“I like living there, in the quiet. But I wonder that I haven’t seen Lady Gwen. Do you know she showed herself to Brenna O’Toole? You’ll remember Brenna, she’s the oldest of the O’Toole girls who live down from your cottage. She’s the redhead—well, most of the O’Toole girls are redheaded, but Brenna’s got like . . . sunfire at the edges of it. You’d think it would burn your fingers to touch it, and instead it’s just warm and soft.”

He caught himself, frowned a little, cleared his throat. “In any case, I’ve been living there near to five months now, and she hasn’t shown herself to me, not clearly. And there’s Brenna come by to fix the stove, and the lady not only shows herself but speaks to her as well.”

“Women are perverse creatures.”

Shawn’s heart gave one quick thud, as he hadn’t expected anyone to speak back to him in such a place. He looked up and saw a man with long black hair, eyes of piercing blue, and a smile wicked at the corners.

“So I’ve often thought myself,” Shawn said calmly enough, but his heart had decided one quick thud wasn’t enough and began to gallop in his chest.

“But we can’t seem to do without them, can we?” The man unfolded himself from the stone chair that crouched near the trio of crosses. His movements were graceful as he walked over grass and stone on soft leather boots, then sat on the opposite side of the grave.

The wind, the chilly snap of it, played through his hair, fluttered the short red cape tossed regally over his shoulders.

The light brightened, cleared so that everything— stones, grass, flowers—stood out in sharp relief. In the distance, entwined with the sound of sea and wind, came the dance of pipes and flutes.

“Not for any real length of time,” Shawn answered, kept his gaze level and hoped his heart rate would soon do the same.

The man laid his hand on his knees. He wore hose and a doublet of silver, both shot through with threads of gold. And on one hand was a silver ring with a brilliant blue stone. “You know who I am, don’t you, Shawn Gallagher?”

“I’ve seen pictures Jude’s drawn of you for her book. She’s clever with a sketch.”

“And well and happy now, is she? Wedded and bedded?”

“Aye, she’s all of that, Prince Carrick.”

Carrick’s eyes gleamed, both power and amusement alive in them. “Does it worry you to converse with the prince of the faeries, Gallagher?”

“Well, I’ve no desire to be taken off to a faerie raft for the next century or so, as I’ve things I prefer to do here.”

With his hands still resting on his knees, Carrick threw back his head and laughed. It was a full, rich sound. Seductive, engaging. “Some of the ladies in court would enjoy you, I’m certain, for your looks and your musical gifts. But I’ve a use for you here, on your side. And here you’ll stay, so don’t trouble yourself.”