Disgraced SAS Captain Duncan Ross, is on a one-man crusade to find the international terrorist known as Brian Boru. Moira O'Connor, daughter and chief of staff of a US Senator, harbors a secret legacy passed down from her mother's people. When they first meet at a weekend party in Virginia, time turns topsy-turvy. Memories of a former life, one in which Duncan was her lover, overshadows the present. Back then, Moira was burned as a witch and Duncan was too late to save her, the words to bind them forever unsaid.
Boru crashes the party even as the faerie harper, Abhean, steers the lovers on a collision course with destiny. Will Duncan save Moira this time? Will he survive to say the vows and make her his for eternity, or will they succumb to the Faerie Fire?
Without the words, history is doomed to repeat itself.
As soon as her fingers touched his palm, an electric jolt ran up Duncan’s arm all the way to his brain. Alarms jangled in his subconscious. He was vaguely aware that Margaret Steele said, “And this is the senator’s other daughter, Moira.”
The young woman clutched his hand, staring at him but not really seeing him. Duncan watched as a fleeting series of emotions crossed her face—love, passion, and then a look of sheer terror entrenched itself in her eyes, turning them a dusky blue. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Slowly, her eyes refocused on him.
“You,” she accused before promptly fainting.
Reacting instinctively, Duncan caught the girl with a strong arm around her shoulders and lifted her easily, sliding his other arm under her knees. Aware of the stares and murmurs around them, he turned to Margaret. “Is there somewhere I can take her?”
Margaret was too flustered to speak. Allen stepped up and put his hand on Duncan’s shoulder. In a low voice, he directed. “The study. Follow me.”
Allen quickly led him out of the room and across the entry hall. The senator followed at his side, his anxious gaze never leaving Moira’s face. Margaret, Deirdre, and Gemma, looking irresolute and unsure, trailed behind.
Duncan barely glanced around the room as Allen ushered him in. He laid Moira on a leather couch while Margaret fussed about putting pillows under the girl’s head and shoulders. He checked her pulse, surprised to find it racing. Most people suffered a slow heart rate after fainting.
Though still unconscious, Moira clutched at his hand, holding it tight, almost instinctively clinging to him. Again, that tantalizing jolt of energy surged up his arm. He knelt beside the couch watching her. Moira remained deathly pale.