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  A Wish to Build A Dream On

  Copyright 2011 © Michelle Willingham

  Cover Design by Hot Damn Designs

  A WISH TO BUILD A DREAM ON

  by

  Michelle Willingham

  Chapter One

  Garrett was completely wrong, Mary Samson told herself, straightening in her seat. Just because she preferred an organized life on a schedule didn't make her a prude incapable of being impulsive.

  Wasn't this impulsive enough? Taking two weeks' vacation from her engineering position to travel to Ireland? She hadn't taken a vacation in three years because . . . well, she'd always been too busy. There were simulations to run, project meetings to attend, and countless e-mails to answer. She'd prided herself on being dependable—a responsible adult with a good job and a bright future.

  It hadn't been enough for Garrett. They'd dated for almost a year before he'd dumped her last Thursday.

  "It's just not working, Mary. I need someone more impulsive. Someone who likes to live on the edge."

  "I can be more exciting," she'd promised him. "Spontaneous, even."

  "Mary, the only thing you've ever done spontaneous was buy whole milk instead of two percent."

  And even that had been an accident. Mary's stomach twisted at the memory. Her only consolation was that the break-up had been easy. There wasn't another woman; he'd simply been bored. They'd never moved in together, so there was no furniture to move, no locks to change. Not even a single dirty sock left behind. Here one minute, gone the next. Why then, did she feel so awful, as though he'd been her last chance for a real relationship?

  "Are you all right?" her seatmate Harriet asked. Besides herself, Harriet was the next youngest member of the tour group. She was seventy-five, widowed, and wore her white hair styled in a large pouf. "You don't look well."

  "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

  The older woman's mouth wrinkled in a frown. "You look as though you're considering throwing yourself off the bus. Or in front of it."

  Mary glanced at their tour guide Neil, who was trying to lead the bus in a sing-along. Reaching for a bottle of ibuprofen, she nodded. "Always a possibility."

  Harriet beamed and opened her tote bag, revealing several bottles of alcohol from the last hotel's mini-bar. "Here. Choose your poison." For herself, the older woman selected a bottle of whiskey.

  Mary doubted if they were supposed to drink while on the tour, but Neil's perky singing was enough to drive anyone to overindulge. She reached for a bottle of Amaretto. "Sláinte."

  The two tiny bottles clinked together, and Harriet offered a toast. "May the wind at your back always be your own."

  Mary choked, coughing at Harriet's remark. The alcohol burned her throat, and she took another swig. It was beginning to mellow her out. "Sorry."

  "Did you make a wish, then?" Harriet asked.

  "No. Should I?" Wishes were for birthday candles and shooting stars. Not for contraband bottles of mini-bar alcohol.

  "Of course. Ireland is a land of magic. You never know when your fondest dream will come true."

  Mary was about to add a sarcastic remark, when she suddenly glanced at Harriet's face. The stubborn glint in the older woman's eye suggested that she wasn’t going to let this one go. "Don't scoff. You can't say you don't believe in something, just because you've never seen it. Even scientists know there are some things which can't be explained."

  True enough. "It doesn't mean I expect to see leprechauns hiding in the break room."

  "The bastards are more likely to be raiding the Coke machines," Harriet retorted. She took another sip of her whiskey. "I'm speaking of the fairies. You've heard of the Irish superstitions, haven't you?"

  "A little." She'd heard tales of babies snatched at birth, changeling tales. Myths of selkies and other fey creatures. "I know you're not supposed to offend them."

  The old woman's expression turned darker. "No. You're not." She stared out the window at the road, which had grown narrower. Hedges lined the left side of the road, and below it, the sea roiled with gray waves and white foam. Harriet rested her chin on her palm, eyeing the wild landscape. Gorse and heather bloomed on the sides of the cliffs while sheep grazed in the grass.

  When they reached a series of stone huts on the side of the mountain, the tour bus rolled to a stop. Mary wasn't exactly in the mood to view prehistoric beehive huts, but perhaps the sea air would clear her head.

  Harriet stopped her before they got off the bus. "I'll tell you this, Mary Samson. Make a wish, when the time is right. It might come true."

  Not wanting to offend her seatmate, Mary nodded. "All right." She didn't know what Harriet was talking about, but if it made the woman feel good to give advice, there wasn't any harm in smiling and going along with it.

  The gray skies rolled a fog off the sea, cloaking the Dingle Peninsula in a low mist. It was cooler outside, and Mary buttoned up the pullover sweater she'd bought at the last tour stop. As she trudged up the path, following the guide, Harriet's words came back. Make a wish, when the time is right.

  Some people would wish for a winning lottery ticket. Maybe a house in Bermuda or a job promotion.

  I want a family, she thought. Her parents had been dead for ten years, and there was no one left. No aunts, no uncles. Not even a grandmother. It was loneliness that had made her register for an online dating service. And though her gut had warned her that Garrett wasn't Mr. Right, she'd hoped he could be Mr. Almost-Right. She had been willing to settle, to mold herself into the woman he wanted. And how pitiful was that?

  Stepping into the grass, she sat upon a large limestone boulder, watching the sea from her vantage point. The tour group continued on without her, and she rested her hands on the rock, letting her thoughts drift. At her feet, the grass swayed with the gusts of wind. She realized her shoes were squarely in the middle of a circle of mushrooms. A fairy circle, so the legend went.

  Funny. Perhaps that was what Harriet had meant. All right, she was game for anything. Superstitions didn't mean a thing, but why not make that wish?

  I wish someone would love the woman I am. Not the woman he wants me to be. And I want to have a family.

  She looked up and saw the old woman rushing towards her. "No!" Harriet cried out. "What have you done?"

  Mary frowned, not understanding. It was just a circle of mushrooms. A common gardening problem, nothing more. But her heart began to quicken with an unnamed fear. "What is it?"

  The old woman reached her side. "Get out. Get out, before it's too late."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. It's just—"

  A blinding migraine seemed to strike out of nowhere. A pulsing, swollen pressure that pressed against her brain.

  "Those who step into an empty fairy ring, die at a young age," Harriet breathed. "It's forbidden, didn't you know that?"

  "Don't be ridiculous." Mary tried to stand up, but a wave of dizziness seemed to pull her down. "It's just a bunch of mushrooms." Probably the Amaretto, coming back to haunt her.

  Harriet grabbed her hand and pressed something soft into it. "Take this. And whatever you do, don't let go."

  It was a piece of brown bread, left over from breakfast. What on earth?

  "It's an offering. It might pacify the fey."

  A strange music seemed to emanate from the ground, the faint sounds of harp strings. "Do you hear that?" Mary leaned forward, trying to make sense of it.

  Harriet was mumbling under her breath, her hands working upon a strand of rosary beads. Prayers. Mary wanted to smile and tell her not to be so superstitious. It was going to be okay.

  Before she could speak, her knees buckled beneath her. She stumbled onto her hands and knees inside the circle. Grass tickled her face, and pressure rose up inside her skull to an unbearable pitch. She gripped her head, but the agony kept building and rising.

  A small pop, and she was ripped free of her body, her spirit hovering above the fairy circle.

  Some wish, Mary grumbled. She wasn't supposed to die, for God's sakes. That was her last thought before her spirit was torn through the fairy circle and across to the other side.

  * * *

  Mary opened her eyes and saw a tiny man, about the length of her forearm, staring at her with an appreciative smirk. He wore clothes that blended into the surrounding grasses, and a circle of ancient standing stones rested behind him. The man propped his elbow against one of the stones. A leprechaun? No, she had to be dreaming.

  "You're a fetching one, aren't you?" he remarked. "He's going to like you."

  Mary wasn't sure what the man was talking about, but when she glanced down, she saw that she was completely naked. "Oh, my God." She rolled onto her chest and looked around frantically for her clothes.

  "They're not there. You can't exactly bring clothes with you, once you're dead. Or, partly dead, in your case."

  "Partly dead?" She scrambled around for some vegetation but only came up with a dandelion or two. And she could just imagine what it would look like to have flowers plastered across her bum.

  "Indeed." The man nodded toward the ring of mushrooms, which was nearby. "You made a wish, before you were taken. That's what saved you."

  "Somehow, I'm pretty sure that I'm asleep on the tour bus, and I'm going to
wake up." Mary glared at the man. "You're probably going to tell me you're a leprechaun and you're looking for your Lucky Charms."

  He shrugged. "Not a leprechaun. My name is Kevan, and I am one of the Daoine Sídhe."

  The Deena She? Who? Play along, Mary. You're dreaming anyway. What's the harm?

  "You wished for someone to love you and for a family." Kevan rubbed his beard, staring at her. "A powerful wish, love is. And, it holds the power to save you. You have three days to fall in love and make him love you in return."

  "What do you mean him?"

  "The man you wished for. He'll be arriving soon. And when the sun rises on the third day, you'll either get your wish. . . "

  "Or?"

  "Or you'll die, Mary Samson. And this time, it's forever."

  Chapter Two

  Ireland, 1173

  Cian MacCorban was a man who trusted his instincts. Though some would accuse him of being ruled by his dreams, he knew differently. They weren't dreams; they were realities yet to happen. Too often, the visions came upon him without warning. And every last one had come true.

  Even the deaths.

  That was the cursed part of the Sight. He saw friends, family members, knowing how they would die. But not when. Never that. Instead, he lived with the torment, praying that somehow he could stop Death before it was too late. He'd never succeeded.

  His people feared him, and most had abandoned him. His ring fort was falling apart, and he no longer cared. What did it matter, when he was nearly the only one left?

  Cian mounted his horse, preparing to ride out. He let the horse lead, opening his mind to the vision he'd seen again last night. A woman's face, her honey-blond hair cut short to her shoulders. Intelligent gray eyes and an uncertain smile. For so many years, he'd hoped this vision would come true: the woman who was meant for him.

  He'd seen the morning sun rising through the circle of standing stones. One day, she would be there. For ten years, he'd ridden out to the circle, hoping to find her. But when he glanced behind him, he sensed that even she would not want a man like him. A man cursed with visions of death.

  * * *

  It was easier to be naked in public if you had a tiny waist and a perfectly toned body. Mary had neither of these, and it was her own fault for avoiding the gym. Kevan, the man of the Daoine Sídhe, had vanished some time ago, and she was left trying to decide what to do. She couldn't exactly make clothes out of the grass, and there weren't any large leaves lying around either.

  Before long, she heard hoof beats approaching. Mary dived behind one of the standing stones, trying to hide what she could of her body. A man was on horseback, likely a historical reenactor, given his simple clothing and the blue cloak fastened with an iron brooch. His blond hair was unkempt, hanging across his shoulders. His dark blue eyes were tired, like a man who hadn't slept in years. Though he was tall and handsome, it was the bleakness that held her attention.

  When he started to walk towards her, she held out her hand. "Wait! Don't come any closer. I don't have any . . . that is, I'm not wearing—oh, damn it, just stay where you are."

  He startled, as though he were trying to puzzle out her words. "You're real. Not a dream."

  She wasn't sure what to say to that. Instead, she pleaded, "I'm in a bit of trouble here. Could you please throw me your cloak?"

  Without questioning her, he unfastened his cloak and threw it. It fell slightly short, but Mary eased it towards herself with one foot. Only when she'd covered herself from neck to ankle, did she step out from behind the standing stone.

  "Thank you," she said. "I wish I had an explanation for why I'm not wearing any clothes, but the truth is, I'm not sure how I got here. Am I still in Ireland?"

  He nodded. "May I come closer to speak with you?"

  "I—um—yes, sure. Oh, and I promise I'll give you back this cloak as soon as I can. I suppose you'll need it for the reenactment."

  His blue eyes narrowed. "The what?"

  She stared at him. Utter confusion appeared on his face, as if he didn't know what a reenactment was. Don't panic, don't panic. He's just staying in character.

  "I'll give it back to you later," Mary said. "In the meantime, maybe you could help me find my tour group?"

  He shook his head slowly, frowning at her words. "There is no one here. But if you're needing food and shelter, I can give you that. Perhaps there might be a gown you could borrow."

  A gown? She gripped the edges of the cloak together, staring at him. A long sword hung at his belt, and the words of Kevan suddenly came back to her. The man you wished for. He'll be arriving soon.

  Was this the man she was supposed to encounter? The one who had to love her before the third day, or she would die?

  This can't be happening. It has to be a dream. But no amount of pinching was enough to wake her up.

  Her precarious grip upon reality was slipping, but Mary couldn't let herself imagine the alternative.

  "I appreciate your help." She walked alongside him toward his horse. "I'm Mary Samson. And you?"

  "I am Cian MacCorban, chief of the MacCorban clan. Or what's left of them." The edge in his voice held an emptiness, as if his clan had met a terrible fate. Cian reached out to lift her onto his horse. When he swung up behind her, she was startled at his body warmth. The wool that encased his strong legs did nothing to hide the firm muscles.

  His arms came around her waist to grip the reins, and Mary felt self-conscious at his inadvertent touch. Though she'd wrapped the cloak around her, beneath it, she was completely naked. Vulnerable.

  As he urged the horse forward, the motion sent her into his arms. The scent of grass and the outdoors clung to his skin, and she grew aware of his body heat. Almost against her will, she was falling beneath the spell of this fantasy. She half-imagined what it would be like if he kissed her. There was something untamed about him, like a man tormented with an unspeakable past. A man who needed to forget . . .

  It had to be a dream. She'd had vivid dreams before. Surely this was one of them. But the sensation of riding a horse and feeling a man's arms around her seemed all too real. If she was dreaming, then there was no harm in it. And if she wasn't dreaming, then she was already half-dead to begin with, and it didn't matter.

  "Are you the man I was supposed to meet?" she blurted out. "The one waiting for me?" Great, Mary. That made a lot of sense. He won't think you're crazy now.

  Instead, his grip tightened around her waist. "I've seen you in my visions for over twenty years, Mary Samson. I've dreamed about you every night, wondering when you would finally be here."

  "Oh." She couldn't think of what else to say. It should have felt creepy, like he was a stalker. But he'd spoken the words matter-of-factly, as if he had nothing to hide. He drew his horse to a stop, his arms still resting around her waist.

  "I know what that must sound like to you. And I'm sorry if it troubles you."

  Before she could decide what to say, he continued. "As I said before, I'll grant you food and shelter this night, as well as my protection. You've nothing to fear from me." He lowered his hands to his side. "Or if you'd rather I let you go back, you may do as it pleases you."

  Both of them knew that she couldn't go off on her own. Without shelter, she was exposed to the elements and any other dangers. He'd made the offer to make her feel safe.

  "I'll stay with you," she said quietly. Cian nudged the horse forward, keeping it at a slow walk.

  You have three days to fall in love.

  Kevan's words haunted her, sinking deeply into her consciousness. She didn't know how to fall in love. With Garrett, she'd tried so hard to please him that she'd lost herself along the way. She didn't know what she wanted in a man.

  Was it possible that Cian was the man she was meant to be with? She didn't believe in Fate. But the idea that someone could have dreamed of her for over twenty years . . . that he was waiting for her . . . well, she should give him a chance, shouldn’t she?

  It won't work, her common sense reminded her. If she'd learned anything from her relationship with Garrett, it was that love couldn't be forced. It either happened, or it didn't.

  She rode in front of Cian for nearly half an hour before she saw a ruined fortress ahead. Built upon a small crannog, the ring fort probably housed ten to fifteen people. But as they rode across the bridge and through the gate, her suspicions sharpened. The place was falling apart, with hardly anyone to take care of it. Rotting hides and animal manure gave the place an indescribable odor, one that wasn't at all welcoming. She saw only four other men, and they were all staring at her.