The Immortal's Redemption
A Dangerous Attraction... When a brooding Irishman shows up at the hospital where she works, Kennedy Jefferson knows this stranger is a threat – even as her body craves his masterful touch. Dylan O’Shea is the druid’s assassin charged with finding the single woman who can stop an evil goddess from destruction. He’s searched to find Kennedy for centuries. But Dylan finds himself inexplicably drawn to Kennedy – the woman he’s ordained to kill. With Samhain fast approaching, duty and desire are on an unstoppable collision course...
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âMake me forget, Dylan.â
He rolled them over swiftly, reversing their positions. Wrapping her hair around his fist, he began to kiss his way down her neck.
His heart thundered in his chest with a locomotiveâs fierce, ground-rattling force. Blood hummed under his skin. Nerves began firing faster, yet he didnât struggle to control the situation. No, with Kennedyâs soft encouragements, he simply let go and followed where the moment led.
âYouâll be the death of me, Kennedy Jefferson.â He raised her hands over her head, his hands tracing down the soft undersides of her arms and down her sides, thumbs tracing the outer swells of her breasts.
âDylan.â His name was a tender plea from her lips.
KELLI IRELAND spent a decade as a name on a door in corporate America. Unexpectedly liberated by Fateâs 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 Kelliâs website at www.kelliireland.com.
To Kate Hollister, author and fellow lover of all things that go bump in the night.
Contents
Scotland, 1718
A damp cold seeped into Dylanâs bones. He and another young assassin had spent the night in the hillside cave again, waiting. It was the worst part of his job. Heâd rather be active, engaged, whether in subterfuge or killing, because activity meant progress. Waiting meant...waiting. Nothing happened. The sun and moon chased horizons more slowly. And one could only prepare so much before the actions became habitual. And habit would get you killed.
Dylan flipped his kilt higher over his shoulders, his gaze locked on the sunâs first softening of the eastern night sky. The Scottish laird of Clan McKay had made it a personal goal to see the Druids run out of his lands. Heâd acted against the peaceful settlements with violence. It was about time the fat bastard met violence in return. Heâd have to pass through this valley in order to reach the next Druidic keep. With a fair amount of certainty, Dylan was sure the man would never make it that far. It was, after all, his charge to ensure the laird didnât make it through this valley.
Dylan rolled onto his back and stared at the darkness above. The cave was deep enough he couldnât see the ceiling. Fine by him. Meant he didnât crack his egg when he stood up. He hooked an arm behind his head, pillowing it. As far as headrests went, it wasnât bad. As far as beds went, the stone floor wasnât the worst heâd experienced. The cold, though. That was eating into him as he whiled away the hour before dawn with fanciful thoughts of the lass heâd last bedded. Bonnie little thing, blonde hair and all.
What had her name been?
Pebbles skittered down the hillside, the small sound amplified by the dark. A sigh breathed across the caveâs mouth, soft and resigned.
Dylan reached for his smaller sword. The short sword hissed along its leather scabbard as he pulled it free. He clasped his dirk. Dark tartan made nary a sound as he flipped it back, disguising his broadsword. Rising to his feet like a phantom, he readied himself for any threat that might come against him.
âGareth.â The manâs name was little more than an exhale between Dylanâs lips. His companion didnât stir.
Dylan dared not speak louder. Instead, he moved to position himself between the cave mouth and the sleeping Druid.
âRest easy, child of mine.â
The feminine voice startled him, and he moved back a step. Shifting his dagger to an underhanded hold, he regained the ground heâd lost to surprise. Using darkness as another type of weapon, he sidled up to a small rock outcropping. It didnât hide him entirely, but it would give him an advantage if she tried to enter.
âDylan.â
The voice came from behind him and he whirled, sword and dagger raised. Both immediately clattered to the floor.
It was a rare man whose destiny was molded while he listened and watched. And for better or worse, Dylan was just such a man, for it was the goddess and Mother of All, Danu, who now stood before him, her face smooth and serene.
âWe may speak at ease, for Gareth has been sent into deep slumber,â she said, her voice as gentle as mist yet as powerful as lightning. âI must forewarn you, Dylan. There is a time coming, a time when you will rise to power and position, only to be tried in the greatest challenge you shall ever face.â
âWhy tell me now, Mother?â His voice cracked on the last word, and he blushed. He wanted her to see him as strong and capable, not a boy. Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath to emphasize the baritone he was developing, he asked again. âWhy tell me now, Mother?â
