As it was, she saw that his fascination with her was no more than lust. She would be a conquest, a mistress, a frippery to be tossed aside when he became bored with her charms.

Rosamunde had never been so little and had no desire to be as much now.

Indeed, his interest reminded her of Tynan’s supposed love, and she would spurn it as she had failed to spurn it previously. If nothing else, Rosamunde would learn from her error.

Then there was the matter of Finvarra’s wife, Una, who had retreated to the far side of the hall. Una, no small beauty herself, had gathered her ladies about her and they clustered there, whispering and pointing.

Finvarra ignored his wife so deliberately that Rosamunde guessed she was but a pawn in some ongoing match between King and wife.

It was far less than what she wanted of her life.

She had tried to escape, without success. These maidens purportedly assigned to ensure her pleasure were also charged with keeping her captive. Their hearing was sharp, their sight sharper, their vigil complete.

Rosamunde folded her arms across her chest, smiled thinly and refused to participate in the festivities. If Finvarra’s interest waned, perhaps she would be cast out of the realm sooner.

It seemed an unlikely prospect, given the gleam in his eye when he glanced her way, but Rosamunde had precious few options.

She disliked this role of a woman pampered. She disliked having no choice over her direction, having no ability to shape her own fate. It was utterly at odds with the way she had led her life, and Rosamunde fairly itched to return to what she knew.

First, somehow, she had to escape this court.

The music was intoxicating, so loud and sweet and melodious. The fey danced with a vigour that was astounding, seeming never to tire. The bounty of food on display was enticing, all manner of sweets and confections offered for the pleasure of the company. The mead smelled wonderful indeed, but Rosamunde feared the loss of her wits should she drink it. She simply stood and watched, and the hours drew long.

It was hours later when the faeries began a vivacious dance. It was clear that Rosamunde’s maidens were captivated by the music, their eyes dancing and their toes tapping. Rosamunde encouraged them, one after the other, to take the floor, until finally she felt unobserved.

It would not last, but she would savour the interval.

No sooner was she alone than a man’s hands closed over her shoulders. He stood close behind her, whoever he was, his breath in her hair and his chest at her back. Rosamunde jumped, then felt her eyes widen at a familiar murmur.

«At your back, as always,» Padraig said. The feel of his breath on her neck made her tingle. «Say nothing, but listen.»

Rosamunde felt her heart skip and feared her maidens would hear its tumult. She tried to quiet her response, but she felt the strength of Padraig’s fingers on her shoulders, the warmth of him against her back. She glanced down but could not see his hands.

«An enchantment,» he murmured and she heard the familiar humour touch his tone. «I know not how long ’twill last.»

Rosamunde’s mouth went dry. She didn’t doubt that Padraig would be at risk if they realized there was an intruder in their midst. She scanned the hall, endeavouring to be casual in the survey, and realized that none could see Padraig. None even guessed his presence.

Then Rosamunde felt Una’s gaze land upon her and saw the woman smile slightly.

Could Una see him?

Or was she simply gladdened that Rosamunde did not enjoy the celebrations?

«I do not know how much you know,» Padraig said in quick whisper. «You are in the sid of the High King of the Faeries, Finvarra, and he means to make you his mistress.»

Rosamunde nodded ever so slightly.

«Choose, Rosamunde, choose whether you would remain in this place or whether you would have me aid your escape.» Padraig’s voice dropped low and his grip tightened slightly. «I am not without my own expectation, you should be warned. I should have confessed my love for you years ago. I would love you. I would be with you. I would endeavour to make you happy.»

Indeed, the man could not fail at that task. Rosamunde closed her eyes, overcome with joy at his words.

«My right hand if you would stay here,» he murmured. «My left, if you would be mine.»

Without hesitation, Rosamunde raised her hand, as if to straighten her hair, and brushed her fingertips across Padraig’s left hand. She felt him catch his breath.

Una’s smile broadened, turning smug, then she plucked a sweet from a proffered tray. The Faerie Queen’s eyes gleamed and Rosamunde feared her deception.

«Eat nothing,» Padraig warned. «Drink nothing. If you consume so much as one morsel, you will be captive here forever.»

Rosamunde touched his fingertips to indicate her understanding. She was fiercely glad that she had not taken a bite since her arrival.

«Tomorrow night, the fey will ride out in procession for Beltane. You must go with the company. You must ride as close to the perimeter of the group as you can. I will come for you.»

Rosamunde felt the burn of his lips against her nape. She did not doubt that Padraig would face a challenge in gaining her freedom. She closed her eyes, wanting to turn into his embrace, her chest tight with the gift of his presence.

Then Padraig was gone, like a shadow swallowed by the night.

And there was only the glitter of Una’s knowing gaze locked upon her.

What treachery had the Faerie Queen planned?

And so the pair did plot their scheme;

So did they plan to keep their dream.

But the ring’s charm did not hide all:

Una saw the mortal in her hall.

The Faerie Queen had no good intent;

Loyalty to her spouse had been spent.

None could have joy while she did not;

And so Una schemed her own plot.

Padraig might capture his love lost,

But Una ensured too high a cost.

It was Beltane, and Padraig was enough of his mother’s son to know that anything was possible on this night of nights.

On this night and on Samhain, the fey were at their most potent.

He made his preparations, fully aware of that.

He bought the horse that he had borrowed and the ostler was pleased to be rid of the beast, given that it had gone missing the night before. Padraig got the steed for a better price than he might have otherwise. He prepared it with care, ensuring that there was no iron in its harness, less the fey realize it was not one of theirs.

It was a fine stallion, a high-stepping black horse with a proud gait. Its mane was long and dark, its eyes lit with a fire that made Padraig wonder whether it knew more of the fey than he. It was said that the faeries bred the best horses, and there was majesty in this one’s lineage.

It had not even shied at the sid, but waited calmly for him at the hawthorn tree.

He declared his intent to sail with the morning tide, had his ship provisioned for the journey, and kissed his sister goodbye. He cleared space in the hold to create a stable for the horse, for he had no inclination to leave it behind.

He paid his debts and tried to sleep, that he might be at his best when night fell.

When the darkness slipped over the land, when the Beltane fires were lit in the hills, Padraig walked his horse to the old Norman gate. His heart in his mouth, he mounted and rode out into the night, slipping the ring on to his finger when he left the road.

His steed was proud, as black as night

He donned the ring, was lost to sight.

The steed ran on, proud and bold,

His hooves thundered on the road.

The lover knew he faced his test;

Without his lady, he’d know no rest.

Lit by the fires on ev’ry hill,

The heat of his ardour knew no chill.

Padraig rode for his lady heart,

Would the fey queen keep them apart?

Padraig reached the stone circle, but found only silence within it. The wind was still, the ground dark. He feared he had come too late, that the host had already ridden out — or that perhaps they had guessed his intent and chosen to forgo tradition to keep the prize of Rosamunde.

There was much he would forgo to keep her by his side.

Then the wind rustled in the branches of the hawthorn that grew to one side of the stone circle. His stallion snorted and tossed his head, then Padraig heard the clarion call of a distant trumpet.

The single note was clear, as clear as a mountain stream, as lovely as a summer morning. The sound melted his heart, dissolved his inhibitions, filled his veins with starlight and resolve.

The earth in the middle of the mound cracked; it gaped wide. A portal opened in the ground, one wide enough for four horses to ride abreast. Padraig glimpsed the hall beneath that he had visited the night before and his grip tightened on the reins.

Golden light spilled from the hidden court into the night’s darkness and the Faerie host rode forth. Music accompanied them, the tinkle of ten thousand silver bells mounted on a thousand harnesses. Their steeds pranced with pride, confident of their splendour and beauty. The Beltane fires on the adjacent hills burned higher as if in tribute, their flames stretching to the stars.

And the fey laughed.

Padraig stared in awe at their magnificent display.

Then lo, he saw the Faerie host,