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Synopsis
What happens when an Irish god finds himself smitten by a beautiful mortal woman? When the Celtic gods dream of romance trouble abounds! Visit an Irish king tempted by the poetry of a sensuous wraith who blends the mythological and the historical so seamlessly he finds himself transported to a myth-laden Ireland of beasts and warriors-and entirely at her mercy.
A forbidden love cursed by the saints causes two young lovers to magically shape-shift to freedom in an underground fairy Otherworld with disastrous results. A Celtic hero sets out on a treacherous sea journey to claim a dream woman. The rekindled ashes of an ancient desire between a fierce clansman and his lady find new light with a pair of young, secret lovers.
The volume contains stories by: Jenna Maclaine, Jennifer Ashley, Roberta Gellis, Claire Delacroix, Sue-Ellen Welfonder, Cindy Miles, Ciar Cullen, Helen Scott Taylor, Shirley Kennedy, Margo Maguire, Susan Krinard, Pat McDermott, Nadia Williams, Dara England, Kathleen Givens, Sandra Newgent, Cindy Holby, Cat Adams, Penelope Neri, Patricia Rice.
Release date: January 28, 2010
Publisher: Robinson
Print pages: 578
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The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance
Trisha Telep
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“The Blue Pebble” © by Shirley Kennedy. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Ballad of Rosamunde” © by Claire Delacroix, Inc. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Oracle” © by Margo Maguire. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Trials of Bryan Murphy” © by C.T. Adams and Cathy Clamp. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Nia and the Beast of Killarney Wood” © by Cindy Miles. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Beyond the Veil” © by Rice Enterprises. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Shifter Made” © by Jennifer Ashley. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Daughter of the Sea” © by Kathleen Givens. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Warrior” © by Jenna Maclaine. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Eternal Strife” © by Dara England. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Quicksilver” © by Cindy Holby. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Feast of Beauty” © by Helen Scott Taylor. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Compeer” © by Roberta Gellis. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“On Inishmore” © by Ciar Cullen. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Morrígan’s Daughter” © by Susan Krinard. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Tara’s Find” © by Nadia Williams. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Skrying Glass” © by Penelope Neri. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Houndmaster” © by Sandra L. Patrick. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Seventh Sister” © by Sue-Ellen Welfonder. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“By the Light of My Heart” © by Patricia Shagoury. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
Ireland is a land of romance. Pure and simple. And you don’t have to be an expert in Irish lore to appreciate the fantastic opportunities that Ireland offers romance
writers: its tumultuous, battle-rife history of clans, territories and kingdoms; its pantheon of heroes, goddesses, saints and magic to rival Rome’s, and its legends of the most fantastical
beasts and magical creatures ever recorded. You don’t need, either, to know everything about the Tuatha Dé Danann to appreciate these ancient gods of eire with their
beauty, immense strength, and immortality. Irish legend and mythology are full of the ultimate heroes and the most romantic of stories. It is to a great extent in these Celtic cycles, tales and
myths that romances – full of heroes, chivalry, courtly love and adventure – were originally born. No wonder popular writers from Tolkein to J.K. Rowling to George Lucas have been
seized and inspired by the history of Ireland.
Because Ireland’s history was an oral history until it was recorded by Christian monks in the Middle Ages, you can clearly see where problems might have arisen with an accurate portrayal
of Ireland’s wild pagan past! The ancient tribal Ireland of druids and high kings, therefore, is always ripe for reinterpretation. This is why such tales and folklore are constantly rewoven
and rewritten; they are always a work in progress, a vibrant recollection of the past, still vital and alive today. It’s also why you’ll find many different interpretations, many
different names and dispositions for similar characters.
Here are stories that weave a fiction from existing legend, stories that explore existing myth in greater depth, and yet more stories that stray from established lore entirely with a healthy
dose of poetic licence, using Ireland’s constellation of magical creatures in new, exciting ways. And then, of course, here are stories that are simply pure, unabashed, unashamed romance.
And the faery folk seem to have their fingers in most of the trouble and adventure that occurs. Love affairs between mortals and the faery host are put to the test, while the High King of the
Daoine Sidhe, Finvarra’s insatiable appetite for mortal women is legendary. Fairy interference – er, help – in mortal life in general is definitely a recurring theme in
this collection. But you’ll also be confronted with remnants of Ireland’s Viking past, its legendary warriors, battles fought and won, and the mysterious sea god Lir and his
mermaids.
Jenna Maclaine brings Morrigan, the goddess of war, and legendary warrior, Cuchulainn to life as erotic, constantly battling, immortals. And as always we have a few stories that reach out to the
wider world of an author’s current series (see, for instance, Margo Maguire’s world of the Druzai). I am also proud to announce the brilliant debut of a brand-new series with a story
from Jennifer Ashley presenting her exciting Shifters!
A tumult of styles and themes then, this is a refresher course in Irish history, with a nod to the behemoth that is paranormal romance. Here are some writers with the power to really take you on
a ride through a Celtic mythological past, who can definitely hold their own amongst all the vampires, werewolves, shape-shifters and ghosts populating the bestseller lists today.
So why not allow these Irish paranormals – these gancanaghs (ethereal lovers who seduce young women then disappear), alp-luachras (evil, greedy fairies) and Irish High Kings
of lore – a little room of their own? Let these writers take you into the lush, romantic, and above all magical heart of an Ireland that is, was and might-have-been.
Trisha Telep
Shirley Kennedy
England – 1814
Passengers on the Royal Mail coach to London were surprised when the coach came to a jangling stop on the road not far from the town of Shrewsbury. No houses around. Only a
winding driveway could be seen leading up through a heavy growth of trees to an immense Tudor-style mansion that nestled atop a low hill.
“This here’s Chatfield Court, miss,” the coachman shouted. “I’ll toss your luggage down.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
While the pretty young woman in her twenties climbed from the coach, the other passengers looked at each other askance. Surely the girl should not have to carry that large portmanteau up the
hill by herself. One of the gentlemen passengers stuck his head out the window and called up, “I say, coachman, can’t you take her up the driveway to the entrance? We don’t mind
the extra time.”
“Can’t do it, sir. Against the rules.”
“That’s quite all right,” the young woman assured him in a rich Irish brogue. She squared her shoulders. “This isn’t the first heavy load I’ve carried in my
life. I’ll be fine.” She picked up the battered portmanteau, smiled, waved a quick goodbye and started trudging up the hill.
The coach started up again, the remaining passengers making clicking noises and shaking their heads. That they were concerned about a passenger they’d known only hours was surprising. She
had not uttered more than a few pleasantries, only briefly mentioning she’d been a schoolteacher in Ireland, as had her mother who had recently passed away. Mostly she sat silently gazing out
the window; yet despite the paucity of her words, they all recognized an agreeable quality about her and wished her well.
“I liked that girl,” one gentlemen said. “Don’t know exactly why, but she had a certain . . . I guess you could say, serenity about her.”
“More than that. It was like a special aura that surrounded her,” one of the ladies chimed in. “It was almost as if I felt calmer in her presence.”
“She had a magical quality,” said another.
The gentleman laughed. “Magic? Well, I don’t know as I’d go that far.”
The lady nodded emphatically. “Magic. I felt it. I don’t know what it was, but that girl had a special gift which we all felt, and don’t you tell me otherwise.”
Halfway up the driveway, Evleen O’Fallon had to stop and catch her breath. The heat of the summer day, plus the weight of the heavy portmanteau had done her in. As she
rested and wiped her brow, she looked up the hill towards the dark stone mansion called Chatfield Court.
“I’m sure you will like it,” her mother had said on her deathbed. “Lord Beaumont assured me you would.”
Mother’s gone. A tear rolled down Evleen’s cheek. I miss her so. What will I do without her?
At the end, even through her suffering, Mama had thought of Evleen. “All your brothers and sisters have a place to stay, except you. As you know, I have sold the cottage,
so you cannot stay here.” She clutched a letter in her fingers, one she had received only the day before. “Some time ago, when I knew I would never leave this bed, I wrote to Lord
Beaumont in England.”
“But why?” Evleen was astounded.
“You are aware that Lord Beaumont’s late wife was a cousin of ours. So I wrote and asked if he would take you in.” She’d handed the letter to Evleen. “Here is his
reply. Read for yourself.”
With reluctant fingers, Evleen took the letter and began to read.
My Dear Cousin,
I am sorry for your illness and trust you will soon regain your health. In the sad event you do not, rest assured I shall be happy to give a home to your oldest daughter, Evleen. If
she’s as gifted as you say, perhaps she can help with the education of my son, Peter, who is seven. Since his mother passed away, he’s been quite precocious and needs a firm
hand.
I look forward to meeting Evleen. Rest assured, she will be treated not as a servant but one of the family.
Beaumont
When she finished, Evleen let the letter fall to her lap in dismay. “Leave Ireland? Never! How can I go and live with strange people in a strange land?”
“You will because you must,” Mama answered firmly. “But one warning I must give you.”
“And what is that?” Evleen asked, still numb with shock.
“You must never use the blue pebble in England. In fact, it would be best if you threw it away.”
Evleen touched a small, bright blue pebble, strung by a leather thong around her neck. “But why?”
Mama looked deep into her eyes. “Because the English would never believe a poor girl from Ireland is possessed with magical powers. They would laugh at you – make your life a misery
if you even suggested such a thing.”
“All right, I promise,” Evleen readily agreed. “I suspect the pebble would be useless in England anyway. I certainly don’t expect Merlin to follow me.”
“You had best throw it in the creek right now.”
Somehow the thought of throwing the pebble away did not appeal to her. “Perhaps I shall take it along – just as a kind of souvenir.”
“Suit yourself.” Mama reached for her hand and clasped it tight. “Whatever happens, always hold your head high. You must never forget you are an Irish princess, that your
father was Ian O’Fallon, son of the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendant of one of Ireland’s ancient kings who reigned over one of the earliest Celtic kingdoms.”
“I shall never forget, Mama.”
And she wouldn’t. Now, with a determined nod, Evleen picked up the portmanteau and resumed her trek up the driveway. No, she would never forget, but what good would being
an Irish princess do her here in this strange land? Ah well, no matter. Only the future counted now.
I shall be brave. I shall make Mama proud.
“So, Miss O’Fallon, you are from Ireland?”
Seated on a silk upholstered sofa in the grand salon of Chatfield Court, Evleen hid her disappointment. Lord Beaumont had not been there to greet her, although he was expected back from London
at any moment. She gazed into the cold grey eyes of Lady Beaumont, Lord Beaumont’s mother. “Indeed I am from Ireland. County Tipperary to be exact. I lived there all my life.”
Lady Beaumont, a stout woman with a large face and snow-white hair, cast an amused glance at the two other occupants of the room: Lydia, her daughter, and a giddy young woman named Bettina, soon
to become her daughter-in-law. “Fancy that! I don’t know much about Ireland although I understand they are all quite poor.”
“Don’t they raise sheep and live mainly in hovels?” asked Lydia, a plain young woman in her twenties who appeared to wear a permanent sneer on her lips.
Of the two young women, Bettina, a slender girl of twenty or so, was the prettiest, with creamy white skin and a circle of bouncy blonde ringlets around her forehead. In a giggly voice she asked
Evleen, “Isn’t Ireland where the fairies live? And the elves and leprechauns?”
Yes, it is, Evleen thought, but wisely didn’t say. “Not all Irish are poor,” she evenly replied. “As for elves, fairies and leprechauns, I cannot say.”
She’d been invited to the grand salon for tea by these three ladies, who obviously seemed to think she had just arrived from the moon. She knew they were laughing at her. In fact, since
the moment she set foot into this huge room with its marble fireplace and plush furnishings, she’d felt acutely uncomfortable. It didn’t help that the outfit she wore – plain wool
skirt, wool jacket, simple brimmed hat and high top boots – was acceptable fashion for Ireland, but compared to the elaborate dresses these ladies wore, she might as well be dressed in a
gunny sack. And these were just their morning gowns! Already they’d discussed their afternoon gowns, strolling gowns, evening gowns and who-knew-what-else kinds of gowns. Evleen took a sip of
tea from her fine china cup, gripping the fragile handle uncomfortably. So different from home, where she drank her tea from a chipped mug and stirred it with a tin spoon.
Lydia was speaking. “So what did you do in Ireland? Is there a ton? Do you have seasons?”
“I taught school until my mother took ill,” Evleen earnestly replied. “This past year I stayed home to take care of her. And yes, we have seasons – winter, spring, summer
and autumn, just as you have here.”
For some reason, her reply set up gales of laughter from all three women. “Lydia doesn’t mean that kind of season,” Lady Beaumont explained in a lofty tone. “She means a
social season, such as when we go down to London for the parties and balls.”
“Oh, I see.” Evleen could not prevent the blush she felt spreading up her neck and over her cheeks. Such a gaffe she’d made! And she hadn’t been here an hour yet. She
would never fit in with these people, nor them with her. I want to go home.
The door opened. A tall, powerfully built man in his early thirties entered, followed by a slender, fair-haired boy of seven or so. “Hello, everyone,” he said in a deep commanding
voice. He caught sight of Evleen. “I see our cousin from Ireland has arrived.”
Evleen hadn’t known what she’d expected, but certainly not this devilishly handsome man who stood before her. What gorgeous blue eyes! What a beautiful head of hair, dark, with a
slight wave and an unruly lock falling over his forehead. She arose and dipped an unsteady curtsy, hoping she didn’t look too much like a country bumpkin. “I am pleased to meet you,
Lord Beaumont.”
Beaumont bowed in return. “Delighted to meet you, Miss O’Fallon. Welcome to England.” He placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Peter.
He’s without a governess right now and I was hoping you might see to his education, at least temporarily. Not as a governess, you understand. I consider you one of the family.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir. I’ll be happy to help any way I can.”
“Very good then,” Beaumont answered. Evleen noted he had yet to smile. She caught an air of unhappiness about him, a certain remoteness. Perhaps he was still grieving over the death
of his first wife, Millicent. But still, she noted, he wasn’t grieving so much that he wasn’t planning to marry again.
Bettina arose from her chair and went to greet him, thrusting her arm possessively through his. “Richard, darling, so lovely to have you back.” She cast a quick, unfriendly glance at
Evleen, as if she resented his wasting even one moment of time on his poor cousin-by-marriage from Ireland. “Your dear mother and sister have been helping with our wedding plans.”
“How very nice,” Beaumont answered absent-mindedly. Evleen caught a certain indifference in his voice. He ignored Bettina and continued, “We must get you settled in, Miss
O’Fallon. There’s a bedchamber on the third floor next to my sister’s. I thought it might please you.”
Lady Beaumont uttered an audible gasp. “Are you sure, Richard? I had thought—”
“Thought what, Mama?”
“A room on the fourth floor would be much more suitable.” Lady Beaumont’s lips had pursed into a tight, disapproving line.
“The servants’ floor? I think not,” Beaumont answered firmly. “Evleen is Millicent’s cousin’s child. As such, she’s a member of the family and will be
treated accordingly.”
“But of course,” his mother answered with ill-concealed irritation. She cast stone-cold eyes at Evleen. “We’re so happy to have you, Miss O’Fallon. I trust
you’ll be happy here. Dinner is at eight.”
Evleen nodded a thank you and sent a small smile in return. Except for Lord Beaumont himself, she felt as welcome as the plague.
What a beautiful room, Evleen thought when she stepped into her bedchamber. Never had she seen such luxury. With its fine furnishings and lovely view of the rear gardens it was
a far cry from the tiny room off the kitchen she had shared with two sisters. Ordinarily, she’d be thrilled, but the chilly reception she’d received in the drawing room made for a heavy
heart. She sank to a chair by the window and gazed at the sculptured gardens that lay behind Chatfield Court. Ah, what wouldn’t she give to be home right now! She closed her eyes and pictured
her family’s cottage. Built of stone, with lime-washed walls, it nestled in one of County Tipperary’s lush green valleys. The forested slopes of the Galtees, Ireland’s highest
mountain range, lay not far beyond.
Next to the cottage were the scattered ruins of Tualetha, an ancient monastery, spread over several acres. As a child, Evleen often visited the ruins. She and her brothers and sisters liked to
play hide-and-seek amidst the crumbled remains of stone buildings and huge tombstones, decorated with faded Celtic carvings, which towered over their heads.
Adrift in her memories, Evleen reached to touch the blue pebble that still hung around her neck. Despite her mother’s advice, she could not bear to part with it, although now she always
hid it beneath her clothing and had vowed never to use it. As they had countless times before, her thoughts drifted to the day, when she was just eight years old, that she visited the ruins alone.
She had brought a book along and was sitting on a flat rock next to an ancient cairn when the persistent cawing of a bird caught her attention. Looking up from her book, she was surprised to see a
huge black raven sitting on the low branch of an oak tree. It seemed to be staring at her. Suddenly the bird spread its wings and flew away. As it did so, a small black feather fell from its wing
to the ground.
Evleen shut her book, slid off the rock, and went to retrieve the feather. As she bent to pick it up, she saw it had fallen next to a curious looking pebble of bright azure blue. How odd. Never
had she seen a pebble of such a colour. While she examined it, she heard the cawing of the raven again. It had flown a short distance away and was now perched on another tree limb, staring at her
and flapping its wings. Did it want her to follow him? It would certainly seem so.
Holding the feather and the pebble, Evleen followed the raven to where it sat in the tree. Just as she arrived, it again flew away, heading towards the dense woods close by. When again the bird
alighted on a branch and stared at her, she knew for certain it wanted her to follow.
Her curiosity aroused, Evleen followed the raven on a path that led deep into the woods. The bird continued to lead, then stop to wait for her, until she realized she had gone into the woods
deeper than she ever had before. She felt no fear, though, and followed the path up the side of a gently sloping mountain to the entrance of a cave with a yawning mouth. Still unafraid, she entered
the cave. Finding herself in near-total darkness, she felt her way along the walls of a short, narrow chamber until she emerged into a room with smooth stone walls that shone like crystal. In the
centre of the room, an old man with a long white beard, wearing a white robe, stood behind a steaming cauldron. The room was lit, the light seeming to come from everywhere. Finally she realized it
emanated from the crystalline walls. At last a shiver of fear ran through her. She turned to run, but before she could, the old man spoke. “I have been waiting for you.”
Astounded, she asked, “Who are you?”
He ignored her and instead waved his hands over the cauldron and intoned, “I call today on the strength of Heaven, Light of the Sun, Radiance of the Moon, Splendour of Fire, Speed of
Lightning, Depth of the Sea.”
She stood frozen during his incantation. When he finished, he addressed her again. “I am Merlin the Magician. Surely you have heard of me, Evleen.”
“But how did you know my name?”
The old man smiled. “I have followed your progress since the day you were born.”
“But why?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“You are a direct descendant of Queen Maeve, who reigned as Queen of Ireland back in the days of the Druids. She was a warrior whom I admired tremendously. Maeve was one of the great
female figures of Ireland, a most splendid woman. Originally she was a goddess and only later became the queen of mortal men, although she always kept her magical powers.” Merlin sighed.
“I would tell you more, but you’re a little girl and can only understand so much. But it’s time you knew that you, too, have been endowed with magical powers.”
Evleen gasped in astonishment. “Me? I cannot believe it!”
“Rub the blue pebble and make a wish.”
She thought for a moment, searching her mind for something simple to request. Where had the raven gone? Rubbing the blue pebble, she said, “I wish to see the raven again.”
In a twinkling, Merlin vanished and the black raven appeared, sitting on a nearby perch glaring at her with its beady bright eyes. “It can’t be!” she cried in alarm.
In another instant, the bird had disappeared and Merlin stood before her again. “Over the years you will find I take many forms and shapes. The raven is only one.”
“Over the years?” she asked
“This is only the beginning. My child, it is time you became aware of your magic powers. You must learn to use them wisely.”
“But how will I always know what is wise?”
“I shall always be there to help.” In another instant, Merlin had disappeared again, replaced by the raven that, in a great show of cawing and flapping of its wings, left her
standing there and flew from the cave.
Evleen found her way from the cave and ran home. When she reached her cottage, she burst through the door, crying, “Mama, Mama, wait ’til you hear!” When she finished relating
her story about the raven, the cave and Merlin, her mother seemed not the least surprised.
“I have always known there was something special about you, Evleen. Now I know what it is. Bear in mind, you must always use your powers wisely.”
“Just what Merlin said.”
“Then you have been warned. You must never take your powers lightly.”
And Evleen never did. While she grew up, Merlin paid her many visits. Sometimes he taught her such things as the Druidic Symbols of Mastery, or a lesson from the Druid’s Book of the
Pherylit. Other times, he let her try out her magic powers. She used them judiciously, casting a spell to heal an animal that was sick, or for a lost item that was soon found.
Only once did Merlin refuse her request. When her mother lay dying, Evleen pleaded, “Please, can’t we heal her?”
In reply, Merlin drew a perfect circle on the ground before her. “Within the perfect symmetry of a circle is held the essential nature of the universe. Strive to learn from it . . . to
reflect that order.”
She understood immediately. She could not interrupt life’s cycle. Even Merlin’s magic had its limits.
Now, in her new bedchamber, Evleen put thoughts of home behind her, turning them instead to her pitiful wardrobe. How she wished she could use her magic powers to replace every shabby piece of
clothing she owned. Lady Beaumont had told her dinner was at eight. She must appear suitably dressed, but what could she wear? Nothing she had brought could begin to match the gorgeous gowns she
knew the ladies would be wearing.
Just then, a knock sounded on the door. Evleen opened it to find a middle-aged, prim-faced woman dressed in a maid’s uniform, with a white satin gown draped over one arm. In a French
accent, she announced, “I am Yvette, Lady Beaumont’s lady’s maid. Lord Beaumont sent me. He thought I could be of assistance in dressing you for dinner tonight.” She held up
the gown. “This was his wife’s, poor thing. She hardly wore it before the typhoid struck her down. You seem about the same size.”
Yvette proved to be a godsend and, when eight o’clock arrived, Evleen took one final, incredulous look at herself in the mirror. The high-waisted gown fitted perfectly over her slender
figure. But it was so low cut! Never in Ireland had so much of her bosom been exposed. “Think nothing of it, miss,” Yvette assured her. “You will find it is quite modest by
today’s standards.”
Evleen regarded her thick, dark auburn hair, which Yvette had piled atop her head in a becoming style with soft curls and fastened with a set of pearl combs. Pearl earrings dangled from her
ears, matched by a luminous pearl necklace. The result? Never in her life had Evleen looked so . . . so . . . the word was beautiful, but modesty prevented her from saying so, or even
thinking it to herself. Instead, she exclaimed,
The Mammoth Book of 20th Century Science Fiction
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The Mammoth Book of Best of Best New SF
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The Mammoth Book of Dirty, Sick, X-Rated & Politically Incorrect Jokes
The Mammoth Book of Egyptian Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Online Diaries
The Mammoth Book of Erotic Women
The Mammoth Book of Extreme Fantasy
The Mammoth Book of Funniest Cartoons of All Time
The Mammoth Book of Hard Men
The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Illustrated True Crime
The Mammoth Book of Inside the Elite Forces
The Mammoth Book of International Erotica
The Mammoth Book of Jack the Ripper
The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra
The Mammoth Book of Killers at Large
The Mammoth Book of King Arthur
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica
The Mammoth Book of Limericks
The Mammoth Book of Maneaters
The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories
The Mammoth Book of Modern Battles
The Mammoth Book of Monsters
The Mammoth Book of Mountain Disasters
The Mammoth Book of New Gay Erotica
The Mammoth Book of New Terror
The Mammoth Book of On the Edge
The Mammoth Book of On the Road
The Mammoth Book of Pirates
The Mammoth Book of Poker
The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance
The Mammoth Book of Prophecies
The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Sex, Drugs and Rock ’N’ Roll
The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels
The Mammoth Book of Sorcerers’ Tales
The Mammoth Book of The Beatles
The Mammoth Book of The Mafia
The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance
The Mammoth Book of True Crime
The Mammoth Book of True Hauntings
The Mammoth Book of True War Stories
The Mammoth Book of Unsolved Crimes
The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance
The Mammoth Book of Vintage Whodunnits
The Mammoth Book of Women Who Kill
The Mammoth Book of Zombie Comics
“The Blue Pebble” © by Shirley Kennedy. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Ballad of Rosamunde” © by Claire Delacroix, Inc. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Oracle” © by Margo Maguire. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Trials of Bryan Murphy” © by C.T. Adams and Cathy Clamp. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Nia and the Beast of Killarney Wood” © by Cindy Miles. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Beyond the Veil” © by Rice Enterprises. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Shifter Made” © by Jennifer Ashley. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Daughter of the Sea” © by Kathleen Givens. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Warrior” © by Jenna Maclaine. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Eternal Strife” © by Dara England. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Quicksilver” © by Cindy Holby. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Feast of Beauty” © by Helen Scott Taylor. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Compeer” © by Roberta Gellis. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“On Inishmore” © by Ciar Cullen. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Morrígan’s Daughter” © by Susan Krinard. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Tara’s Find” © by Nadia Williams. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Skrying Glass” © by Penelope Neri. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Houndmaster” © by Sandra L. Patrick. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Seventh Sister” © by Sue-Ellen Welfonder. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“By the Light of My Heart” © by Patricia Shagoury. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
Ireland is a land of romance. Pure and simple. And you don’t have to be an expert in Irish lore to appreciate the fantastic opportunities that Ireland offers romance
writers: its tumultuous, battle-rife history of clans, territories and kingdoms; its pantheon of heroes, goddesses, saints and magic to rival Rome’s, and its legends of the most fantastical
beasts and magical creatures ever recorded. You don’t need, either, to know everything about the Tuatha Dé Danann to appreciate these ancient gods of eire with their
beauty, immense strength, and immortality. Irish legend and mythology are full of the ultimate heroes and the most romantic of stories. It is to a great extent in these Celtic cycles, tales and
myths that romances – full of heroes, chivalry, courtly love and adventure – were originally born. No wonder popular writers from Tolkein to J.K. Rowling to George Lucas have been
seized and inspired by the history of Ireland.
Because Ireland’s history was an oral history until it was recorded by Christian monks in the Middle Ages, you can clearly see where problems might have arisen with an accurate portrayal
of Ireland’s wild pagan past! The ancient tribal Ireland of druids and high kings, therefore, is always ripe for reinterpretation. This is why such tales and folklore are constantly rewoven
and rewritten; they are always a work in progress, a vibrant recollection of the past, still vital and alive today. It’s also why you’ll find many different interpretations, many
different names and dispositions for similar characters.
Here are stories that weave a fiction from existing legend, stories that explore existing myth in greater depth, and yet more stories that stray from established lore entirely with a healthy
dose of poetic licence, using Ireland’s constellation of magical creatures in new, exciting ways. And then, of course, here are stories that are simply pure, unabashed, unashamed romance.
And the faery folk seem to have their fingers in most of the trouble and adventure that occurs. Love affairs between mortals and the faery host are put to the test, while the High King of the
Daoine Sidhe, Finvarra’s insatiable appetite for mortal women is legendary. Fairy interference – er, help – in mortal life in general is definitely a recurring theme in
this collection. But you’ll also be confronted with remnants of Ireland’s Viking past, its legendary warriors, battles fought and won, and the mysterious sea god Lir and his
mermaids.
Jenna Maclaine brings Morrigan, the goddess of war, and legendary warrior, Cuchulainn to life as erotic, constantly battling, immortals. And as always we have a few stories that reach out to the
wider world of an author’s current series (see, for instance, Margo Maguire’s world of the Druzai). I am also proud to announce the brilliant debut of a brand-new series with a story
from Jennifer Ashley presenting her exciting Shifters!
A tumult of styles and themes then, this is a refresher course in Irish history, with a nod to the behemoth that is paranormal romance. Here are some writers with the power to really take you on
a ride through a Celtic mythological past, who can definitely hold their own amongst all the vampires, werewolves, shape-shifters and ghosts populating the bestseller lists today.
So why not allow these Irish paranormals – these gancanaghs (ethereal lovers who seduce young women then disappear), alp-luachras (evil, greedy fairies) and Irish High Kings
of lore – a little room of their own? Let these writers take you into the lush, romantic, and above all magical heart of an Ireland that is, was and might-have-been.
Trisha Telep
Shirley Kennedy
England – 1814
Passengers on the Royal Mail coach to London were surprised when the coach came to a jangling stop on the road not far from the town of Shrewsbury. No houses around. Only a
winding driveway could be seen leading up through a heavy growth of trees to an immense Tudor-style mansion that nestled atop a low hill.
“This here’s Chatfield Court, miss,” the coachman shouted. “I’ll toss your luggage down.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
While the pretty young woman in her twenties climbed from the coach, the other passengers looked at each other askance. Surely the girl should not have to carry that large portmanteau up the
hill by herself. One of the gentlemen passengers stuck his head out the window and called up, “I say, coachman, can’t you take her up the driveway to the entrance? We don’t mind
the extra time.”
“Can’t do it, sir. Against the rules.”
“That’s quite all right,” the young woman assured him in a rich Irish brogue. She squared her shoulders. “This isn’t the first heavy load I’ve carried in my
life. I’ll be fine.” She picked up the battered portmanteau, smiled, waved a quick goodbye and started trudging up the hill.
The coach started up again, the remaining passengers making clicking noises and shaking their heads. That they were concerned about a passenger they’d known only hours was surprising. She
had not uttered more than a few pleasantries, only briefly mentioning she’d been a schoolteacher in Ireland, as had her mother who had recently passed away. Mostly she sat silently gazing out
the window; yet despite the paucity of her words, they all recognized an agreeable quality about her and wished her well.
“I liked that girl,” one gentlemen said. “Don’t know exactly why, but she had a certain . . . I guess you could say, serenity about her.”
“More than that. It was like a special aura that surrounded her,” one of the ladies chimed in. “It was almost as if I felt calmer in her presence.”
“She had a magical quality,” said another.
The gentleman laughed. “Magic? Well, I don’t know as I’d go that far.”
The lady nodded emphatically. “Magic. I felt it. I don’t know what it was, but that girl had a special gift which we all felt, and don’t you tell me otherwise.”
Halfway up the driveway, Evleen O’Fallon had to stop and catch her breath. The heat of the summer day, plus the weight of the heavy portmanteau had done her in. As she
rested and wiped her brow, she looked up the hill towards the dark stone mansion called Chatfield Court.
“I’m sure you will like it,” her mother had said on her deathbed. “Lord Beaumont assured me you would.”
Mother’s gone. A tear rolled down Evleen’s cheek. I miss her so. What will I do without her?
At the end, even through her suffering, Mama had thought of Evleen. “All your brothers and sisters have a place to stay, except you. As you know, I have sold the cottage,
so you cannot stay here.” She clutched a letter in her fingers, one she had received only the day before. “Some time ago, when I knew I would never leave this bed, I wrote to Lord
Beaumont in England.”
“But why?” Evleen was astounded.
“You are aware that Lord Beaumont’s late wife was a cousin of ours. So I wrote and asked if he would take you in.” She’d handed the letter to Evleen. “Here is his
reply. Read for yourself.”
With reluctant fingers, Evleen took the letter and began to read.
My Dear Cousin,
I am sorry for your illness and trust you will soon regain your health. In the sad event you do not, rest assured I shall be happy to give a home to your oldest daughter, Evleen. If
she’s as gifted as you say, perhaps she can help with the education of my son, Peter, who is seven. Since his mother passed away, he’s been quite precocious and needs a firm
hand.
I look forward to meeting Evleen. Rest assured, she will be treated not as a servant but one of the family.
Beaumont
When she finished, Evleen let the letter fall to her lap in dismay. “Leave Ireland? Never! How can I go and live with strange people in a strange land?”
“You will because you must,” Mama answered firmly. “But one warning I must give you.”
“And what is that?” Evleen asked, still numb with shock.
“You must never use the blue pebble in England. In fact, it would be best if you threw it away.”
Evleen touched a small, bright blue pebble, strung by a leather thong around her neck. “But why?”
Mama looked deep into her eyes. “Because the English would never believe a poor girl from Ireland is possessed with magical powers. They would laugh at you – make your life a misery
if you even suggested such a thing.”
“All right, I promise,” Evleen readily agreed. “I suspect the pebble would be useless in England anyway. I certainly don’t expect Merlin to follow me.”
“You had best throw it in the creek right now.”
Somehow the thought of throwing the pebble away did not appeal to her. “Perhaps I shall take it along – just as a kind of souvenir.”
“Suit yourself.” Mama reached for her hand and clasped it tight. “Whatever happens, always hold your head high. You must never forget you are an Irish princess, that your
father was Ian O’Fallon, son of the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendant of one of Ireland’s ancient kings who reigned over one of the earliest Celtic kingdoms.”
“I shall never forget, Mama.”
And she wouldn’t. Now, with a determined nod, Evleen picked up the portmanteau and resumed her trek up the driveway. No, she would never forget, but what good would being
an Irish princess do her here in this strange land? Ah well, no matter. Only the future counted now.
I shall be brave. I shall make Mama proud.
“So, Miss O’Fallon, you are from Ireland?”
Seated on a silk upholstered sofa in the grand salon of Chatfield Court, Evleen hid her disappointment. Lord Beaumont had not been there to greet her, although he was expected back from London
at any moment. She gazed into the cold grey eyes of Lady Beaumont, Lord Beaumont’s mother. “Indeed I am from Ireland. County Tipperary to be exact. I lived there all my life.”
Lady Beaumont, a stout woman with a large face and snow-white hair, cast an amused glance at the two other occupants of the room: Lydia, her daughter, and a giddy young woman named Bettina, soon
to become her daughter-in-law. “Fancy that! I don’t know much about Ireland although I understand they are all quite poor.”
“Don’t they raise sheep and live mainly in hovels?” asked Lydia, a plain young woman in her twenties who appeared to wear a permanent sneer on her lips.
Of the two young women, Bettina, a slender girl of twenty or so, was the prettiest, with creamy white skin and a circle of bouncy blonde ringlets around her forehead. In a giggly voice she asked
Evleen, “Isn’t Ireland where the fairies live? And the elves and leprechauns?”
Yes, it is, Evleen thought, but wisely didn’t say. “Not all Irish are poor,” she evenly replied. “As for elves, fairies and leprechauns, I cannot say.”
She’d been invited to the grand salon for tea by these three ladies, who obviously seemed to think she had just arrived from the moon. She knew they were laughing at her. In fact, since
the moment she set foot into this huge room with its marble fireplace and plush furnishings, she’d felt acutely uncomfortable. It didn’t help that the outfit she wore – plain wool
skirt, wool jacket, simple brimmed hat and high top boots – was acceptable fashion for Ireland, but compared to the elaborate dresses these ladies wore, she might as well be dressed in a
gunny sack. And these were just their morning gowns! Already they’d discussed their afternoon gowns, strolling gowns, evening gowns and who-knew-what-else kinds of gowns. Evleen took a sip of
tea from her fine china cup, gripping the fragile handle uncomfortably. So different from home, where she drank her tea from a chipped mug and stirred it with a tin spoon.
Lydia was speaking. “So what did you do in Ireland? Is there a ton? Do you have seasons?”
“I taught school until my mother took ill,” Evleen earnestly replied. “This past year I stayed home to take care of her. And yes, we have seasons – winter, spring, summer
and autumn, just as you have here.”
For some reason, her reply set up gales of laughter from all three women. “Lydia doesn’t mean that kind of season,” Lady Beaumont explained in a lofty tone. “She means a
social season, such as when we go down to London for the parties and balls.”
“Oh, I see.” Evleen could not prevent the blush she felt spreading up her neck and over her cheeks. Such a gaffe she’d made! And she hadn’t been here an hour yet. She
would never fit in with these people, nor them with her. I want to go home.
The door opened. A tall, powerfully built man in his early thirties entered, followed by a slender, fair-haired boy of seven or so. “Hello, everyone,” he said in a deep commanding
voice. He caught sight of Evleen. “I see our cousin from Ireland has arrived.”
Evleen hadn’t known what she’d expected, but certainly not this devilishly handsome man who stood before her. What gorgeous blue eyes! What a beautiful head of hair, dark, with a
slight wave and an unruly lock falling over his forehead. She arose and dipped an unsteady curtsy, hoping she didn’t look too much like a country bumpkin. “I am pleased to meet you,
Lord Beaumont.”
Beaumont bowed in return. “Delighted to meet you, Miss O’Fallon. Welcome to England.” He placed a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is my son, Peter.
He’s without a governess right now and I was hoping you might see to his education, at least temporarily. Not as a governess, you understand. I consider you one of the family.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir. I’ll be happy to help any way I can.”
“Very good then,” Beaumont answered. Evleen noted he had yet to smile. She caught an air of unhappiness about him, a certain remoteness. Perhaps he was still grieving over the death
of his first wife, Millicent. But still, she noted, he wasn’t grieving so much that he wasn’t planning to marry again.
Bettina arose from her chair and went to greet him, thrusting her arm possessively through his. “Richard, darling, so lovely to have you back.” She cast a quick, unfriendly glance at
Evleen, as if she resented his wasting even one moment of time on his poor cousin-by-marriage from Ireland. “Your dear mother and sister have been helping with our wedding plans.”
“How very nice,” Beaumont answered absent-mindedly. Evleen caught a certain indifference in his voice. He ignored Bettina and continued, “We must get you settled in, Miss
O’Fallon. There’s a bedchamber on the third floor next to my sister’s. I thought it might please you.”
Lady Beaumont uttered an audible gasp. “Are you sure, Richard? I had thought—”
“Thought what, Mama?”
“A room on the fourth floor would be much more suitable.” Lady Beaumont’s lips had pursed into a tight, disapproving line.
“The servants’ floor? I think not,” Beaumont answered firmly. “Evleen is Millicent’s cousin’s child. As such, she’s a member of the family and will be
treated accordingly.”
“But of course,” his mother answered with ill-concealed irritation. She cast stone-cold eyes at Evleen. “We’re so happy to have you, Miss O’Fallon. I trust
you’ll be happy here. Dinner is at eight.”
Evleen nodded a thank you and sent a small smile in return. Except for Lord Beaumont himself, she felt as welcome as the plague.
What a beautiful room, Evleen thought when she stepped into her bedchamber. Never had she seen such luxury. With its fine furnishings and lovely view of the rear gardens it was
a far cry from the tiny room off the kitchen she had shared with two sisters. Ordinarily, she’d be thrilled, but the chilly reception she’d received in the drawing room made for a heavy
heart. She sank to a chair by the window and gazed at the sculptured gardens that lay behind Chatfield Court. Ah, what wouldn’t she give to be home right now! She closed her eyes and pictured
her family’s cottage. Built of stone, with lime-washed walls, it nestled in one of County Tipperary’s lush green valleys. The forested slopes of the Galtees, Ireland’s highest
mountain range, lay not far beyond.
Next to the cottage were the scattered ruins of Tualetha, an ancient monastery, spread over several acres. As a child, Evleen often visited the ruins. She and her brothers and sisters liked to
play hide-and-seek amidst the crumbled remains of stone buildings and huge tombstones, decorated with faded Celtic carvings, which towered over their heads.
Adrift in her memories, Evleen reached to touch the blue pebble that still hung around her neck. Despite her mother’s advice, she could not bear to part with it, although now she always
hid it beneath her clothing and had vowed never to use it. As they had countless times before, her thoughts drifted to the day, when she was just eight years old, that she visited the ruins alone.
She had brought a book along and was sitting on a flat rock next to an ancient cairn when the persistent cawing of a bird caught her attention. Looking up from her book, she was surprised to see a
huge black raven sitting on the low branch of an oak tree. It seemed to be staring at her. Suddenly the bird spread its wings and flew away. As it did so, a small black feather fell from its wing
to the ground.
Evleen shut her book, slid off the rock, and went to retrieve the feather. As she bent to pick it up, she saw it had fallen next to a curious looking pebble of bright azure blue. How odd. Never
had she seen a pebble of such a colour. While she examined it, she heard the cawing of the raven again. It had flown a short distance away and was now perched on another tree limb, staring at her
and flapping its wings. Did it want her to follow him? It would certainly seem so.
Holding the feather and the pebble, Evleen followed the raven to where it sat in the tree. Just as she arrived, it again flew away, heading towards the dense woods close by. When again the bird
alighted on a branch and stared at her, she knew for certain it wanted her to follow.
Her curiosity aroused, Evleen followed the raven on a path that led deep into the woods. The bird continued to lead, then stop to wait for her, until she realized she had gone into the woods
deeper than she ever had before. She felt no fear, though, and followed the path up the side of a gently sloping mountain to the entrance of a cave with a yawning mouth. Still unafraid, she entered
the cave. Finding herself in near-total darkness, she felt her way along the walls of a short, narrow chamber until she emerged into a room with smooth stone walls that shone like crystal. In the
centre of the room, an old man with a long white beard, wearing a white robe, stood behind a steaming cauldron. The room was lit, the light seeming to come from everywhere. Finally she realized it
emanated from the crystalline walls. At last a shiver of fear ran through her. She turned to run, but before she could, the old man spoke. “I have been waiting for you.”
Astounded, she asked, “Who are you?”
He ignored her and instead waved his hands over the cauldron and intoned, “I call today on the strength of Heaven, Light of the Sun, Radiance of the Moon, Splendour of Fire, Speed of
Lightning, Depth of the Sea.”
She stood frozen during his incantation. When he finished, he addressed her again. “I am Merlin the Magician. Surely you have heard of me, Evleen.”
“But how did you know my name?”
The old man smiled. “I have followed your progress since the day you were born.”
“But why?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“You are a direct descendant of Queen Maeve, who reigned as Queen of Ireland back in the days of the Druids. She was a warrior whom I admired tremendously. Maeve was one of the great
female figures of Ireland, a most splendid woman. Originally she was a goddess and only later became the queen of mortal men, although she always kept her magical powers.” Merlin sighed.
“I would tell you more, but you’re a little girl and can only understand so much. But it’s time you knew that you, too, have been endowed with magical powers.”
Evleen gasped in astonishment. “Me? I cannot believe it!”
“Rub the blue pebble and make a wish.”
She thought for a moment, searching her mind for something simple to request. Where had the raven gone? Rubbing the blue pebble, she said, “I wish to see the raven again.”
In a twinkling, Merlin vanished and the black raven appeared, sitting on a nearby perch glaring at her with its beady bright eyes. “It can’t be!” she cried in alarm.
In another instant, the bird had disappeared and Merlin stood before her again. “Over the years you will find I take many forms and shapes. The raven is only one.”
“Over the years?” she asked
“This is only the beginning. My child, it is time you became aware of your magic powers. You must learn to use them wisely.”
“But how will I always know what is wise?”
“I shall always be there to help.” In another instant, Merlin had disappeared again, replaced by the raven that, in a great show of cawing and flapping of its wings, left her
standing there and flew from the cave.
Evleen found her way from the cave and ran home. When she reached her cottage, she burst through the door, crying, “Mama, Mama, wait ’til you hear!” When she finished relating
her story about the raven, the cave and Merlin, her mother seemed not the least surprised.
“I have always known there was something special about you, Evleen. Now I know what it is. Bear in mind, you must always use your powers wisely.”
“Just what Merlin said.”
“Then you have been warned. You must never take your powers lightly.”
And Evleen never did. While she grew up, Merlin paid her many visits. Sometimes he taught her such things as the Druidic Symbols of Mastery, or a lesson from the Druid’s Book of the
Pherylit. Other times, he let her try out her magic powers. She used them judiciously, casting a spell to heal an animal that was sick, or for a lost item that was soon found.
Only once did Merlin refuse her request. When her mother lay dying, Evleen pleaded, “Please, can’t we heal her?”
In reply, Merlin drew a perfect circle on the ground before her. “Within the perfect symmetry of a circle is held the essential nature of the universe. Strive to learn from it . . . to
reflect that order.”
She understood immediately. She could not interrupt life’s cycle. Even Merlin’s magic had its limits.
Now, in her new bedchamber, Evleen put thoughts of home behind her, turning them instead to her pitiful wardrobe. How she wished she could use her magic powers to replace every shabby piece of
clothing she owned. Lady Beaumont had told her dinner was at eight. She must appear suitably dressed, but what could she wear? Nothing she had brought could begin to match the gorgeous gowns she
knew the ladies would be wearing.
Just then, a knock sounded on the door. Evleen opened it to find a middle-aged, prim-faced woman dressed in a maid’s uniform, with a white satin gown draped over one arm. In a French
accent, she announced, “I am Yvette, Lady Beaumont’s lady’s maid. Lord Beaumont sent me. He thought I could be of assistance in dressing you for dinner tonight.” She held up
the gown. “This was his wife’s, poor thing. She hardly wore it before the typhoid struck her down. You seem about the same size.”
Yvette proved to be a godsend and, when eight o’clock arrived, Evleen took one final, incredulous look at herself in the mirror. The high-waisted gown fitted perfectly over her slender
figure. But it was so low cut! Never in Ireland had so much of her bosom been exposed. “Think nothing of it, miss,” Yvette assured her. “You will find it is quite modest by
today’s standards.”
Evleen regarded her thick, dark auburn hair, which Yvette had piled atop her head in a becoming style with soft curls and fastened with a set of pearl combs. Pearl earrings dangled from her
ears, matched by a luminous pearl necklace. The result? Never in her life had Evleen looked so . . . so . . . the word was beautiful, but modesty prevented her from saying so, or even
thinking it to herself. Instead, she exclaimed,
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance
Trisha Telep
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