Free Twice Upon A Time (The Celtic Legends Series) by Lisa Ann Verge

pearly flesh of her collarbone. “The way of the dice surely won’t always be with me—”
    “The way of the dice had nothing to do with it.” He pulled tight the sinew with which he tied the thatch to the roof. “It was magic you used.”
    “Are you accusing me of cheating?”
    His gaze slipped over her, lingering on the shape of her legs beneath the caress of her t unic, the golden bracelets that encircled her right upper arm, the cascade of hair over her shoulders, the tilt of her firm breasts. He met her eyes and knew she felt the smolder in his gaze. “The price of my winning would have been high, lass.”
    Her cheeks blossomed with fresh color. “I’ll have no one say that Brigid of the Clan Morna has no honor—I use no magic in the playing.”
    “Maybe no chants, but it was magic, of a sort. A man can hardly concentrate on war or war games, when there’s such a sight as you so near.”
    “ As if it’s my fault you can’t keep your eyes to yourself.” She tossed her head, and the golden balls clattered against one another. “What would you have me do? Play with my cloak over my head?”
    “I’d rather lose at brandubh .”
    “You’ll have plenty of time to do that,” she said, as s he bent down to clutch another handful of herbs. “If you’ll stay for another game.”
    And in that moment, as she lifted her face up to his, the sun illuminated the hope lurking in her swirling green eyes. Conor suddenly saw clearly the working of this woman’s mind. He’d been so fevered for lust that he hadn’t seen the simple truth. The lass had lived in these woods since she was barely a woman.
    She was as lonely as a swan that’d lost her mate.
    The next afternoon, he strode into the clearing and surprised her bent over a bubbling cauldron. The folds of his cloak wiggled beneath his arm. He released the gift and out shot a fox-colored creature who planted his huge wet paws on Brigid’s shins.
    “One of the bitches had a litter a while ago,” Conor explained. “This one’s just weaned. My gift to you.”
    She lifted the wolfhound pup in her arms and buried her face in his fur. Out lolled a wet pink tongue which tasted her from chin to temple. Brigid laughed, and the sound tinkled like fairy music in the clearing.
    “Precious, he is.” She ruffled his fur by the scruff. “This is the finest gift you’ve given me, Conor.”
    The expression she granted him had more force than a hundred sword strokes. He wondered at her power, that she could make a king of warriors, a king’s champion, feel as awkward and ungainly as a newborn colt.
    That afternoon, as the sun shone like an ember between the leafy boughs of oaks, he rose to his feet and drew Brigid up with him, leaving the sleeping pup in a circle of trampled grass. A softness cushioned Brigid’s mouth, but an uncertainty lingered in her eyes.
    “Come back with me,” he said.
    “Back?”
    “Aye. To the ring-fort of Morna.” He traced the curve of her cheek. “You’ve never heard the harp strings of my bard, nor his stories.”
    “ There’s a fine thing,” she said, quietly, without venom, “having me, of the tribe Morna, sitting and listening to some Ulster bard rave about Connacht defeats.”
    “M y bards know also the sorrows of Deirdre, and of the trials of the sons of Tureen.”
    The knowledge gave her pause. “Do they know the story of the swans? Of the children condemned to live on the earth for hundreds of years?”
    “ Aye. The Children of Lir.” He rubbed the pad of his thumb against the pulse leaping in her throat. “They tell that tale better than all the rest. Not a warrior in the whole of the mead hall is left with a dry eye.”
    The light that had entered her eyes when he gave her the wolfhound pup flared bright, brighter now than he’d ever seen . He wanted this lass by his side, sharing the champion’s portion from his dish, drinking mead from his horn, her ears filled with the strumming of gilded harps. He cupped his