Luck of the Irish Read Online Free PDF Page B

leaf and cowering on her bed like a total coward.
    Her heart hammered against her ribcage and her eyes were screwed tightly shut as the unmistakable sound of someone breathing heavily filled the room. At first, she thought it was her own breath because she was huffing and puffing like she’d run a freaking marathon. But about a second later, it became glaringly clear she was no longer alone.
    The fairy tale was true.
    “It’s about damned time.” The man’s voice, deep and guttural, cut through the room like thunder. “What took ya so long?”
    Maggie shot up to a sitting position, ready to let out an ungodly scream. She was expecting to see a leprechaun like the ones she’s seen in the movies. A tiny guy with red hair and a green suit who was maybe one or two feet tall... but she could not have been more wrong.
    Standing at the end of her bed was a guy who was anything but tiny.
    He was a brute of a man, stood well over six feet tall and was absolutely gorgeous. He had shoulder length, brown hair and scruffy facial hair to match. A loose-fitting white shirt, or a shirt that used to be white, was draped over his broad torso, and a green plaid kilt hung low on his hips and covered him to his knees. He looked like he’d stepped out of a movie, or had escaped from a Renaissance Faire or something.
    A massive sword was strapped to his back, but what stood out to Maggie most and kept her pinned to the bed was the ferocity of his steely stare. His stormy eyes looked almost silver as they peered at her beneath a furrowed brow. His meaty hands were balled into fists at his side as he loomed over her from the foot of the bed.
    In what world were Leprechauns six-foot tall hotties? Aunt Lizzie failed to mention this in her story.
    The room started to spin. Maggie’s mouth opened and closed but no sound would come out, and the man standing in her room gave her a puzzled look. This couldn’t be happening. He strode around the bed swiftly and grabbed her by both arms, hoisting her off the bed as though she weighed nothing at all.
    “What ails ya, witch? Ya have nothin’ to say to me on behalf of Malachi?” He yanked her close and Maggie, in spite of the insanity of the moment, noticed that he smelled like spice and earth and rain. His fingers tightened their hold on her and he shouted, “The bastard had not the courage to face me himself? He sent a wee girl here with my amulet to do his dirty work after all these years.”
    Witch? This guy, whoever he was, thought she was a witch? Great. She wasn’t a witch. She was a boring, lonely girl who grew up listening to a story—his story—one that had come to life in the middle of her bedroom.
    Dizzy and completely disoriented Maggie shook her head and pressed her hands against his rock hard chest. But it was no use. The guy was a wall of muscle and she would never be able to fight him off. She whimpered and held his fierce stare as fear and confusion swirled through her like a storm.
    “Speak, woman!”
    Nausea bloomed as another wave of dizziness, fueled by fear, and overcame her. Maggie knew she was going to faint. It was the same feeling she had right before she passed out in the school gym when she donated blood in tenth grade, and there was no stopping it. As the darkness closed in she whispered the only words that came to mind.
    The words she hoped would save her. “ Scaoileadh mé tú... . I release you.”

Chapter Four
    W hen the beautiful, young witch with the hair of gold fainted in his arms Declan first thought it was a rouse. A trick to get him to let his guard down so she could finish him off, but as he gazed upon her lovely innocent face he realized she was no threat. In fact, she seemed shocked by his arrival. So much so, that she lost her wits and fainted.
    Declan concluded that this petite female with the face of an angel was not sent to destroy him and he felt like an arse for handling her so roughly. She did not have the aura of a witch. Hers was far to