For all his previous certainty of her ulterior motives, Donal was the first to look away. His breath came quickly, but not out of anger; his senses had turned traitor, making him painfully aware of the woman’s body beneath the stout cage of Mrs. Hardcastle’s corset. He could almost taste her scent, a subtle blending of soap, lavender and warm skin. And the blaze of her temper only ignited the long-banked fire he had worked so hard to extinguish.
She brought out the worst in him, the very strength and stubbornness of her character provoking his passions as no other human had done in many years. He should not find her in the least attractive, yet he did. And it was all because of the tigress in her eyes.
God knew that he should do anything but allow himself to be drawn more deeply into Mrs. Hardcastle’s sphere of comfortable, self-satisfied English society. But she had spoken no less than the truth where Ivy was concerned. And if he were honest with himself, he would admit that the lady had offered him a reasonable alternative to surrendering his dreams.
All he need do was spend a few weeks in Gloucestershire to see Ivy well established in her new home. And then, once he had completed the arrangements for Stenwater Farm—and made Tod understand why he must leave England—he would book his passage from Liverpool and be on his way.
He eased the tension from his shoulders and essayed a smile. “What is your name?” he asked.
Mrs. Hardcastle had clearly expected another round of sparring, and his mild question took her aback. “I … beg your pardon?” she stammered.
“Your given name. Your Christian name.”
She perched on the edge of indignation, but she must have recognized that such a minor breach of etiquette was a small enough price to pay for peace between them.
“Cordelia,” she said.
“Cordelia,” he repeated. “King Lear’s loyal daughter.”
“You know your Shakespeare, Dr. Fleming.”
“Donal,” he said. “My name is Donal.”
“Irish, I believe?”
“I spent my early childhood in Ireland.”
The wariness in her eyes gave way to curiosity. “Is Fleming also Irish?”
“English,” he said. “My parents live in Westmorland.”
“I have heard the Lakes are very beautiful.”
“Yes.” He glanced over her head toward the road, searching for a change of subject. “Where is your cousin? She might wish to join us for luncheon, if simple fare meets with your approval.”
Cordelia touched her lips. “Oh, dear. I did not intend to leave Theodora alone in the carriage so long. I shall go at once and fetch her …”
“That will not be necessary.” Donal closed his eyes, picked out the carriage horses’ minds from among the other equines in the vicinity, and sent them a brief message. “I believe they are already on their way.”
“But how could you know that?”
“Any good doctor—even an animal doctor—must rely on instinct as well as science,” he said. He whistled, and his dogs came to him, prancing with delight at the newfound goodwill they sensed between him and his visitor. Cordelia gamely patted a few bobbing heads, but Donal discouraged them from licking her hands or leaping up on her full skirts, and they raced off again to find Ivy.
“I expect Benjamin to arrive any moment with fresh bread and cheese,” Donal said. “When Ivy returns, allow me to speak to her alone.”
“Then you no longer have any objections to my proposal?” Cordelia asked.
“Not if Ivy is willing to try.”
Cordelia quickly looked away, and once more Donal caught a glimpse of the vulnerability he had seen after she had spoken with Ivy. “Thank you, Dr. Fleming,” she said, her voice not entirely steady. “You shall not regret it.”
“IT WILL ONLY BE for a few weeks, Tod,” Donal said, crouching beside him in the loft of the byre. “Mrs. Hardcastle—the lady I met in London—wishes to give Ivy a permanent home. I know you’ve never had the opportunity to know her, but this may be her best opportunity for happiness.”
Tod kicked his feet over the edge of the loft, hiding a scowl behind the fall of his hair. “Why must my lord go with her?”
“I’ve taken responsibility for Ivy. I must make sure this is the right course for her future.” He patted Tod’s shoulder. “You’re welcome to accompany me, of course. You’ve never been to the south of England; there are more humans there than here in the north, but Gloucestershire is filled with hills and woods where you can run in freedom.”
“The Fane left those lands long ago.”
“That may be true. But I wouldn’t be surprised to find that a little Fane magic still lingers, even so.”
Tod sighed, knowing he could not win this battle. He had thought himself rid of the girl, and still she’d returned; now there was a good chance that she would be out of Donal’s life forever. Tolerating her presence for a few more weeks was a small enough price to pay.
“When we come back,” he said, tossing hair out of his eyes, “it will be as it was before. My lord and Tod, together.”
Donal looked away, and his voice was strange when he spoke. “Only in Tir-na-Nog does everything stay the same,” he said. “In this world, change is inevitable.”
“Tod never changes,” Tod said, touching Donal’s hand. “Tod will always be here.”
Donal smiled, but Tod felt his grief. It was these females who brought him such pain. But soon they would be gone.
“Tod will go with my lord,” he said firmly. “And it will not be long before my lord has peace again.”
Donal only bowed his head and gave no answer.
“SHE IS FOUND, MY LADY!”
“She is found!”
“Found!”
The incessant chatter of the sprites clanged like raucous bells in Béfind’s ears, but she did not chastise her servants. She smiled indulgently as they darted about her head, crying out their victory until even they grew weary and settled to the glistening floor at her feet.
It was one of her hobs who gave the report. He related how they had searched high and low, seeking over the mortals’ island until they had sensed Fleming’s presence in a place far from the humans’ cities. There they had watched and listened, learning much that could amaze even one who had lived three thousand years.
Donal Fleming. It would have been a stroke of astonishing coincidence had the players in this drama been human. Fleming, son of the exiled Forest Lord, had found the girl living in squalor in the mortal’s great Iron City and taken her to live with him on his little farm in the north. It was clear to Béfind’s servants that Fleming had made himself her guardian and accepted his new responsibility with a mortal’s tedious gravity. It was equally clear that he didn’t know what she was.
Béfind called for a cup of mead and idly tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. Everyone in Tir-na-Nog knew Hern’s story: how he, one of the last of the High Fane to linger on earth, had fallen in love with a human woman and surrendered his Fane powers in exchange for a mortal life as Cornelius Fleming, Earl of Bradwell. Donal was the bastard offspring of his first, illicit union with his beloved, Eden Fleming, six years before he had returned to the mortal realm to woo and win her as his wife.
It was well-known that Donal, whom Queen Titania had sought to claim for Tir-na-Nog, had chosen a dull existence of isolation on earth rather than enjoy a life of ease and eternal pleasure in the Land of the Young. But he kept one companion to remind him of his Fane heritage … a hob called Tod, who had once been