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…
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A love that endures beyond death itself...
Ethan Kemp is a healer, not an assassin. But heâs found an unexpected home in the Irish stronghold that houses the Assassinâs Arcanumâmen who will kill to protect their Druid brethren. Too bad thereâs a ghost that wonât give him peace...
Centuries in the grave, Isibéal Cannavan has longed to be reunited with her beloved. Finally, heâs returned to her. Sheâd 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 sheâll have to take Ethan with her...
âIsibéal.â Ethanâs voice rang with power. âIsibéal Cannavan.â
She slowly opened her eyes and met his blazing gaze. âI am.â
He slowly dropped his hands to his sides. The connection was broken then between the menâs hands, and the blended magick separated with a sharp crack.
The sound was a tangible whip that lashed through Isibéalâs 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 wordsâthe most powerful two words sheâd heard since sheâd been bound to the grave.
âI remember.â
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.
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 donât know so much. It is with intense joy, immeasurable love and the understanding heâs my One Thing that I dedicate this book to Mr. Kelli Ireland. Youâre my always and Iâm your forever.
Contents
The Year of Our Lord, 1485
âYour personal powers of destruction paired with your sense of justice may yet bring about the end of the world.â Isibéal Cannavan, wife of the Druidâs 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. âIn 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 youâve had, husband.â
Though nothing compared to mine.
She gripped handfuls of her skirt, and her heart seized as Lachlan Cannavanâdark blond, thoroughly sensual, immensely powerfulâslid 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 negotiationsâhis and hers alikeâhovered 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 sheâd done...
Sheâd 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 menâs 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 weaponâeach sound was horrifying when singly wrought. Together? They overwhelmed her mind and shouted at her to flee.
Sweat slicked Lachlanâs 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.
