprocate and offer you the same, save one significant difference. The wounds I bear will end me, but they’ll send me into the welcoming fields of Tír na nÓg. The wounds I deliver shall not afford you the same. They will carry you straight to the Shadow Realm.” Gritting his teeth, Lachlan yanked the shorter blade from deep in his adversary’s neck and then swung again. This time the man’s head separated cleanly, hit the ground and rolled free. “You cannot escape your fate,” Lachlan said as sweat ran freely down his brow and into his eyes. Swaying, he blinked rapidly. “It did not have to be this way...brother.”

Lachlan’s fingers straightened spasmodically, his swords clanging off each other as they fell. The grass muffled the metal’s impact with the earth. He clutched his side, breath wheezing. His eyes lost their intense, sharp look, growing unfocused between blinks.

Isibéal screamed at him to hold on, admonished him to fight, threatened to see that his cherished knarr—the long boat his Viking great-grandfather had sailed—was used as his funeral pyre should he die. All to no avail, for the living held no dominion over the dying, and Lachlan was dying.

Without acknowledging her, Lachlan slipped sideways, caught himself with one hand and, in fits and starts, eased himself to the ground.

Then it was done. The headless body of Lachlan’s enemy lay mere feet from where the Assassin had fallen. Both men’s souls had been set free with their last breaths.

Isibéal knew with absolute certainty that Lachlan’s soul had begun its journey to the heavens. It was no consolation.

She fell to her knees at his side. And while she alone seemed to hear the impact of her husband’s death, hear it she did.

Her heart broke with a thunderous crack, much like a heavy foot on thin ice.

Life as she knew it was over.

Desperate to hide the tear that burned her eyes, Isibéal spun away from the hale and healthy man who watched her now.

She could not, would not, stand by and watch Lachlan enter into a conflict he wasn’t slated to walk out of. She’d seen his death and held suspect one man who should never have been suspect at all. Still, it seemed he would strike the blow that would rob her of her heart’s blood.

How? How could he do this to me?

This vision was the first to reduce her to a shivering mess of skirts and tears. Throat too tight to scream her refusal of what she’d been shown and now revisited, she locked her knees and forced herself to remain standing. The original imagery and consequent sounds had left her a collapsed heap of emotional devastation. One truth had separated from the thousand questions she’d been left with. That truth?

Isibéal wouldn’t survive losing Lachlan. Therefore she’d do whatever was necessary to stay with him. If it meant sacrificing herself so he carried on and met her in the afterlife? So be it. Where he went, she followed.

The affirmation wasn’t based on the melodramatics of a weak-minded woman, but rather a simple, if brutal, truth recognized by her as one of the realm’s most powerful witches. Should she be forced to take matters into her own hands, should she be required to end her own life, she would do so. And gladly.

To that end, she’d sought out a solution in the early-morning mists that silently rose from the floor of Cahermurphy Forest. It meant she’d had to break her geis—the oath she’d taken to honor her magick’s gift and never use it to try to change fate to suit her—but it mattered not.

Isibéal would follow Lachlan into this confrontation.

She had set aside the convictions of her faith that bade her not interfere in the workings of free will or destiny’s machinations. That done, she’d set her circle in place, retrieved a small bowl she carried in her pack and then filled it with water. Settled in her circle, she cast it and worked the deep magick required to scry. She would use the reflection of the water’s surface to look into the future with intent and the belief she could secure Lachlan’s safety.

What had appeared had not been foresight. Yes, the answer to her initial summons had appeared on the water’s surface...but as a reflection of the man who stood behind her.

Lugh, God of Vengeance and Reincarnation and one of the aggrieved parties at the meeting slated for Lachlan’s involvement, had sought her out.

Discussions resulted in a bargain struck in the forest’s ominous hush, sans the whisper of the wind through the trees or the subtle rush of wings fluttering between branches...a bargain that had not settled well, given Lugh’s reputation for trickery. But if it saved Lachlan’s life?

“Isibéal?” 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 far,” he conceded. “But if he has done so thus far, what grounds do I have to deem him unwilling or unable to continue on this path he’s forged?”

“You cannot believe... I never meant... It’s only that—”

He kissed her quickly, shushing her sputtering objections. “You love me just as I love you, and that makes life a wee bit harrowing at times, yeah?” Then he turned away and started for the Elder’s Library. “Rest easy, wife. I will see this handled and return to you.”

An idea struck her. “Promise me, Lachlan. Please.”

He spun and walked backward. “I give you my word that I will see this handled and return to you, Lady Isibéal Cannavan.”

With a nod, she turned and took a couple of steps forward before glancing back and finding that her husband had already passed through the library door.

Perfect.

She reached up to smooth her furrowed brow even as anxiety, weighted with irrefutable knowledge, settled over her. Lachlan was not meant to meddle in the gods’ arguments, be they petty or just. And while he might feel obligated to participate in this hearing, she held no such compulsion. Her first duty, now and always, was to look out for her husband and see him safely returned to her. It would have been so even had her heart’s mate been a shepherd and not the Assassin.

She would do what needed to be done to ensure that she did not lose Lachlan in this, or any, lifetime.

Bowing her head, Isibéal threw open her ties to the elements and the magicks they heralded. Threads of color whipped around her with dizzying speed, colors only she could see. The magicks were as bright as they were ethereal, raw power drawn into her hands and shaped to her will alone. Few witches had come before with more power than she wielded even now, decades before the zenith of her power was forecast to arrive.

Lachlan’s parting words were still so new that the memory of them would be strong enough to cast and weave around, and she would do both, and more, if it meant tying his promise to her intent.

With few movements and naught but whispered words, Isibéal created a sphere that raced across the deepening shadows of time that grew between his words and the present. The sphere reached back and retrieved the promise Lachlan had made her, captured the words and then sealed them inside the crystalline ball. Threads of color wound around the exterior at ever-increasing speeds until the motion was a blur. Colors fused in a bright flash of light that made her eyes water. Magick receded with very little in the way of a dramatic exit. Shimmering inside the orb was the essence of the words Lachlan had gifted her with.

Isibéal cradled the sphere between her cupped palms, one above the globe and one below, the strength of her magick suspending it. Dipping her chin, she spoke over those harvested words—words that represented her future, her hope—and infused her voice with both her will and power. “Protect these words, heartfelt promise man to wife, keep the promise alive for me, that we might again share a life. His spirit shall not cross to its final resting place, but will remain in limbo, affected by neither time nor space. My soul shall serve as sacrifice, to bind us where we fall, only love’s inherent power will be enough to break the thrall. Hear me now and mark my plea, for wait I shall, across years or centuries.”