dark eyes. Not Irish eyes, she knew in an instant. Not entirely. There was a bit of Romany in those eyes. Tinker, to those less kind. She shook off the empathic abilities that had been trying to come to the surface in the past several years. Dammit, she didn’t want them.
“Safe enough, I suppose,” the hunk and a half said in a voice of surrender. He didn’t try again to send her to Killarney. “Beer?”
“Tea,” she said. “Sugar, no milk.” She needed to be completely clearheaded for what was coming, judging by what she’d encountered so far.
* * *
Rye hadn’t known who the woman was, not when she’d first walked through the door, but it hadn’t taken long for his instincts to kick in and alert him to the trouble she was bringing his way. His instinctive reaction had been to suggest that she lunch far from his humble establishment. For all the good that was going to do. She was a stubborn one; he saw that right off.
She’d been well into the room before he’d realized more precisely who she was. What she was. Up close the eyes gave her away. Her brilliant green eyes and the voice that whispered in his head. Raintree princess.
Too bad. She was a pretty girl, petite and fair, with soft, pale blond hair cut to hang to her jawline. He didn’t normally care for short hair on a woman, but he had to admit, the neck revealed was nicely tempting. Long and pale and flawless. She had amazing eyes, a very nice ass and breasts high and firm and just the right size for his hand.
He’d feed her, but then she had to go. Killarney was likely not far enough away.
Doyle Mullen was working in the kitchen today, as he did six days a week. He cooked, swept and manned the bar when Rye had to step away for a few minutes. His was not a particularly demanding job, but it was one that had to be done. The pub menu was limited. The single laminated page offered ham and cheese sandwiches, chips, vegetable soup and brown bread. There was also fish and chips, but he could not in good conscience recommend them to anyone. Not even her.
After delivering the order to Doyle, Rye returned to the bar and made the tea himself. It gave him the opportunity to turn his back on the Raintree woman for a few minutes. Dammit, he could still feel her eyes on him.
She hadn’t said so, not yet, but she was here for him. He felt it as surely as he would feel rain on his face if he were to step outside. The question was, why? What did she want?
Even without the talismans he wore, Rye was not the most powerful psychic in the world, not by a long shot. He had learned as much or more as he’d been born with, learned at the knee of his Romany mother. Sometimes knowledge slammed into him and he knew it was truth. Other truths were muddy, or hidden from him entirely. He’d often thought it would be better to see nothing at all than to be given only the occasional glimpse. It would ease his frustration considerably.
He had other gifts, gifts he kept dampened, but his psychic ability had never been his strength. If he were honest, he’d admit it was often more annoying than helpful.
He delivered the Raintree woman’s tea, then went into the kitchen to check on her meal. It was not quite ready, so he waited there until it was. Doyle tried to make conversation but Rye was in no mood to participate. Eventually the cook went silent. No one else came into the pub; he knew without watching the door. No magic was involved in that knowledge. A bell sounded when the front door opened. Usually a shopkeeper or two stopped in for a bowl of stew or a sandwich about this time of day, but so far all was quiet. Because she was here.
They knew. Someone among them had realized who she was and the word had spread like wildfire. He wondered if the pretty girl realized that her family name had the power to strike fear into the hearts of others. They would hide from her if they could. If she wasn’t careful, someone might do more than hide.
His life here in Cloughban was orderly. Predictable. He liked it that way. More than that, it was necessary. Thanks to an ancient protection spell, stray tourists didn’t find their way here. Only those who possessed magic could make their way to this special village. If anyone—tourist or wandering Irishman—was going to get lost, they got lost on another road in another county. But then, the Raintree woman wasn’t exactly lost, was she?
When the sandwich was done Rye delivered it as he had the tea, but again, he did not linger. While the Raintree woman ate he left his station at the bar to check on the regulars in the corner. Three grumpy old men who had been a part of this community for as long as anyone could remember. In a town population that was ever changing, these three were constant.
He stood close to the table and crossed his arms across his chest. “Are you fellas ever going to buy anything? Do I have to depend on strangers to wander into the place in order to make a living?” Tully, Nevan and McManus had been fixtures in this pub since long before Rye had taken it over. They’d probably be here long after he was gone.
Nevan, who was short and squat and looked as if his face had been scrunched together by two overly large hands, grinned. Not a pretty sight, considering that the old man was ugly as sin. “There’ll be a good enough crowd here tonight, and you know it. You don’t need our business in the middle of the day.”
His friends agreed with him.
“Maybe I shouldn’t open until four, then. I could sleep late if it suited me.”
Tully nodded. “That would be fine. I still have a key to the back door. You haven’t changed the locks, have you, son?”
Rye scowled and took a bar towel to empty tables, just so he wouldn’t have to face the Raintree woman. If he were lucky, she would eat, pay and leave.
He didn’t feel at all lucky today. She was trouble, and in his experience when trouble came for him it never walked away. It usually planted its feet and stayed awhile. He hadn’t experienced trouble of her sort for a long time. A very long time.
Her stool scraped across the floor as she pushed it back so she could stand. Coins were carefully counted out and placed on the counter.
And then she walked to the corner. All three old goats smiled at her; he saw that out of the corner of his eye.
“Perhaps you gentlemen can help me,” she said.
Rye stifled a snort. They would be instantly charmed. They would tell her whatever she wanted to know. To a point.
“I’m looking for a man,” she said.
McManus cackled. “Lucky lass, you’ve found three.”
She smiled. Good Lord. Dimples. “I’m actually looking for a particular man. Ryder Duncan. Do you know him?”
“I do,” Tully said in a booming voice. “And so do you, pet.”
Rye turned, ready to face the inevitable. Nevan pointed a crooked finger in his direction. The Raintree woman turned around slowly. Maybe she paled a little.
There was no running from it, he supposed.
“I’m Duncan. What the hell do you want?” he asked sharply.
Yes, she definitely paled. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
If someone was going to come for him—for the child more likely—why her? She was alone, she was not particularly powerful in that special Raintree way, nor was she physically strong. But
