The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

according to Glory. To hide the tiny bits of iron that would block the Fae from working magic in their rooms during the treaty negotiations.
    Fae magic did not work well in the presence of iron either. Still, something about Glory’s reasoning seemed unsound to Lucy’s exhausted mind. After all, iron’s properties or no, Lucy knew there was no chance that she was even the slightest bit Fae. She repressed the desire to touch the very round, very non-pointed tip of her ear for reassurance. She claimed a bit of the old forest magic, mayhap, but never Fae.
    She turned towards the door, longing for her bed more than ever, and attempted to brush some of the under-bed dust from her night shift. She needed to speak to the housekeeper about the lack of cleaning. No. It was no longer her concern.
    “Like any of the elvish slugs are going to notice, anyway,” she said to the empty room. “This is the stupidest idea—”
    “Elvish slugs, hmm? I was unaware my race boasted that particular member.” The voice was sensuality turned to music, teasing, hypnotic, and pitched exactly right to make Lucy feel warm in places a man’s voice had no business warming.
    Fortunately, such tricks had no effect on her.
    She gave a slight effort to wiping the scowl from her face before she looked up, but the sight of him brought her scowl back in full measure. The Fae lord was beautiful, of course. They all were. A few inches taller than most human men. Silvery hair shimmering in a fall of moon-kissed silk to his waist. Long, lean muscles. Eyes the blue of the sky reflected in ice.
    Ice to Ian’s fire. Wait. What? Ian? She narrowed her eyes at the thought of the man who seemed to be popping into her mind with a growing frequency, and returned her attention to the man who was actually in the room with her.
    Yep. He was an elf. She couldn’t bear the sight of them. Pompous Fae with their overblown sense of importance. This one would be worse than most, since he wore the green and gold of the High House of the Seelie Court.
    “Rugs. I said, ‘Too bad we don’t have any elvish rugs,’ “ she said quickly, although she didn’t exactly add the “milord”. It would be bad form to start a fight with one of the visiting princes on the very first day of the treaty renewal meetings, but truly a girl could only put up with so much.
    He leaned against the doorway, effectively blocking her escape, and folded his arms across his chest. “Yes,” he drawled, sweeping a leisurely glance from her head to her toes. “We of the Seelie Court are known for our . . . rugs.”
    “Are you a gift to me? If so, I know not whether to be honoured by my host’s graciousness at giving me such a beauty or insulted that he would send such a filthy hoyden to my bed.”
    Lucy gasped at his effrontery. “You insufferable . . . You . . . You . . . insufferable ...”
    “Yes, insufferable. I believe we’ve established that,” he said dryly. “Or do you expect me to believe you have framed yourself before the fire in such a manner that your gown is nearly transparent merely by accident?”
    Her face flushed so hot that she knew it must have turned bright red, which contrasted hideously with her dark red hair. Not that she cared what this pompous ass thought of her. She took a deep breath, twirled her hand in a semicircle, and the room was plunged into darkness as the fire extinguished itself.
    “There. Now you can see nothing.”
    “Oh, so you wish to be alone in the dark with me?” Amusement shimmered in his voice as he took a step towards her.
    “In your dreams, Milord Pointy Ears,” she snapped. “Get out of my way or I’ll make those flames spark to life again, but this time in your trousers.”
    He paused for a beat, probably thinking of ways to order her tortured in the palace dungeons, but he surprised her: he threw back his head and laughed. Still laughing, he bowed and moved away from the doorway. “As you wish, milady, in spite of your obvious fascination with my . . . trousers. But you will at least surrender your name to me for my trouble.”
    She raced past him, pausing only once she’d reached the safety of the corridor. “Of course. My name is Magda.”
    Rhys na Garanwyn, High Prince of the High House of the Seelie Court, stood staring after the lass as she raced down the corridor away from him. Human, surely. Perhaps with a touch of simple magic. But he’d sensed nothing in her that should have allowed her to resist him so