Spellbound (3 page)

There was a
moment of blinding, searing joy. Another of dark, primal lust.

Her taste, sharp, potent, soaked into his system as the rain soaked his skin. He was helpless to do anything but absorb it. Her arms were chained around his neck, her slim, curvy body pressed intimately to his, the heat from it seeping through his sodden shirt and into his bones.

And her mouth was as wild and edgy as the sky thundering above them.

It was all terrifyingly familiar.

He brought his hands to her shoulders, torn for a staggering instant as to whether to pull her closer or push her away. In the end he eased back, held her at arm’s length.

She was beautiful. She was aroused. And she was, he assured himself, a stranger. He angled his head, determined to handle the situation.

“Well, it’s certainly a friendly country.”

He saw the flicker in her eyes, the dimming of disappointment, a flash of frustration. But he couldn’t know just how deeply that disappointment, that frustration cut into her heart.

He’s here, she told herself. He’s come. That’s what matters most now. “It is, yes.” She gave him a smile, let her fingers linger in his hair just another second, then dropped them to her sides. “Welcome to Ireland and the Castle of Secrets.”

His gaze shifted toward the ruins. “Is that what it’s called?”

“That’s the name it carries now.” She had to struggle to
keep her eyes from devouring him, every inch, every expression. Instead she offered a hand, as she would have to any wayward traveler. “You’ve had a long journey. Come, sit by my fire.” Her lips curved. “Have some whiskey in your tea.”

“You don’t know me.” He made it a statement rather than a question. Had to.

In answer, she looked up at the sky. “You’re wet,” she said, “and the wind’s cold today. It’s enough to have me offer a seat by the hearth.” She turned away from him, stepped up onto the porch where the cat stirred itself to wind through her legs. “You’ve come this far.” Her eyes met his again, held. “Will you come into my home, Calin Farrell, and warm yourself?”

He scooped dripping hair out of his face, felt his bones tremble. “How do you know my name?”

“The same way you knew to come here.” She picked up the cat, stroked its silky head. Both of them watched him with patient, unblinking blue eyes. “I baked scones fresh this morning. You’ll be hungry.” With this, she turned and walked inside, leaving him to come or go as he willed.

Part of him wanted to get back in the car, drive away, pretend he’d never seen her or this place. But he climbed onto the porch, pushed the front door open. He needed answers, and it seemed she had at least some of them.

The warmth struck him instantly. Welcoming warmth redolent with the fragrances of bread recently baked, of peat simmering in the hearth, of flowers just picked.

“Make yourself at home.” She set the cat on the floor. “I’ll see to the tea.”

Cal stepped into the tiny parlor and near to the red eye of the fire. There were flowers, he noted, their petals still damp, filling vases on the stone mantel, pots on the table by the window.

A sugan chair sat by the hearth, but he didn’t sit. Instead he studied the room with the sharp eye of an artist.

Quiet colors, he thought. Not pale, but soothing in the choice of deep rose and mossy greens. Woven rugs on the polished floors, mirror-bright woods lovingly cared for and
smelling lightly of beeswax. Candles everywhere, in varying lengths, standing in holders of glass and silver and stone.

There, by the hearth, a spinning wheel. Surely an antique, he mused as he stepped closer to examine it. Its dark wood gleamed, and beside it sat a straw basket heaped with beautifully dyed wools.

But for the electric lamps and their jewellike shades, the small stereo tucked into a stack of books on a shelf, he might have convinced himself he’d stepped into another century.

Absently he crouched to pet the cat, which was rubbing seductively against his legs. The fur was warm and damp. Real. He hadn’t walked into another century, Cal assured himself. Or into a dream. He was going to ask his hostess some very pointed questions, he decided. And he wasn’t going anywhere until he was satisfied with the answers.

As she carried the tray back down the short hallway, she berated herself for losing her sense in the storm of emotion, for moving too quickly, saying too much. Expecting too much.

He didn’t know her. Oh, that cut through the heart into the soul. But it had been foolish of her to expect him to, when he had blocked out her thoughts, her need for him for more than fifteen years.

She had continued to steal into his dreams when he was unaware, to watch him grow from boy to man as she herself blossomed into womanhood. But pride, and hurt, and love had stopped her from calling to him.

Until there had been no choice.

She’d known it the moment he stepped onto the ground of her own country. And her heart had leaped. Had it been so wrong, and so foolish, to prepare for him? To fill the house with flowers, the kitchen with baking? To bathe herself in oils of her own making, anointing her skin as a bride would on her wedding night?

No. She took a deep breath at the doorway. She had needed to prepare herself for him. Now she must find the right way to prepare him for her—and what they must soon face together.

He was so beautiful, she thought as she watched him stroke
the cat into ecstasy. How many nights had she tossed restlessly in sleep, longing for those long, narrow hands on her?

Oh, just once to feel him touch her.

How many nights had she burned to see his eyes, gray as storm clouds, focused on her as he buried himself deep inside her and gave her his seed?

Oh, just once to join with him, to make those soft, secret sounds in the night.

They were meant to be lovers. This much she believed he would accept. For a man had needs, she knew, and this one was already linked with her physically—no matter that he refused to remember.

But without the love in the act of mating, there would be no joy. And no hope.

She braced herself and stepped into the room. “You’ve made friends with Hecate, I see.” His gaze whipped up to hers, and her hands trembled lightly. Whatever power she still held was nothing compared with one long look from him. “She’s shameless around attractive men.” She set the tray down. “Won’t you sit, Calin, and have some tea?”

“How do you know who I am?”

“I’ll explain what I can.” Her eyes went dark and turbulent with emotions as they scanned his face. “Do you have no memory of me then? None at all?”

A tumble of red hair that shined like wet fire, a body that moved in perfect harmony with his, a laugh like fog. “I don’t know you.” He said it sharply, defensively. “I don’t know your name.”

Her eyes remained dark, but her chin lifted. Here was pride, and power still. “I am Bryna Torrence, descendant of Bryna the Wise and guardian of this place. You’re welcome in my home, Calin Farrell, as long as you choose to stay.”

She bent to the tray, her movements graceful. She wore a long dress, the color of the mists curling outside the window. It draped her body, flirted with her ankles. Columns of carved silver danced from her ears.

“Why?” He laid a hand on her arm as she lifted the first cup. “Why am I welcome in your home?”

“Perhaps I’m lonely.” Her lips curved again, wistfully. “I
am lonely, and it’s glad I am for your company.” She sat, gestured for him to do the same. “You need a bit of food, Calin, a bit of rest. I can offer you that.”

“What I want is an explanation.” But he did sit, and because the hot liquid in his cup smelled glorious, he drank. “You said you knew I would come, you knew my name. I want to know how either of those things is possible.”

It wasn’t permitted to lie to him. Honesty was part of the pledge. But she could evade. “I might have recognized your face. You’re a successful and famous man, Calin. Your art has found its way even into my corner of the world. You have such talent,” she murmured. “Such vision.” She arranged scones on a small plate, offered it. “Such power inside you.”

He lifted a brow. There were women who were willing, eager to rock onto their backs for a man who had a hold on fame. He shook his head. “You’re no groupie, Bryna. You didn’t open the door to me so that you could have a quick bout of sex with a name.”

“But others have.”

There was a sting of jealousy in her voice. He couldn’t have said why, but under the circumstances it amused him. “Which is how I know that’s not what this is, not what you are. In any case, you didn’t have the time to recognize my face from some magazine or talk show. The light was bad, the rain pouring down.”

His brows drew together. He couldn’t be dreaming again, hallucinating. The teacup was warm in his hand, the taste of the sweet, whiskey-laced brew in his mouth. “Damn it, you were waiting for me, and I don’t understand how.”

“I’ve waited for you all my life.” She said it quietly, setting her cup down untouched. “And a millennium before it began.” Raising her hands, she laid them on his face. “Your face is the first I remember, before even my own mother’s. The ghost of your touch has haunted me every night of my life.”

“That’s nonsense.” He brought a hand up, curled his fingers around her wrist.

“I can’t lie to you. It’s not in my power. Whatever I say
to you will be truth, whatever you see in me will be real.” She tried to touch that part of his mind, or his heart, that might still be open to her. But it was locked away, fiercely guarded. She took one long breath and accepted. For now. “You’re not ready to know, to hear, to believe.” Her eyes softened a little, her fingertips stroking his temples. “Ah, Calin, you’re tired, and confused. It’s rest you’re needing now and ease for your mind. I can help you.”

His vision grayed, and the room swam. He could see nothing but her eyes, dark blue, utterly focused. Her scent swam into his senses like a drug. “Stop it.”

“Rest now, love. My love.”

He felt her lips brush his before he slid blissfully into the dark.

Cal awoke to silence. His mind circled for a moment, like a bird looking for a place to perch. Something in the tea, he thought. God, the woman had drugged him. He felt a quick panic as the theme from Stephen King’s
Misery
played in his head.

Obsessed fan. Kidnapping.

With a jolt, he sat straight up, terrified, reaching for his foot. Still attached. The black cat, which had been curled on the edge of the bed, stretched lazily and seemed to snicker.

“Yeah, funny,” Cal muttered. He let out a long breath that trailed into a weak laugh. Letting your imagination turn cartwheels again, Calin, he told himself. Always been a bad habit of yours.

He ordered himself to calm down, take stock of the situation. And realized he was buck naked.

Surprise ran a swift race with embarrassment as he imagined Bryna undressing him with those lovely tea-serving hands. And getting him into bed. How in the hell had the woman carted him into a bedroom?

For that was where he was. It was a small and charming room with a tiny stone hearth, a glossy bureau. Flowers and candles again, books tucked into a recessed nook. A doll-size chair sat near a window that was framed in white lace cur
tains. Sunlight slipped through them and made lovely and intricate patterns on the dark wood floor.

At the foot of the bed was an old chest with brass fittings. His clothes, clean and dry, were folded neatly on it. At least she didn’t expect him to run around in his skin, he decided, and with some relief reached quickly for his jeans.

He felt immediately better once they were zipped, then realized that he felt not just better. He felt wonderful.

Alert, rested, energized. Whatever she’d given him, he concluded, had rocked him into the solid, restful sleep he hadn’t experienced in weeks. But he wasn’t going to thank her for it, Cal thought grimly as he tugged on his shirt. The woman went way past eccentric—he didn’t mind a little eccentricity. But this lady was deluded, and possibly dangerous.

He was going to see to it that she gave him some satisfactory answers, then he was going to leave her to her fairy-tale cottage and ruined castle and put some miles between them.

He looked in the mirror over the bureau, half expecting to see a beard trailing down to his chest like Rip Van Winkle. But the man who stared back at him hadn’t aged. He looked perplexed, annoyed, and, again, rested. The damnedest thing, Cal mused, scooping his hair back.

He found his shoes neatly tucked beside the chest. Putting them on, he found himself studying the patterns the sunlight traced on the floor.

Light. It struck him all at once, had him jumping to his feet again. The rain had stopped. For Christ’s sake, how long had he been sleeping?

In two strides he was at the window, yanking back those delicate curtains. Then he stood, spellbound.

The view was stunning. He could see the rugged ground where the ruined castle climbed, make out the glints of mica in the stone where the sun struck. The ground tumbled away toward the road, then the road gave way to wave after rolling wave of green fields, bisected with stone walls, dotted with lolling cattle. Houses were tucked into valleys and on rises, clothes flapped cheerfully on lines. Trees twisted up, bent by
the years of resisting the relentless wind off the sea and glossy green with spring.

He saw quite clearly a young boy pedaling his blue bike along one of the narrow trenches of road, a spotted black-and-white dog racing beside him through thick hedgerows.

Home, Cal thought. Home for supper. Ma doesn’t like you to be late.

He found himself smiling, and reached down without thinking to raise the window and let in the cool, moist air.

The light. It swelled his artist’s heart. No one could have described the light of Ireland to him. It had to be seen, experienced. Like the sheen of a fine pearl, he thought, that makes the air glimmer, go luminous and silky. The sun filtering through layers of clouds had a softness, a majesty he’d never seen anywhere else.

He had to capture it. Now. Immediately. Surely such magic couldn’t last. He bolted out of the room, clattered down the short flight of steps, and burst out into the gentle sun with the cat scampering at his heels.