was raw. "The Keepers encased me in a shield of crystal, holding me there as I cursed them, as I shouted my protests, as I used the heart and innocence of my young maid as my defense for my crime. And they showed me how she laughed as she gathered the wealth I'd sent to her, as she leapt into a carriage laden with it and fell into the arms of the lover with whom she'd plotted the ruin of the man she hated. And my ruin as well."
"But you loved her."
"I did, but the Keepers don't count love as an excuse, as a reason. I was given a choice. They would strip me of my power, take away what was in my blood and make me merely human. Or I would keep it, and live alone, in a half world, without companionship, without human contact, without the pleasures of the world that I, in their estimation, had betrayed."
"That's cruel. Heartless."
"So I claimed, but it didn't sway them. I took the second choice, for they would not empty me. I would not abjure my birthright. Here I have existed, since that night of betrayal, a hundred years times five, with only one week each century to feel as a man does again.
"I am a man, Kayleen." With his hand still gripping hers, he got to his feet. Drew her up. "1 am," he murmured, sliding his free hand into her hair, fisting it there.
He lowered his head, his lips nearly meeting hers, then hesitated. The sound of her breath catching, releasing, shivered through him. She trembled under his hand, and he felt, inside himself, the stumble of her heart.
"Quietly this time," he murmured. "Quietly." And brushed his lips, a whisper, once… twice over hers. The flavor bloomed inside him like a first sip of fine wine.
He drank slowly. Even when her lips parted, invited, he drank slowly. Savoring the texture of her mouth, the easy slide of tongues, the faint, faint scrape of teeth.
Her body fit against his, so lovely, so perfect. The heat from the moonstone held between their hands spread like sunlight and began to pulse.
So even drinking slowly he was drunk on her.
When he drew back, her sigh all but shattered him.
"A ghra." Weak, wanting, he lowered his brow to hers. With a sigh of his own he tugged the pendant free. Her eyes, soft, loving, clouded, began to clear. Before the change was complete, he pressed his mouth to hers one last time.
"Dream," he said.
Chapter 4
She woke to watery sunlight and the heady scent of roses. There was a low fire simmering in the grate and a silk pillow under her head.
Kayleen stirred and rolled over to snuggle in.
Then shot up in bed like an arrow from a plucked bow.
My God, it had really happened. All of it.
And for lord's sake, for lord's sake, she was naked again.
Had he given her drugs, hypnotized her, gotten her drunk? What other reason could there be for her to have slept like a baby—and naked as one—in a bed in the house of a crazy man?
Instinctively, she snatched at the sheets to cover herself, and then she saw the single white rose.
An incredibly sweet, charmingly romantic crazy man, she thought and picked up the rose before she could resist.
That story he'd told her—magic and betrayal and five hundred years of punishment. He'd actually believed it. Slowly she let out a breath. So had she. She'd sat there, listening and believing every word—then. Hadn't seen a single thing odd about it, but had felt sorrow and anger on his behalf. Then…
He'd kissed her, she remembered. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, stunned at her own behavior. The man had kissed her, had made her feel like rich cream being gently lapped out of a bowl. More, she'd wanted him to kiss her. Had wanted a great deal more than that.
And perhaps, she thought, dragging the sheets higher, there had been a great deal more than that.
She started to leap out of bed, then changed her mind and crept out instead. She had to get away, quickly and quietly. And to do so, she needed clothes.
She tiptoed to the wardrobe, wincing at the creak as she eased the door open. It was one more shock to look inside and see silks and velvets, satins and lace, all in rich, bold colors. Such beautiful things. The kind of clothes she would covet but never buy. So impractical, so frivolous, really.
So gorgeous.
Shaking her head at her foolishness, she snatched out her own practical trousers, her torn sweater… but it wasn't torn. Baffled, she turned it over, inside out, searching for the jagged rip in the arm. It wasn't there.
She hadn't imagined that tear. She couldn't have imagined it. Because she was beginning to shake, she dragged it over her head, yanked the trousers on. Trousers that were pristine, though they had been stained and muddy.
She dove into the wardrobe, pushing through evening slippers, kid boots, and found her simple black flats. Flats that should have been well worn, caked with dirt, scarred just a little on the inside left where she had knocked against a chest the month before in her shop.
But the shoes were unmarked and perfect, as if they'd just come out of the box.
She would think about it later. She'd think about it all later. Now she had to get away from here, away from him. Away from whatever was happening to her.
Her knees knocked together as she crept to the door, eased it open, and peeked out into the hallway. She saw beautiful rugs on a beautiful floor, paintings and tapestries on the walls, more doors, all closed. And no sign of Flynn.
She slipped out, hurrying as quickly as she dared. Wild with relief, she bolted down the stairs, raced to the door, yanked it open with both hands.
And barreling through, ran straight into Flynn.
"Good morning." He grasped her shoulders, steadying her even as he thought what a lovely thing it would be if she'd been running toward him instead of away from him. "It seems we've done with the rain for now."
"I was—I just—" Oh, God. "I want to go check on my car."
"Of course. You may want to wait till the mists burn off. Would you like your breakfast?"
"No, no." She made her lips curve. "I'd really like to see how badly I damaged the car. So, I'll just go see and… let you know."
"Then I'll take you to it."
"No, really."
But he turned away, whistled. He took her hand, ignoring her frantic tugs for release, and led her down the steps.
Out of the mists came a white horse at the gallop, the charger of folklore with his mane flying, his silver bridle ringing. Kayleen managed one short shriek as he arrowed toward them, powerful legs shredding the mists, magnificent head tossing.
He stopped inches from Flynn's feet, blew softly, then nuzzled Flynn's chest.
With a laugh, Flynn threw his arms around the horse's neck. With the same joy, she thought, that a boy might embrace a beloved dog. He spoke to the horse in low tones, crooning ones, in what she now recognized as Gaelic.
Still grinning, Flynn eased back. He lifted a hand, flicked the wrist, and the palm that had been empty now held a glossy red apple. "No, I would never forget. There's for my beauty," he said, and the horse dipped his head and nipped the apple neatly out of Flynn's palm.
"His name is Dilis. It means faithful, and he is." With economical and athletic grace, Flynn vaulted into the saddle, held down a hand for Kayleen.
"Thank you all the same, and he's very beautiful, but I don't know how to ride. I'll just—" The words slid back down her throat as Flynn leaned down, gripped her arm, and pulled her up in front of him as though she weighed less than a baby.
"I know how to ride," he assured her and tapped Dilis lightly with his heels.
The horse reared, and Kayleen's scream mixed with Flynn's laughter as the fabulous beast pawed the air. Then they were leaping forward and flying into the forest.
There was nothing to do but hold on. She banded her arms around Flynn, buried her face in his chest. It was insane, absolutely insane. She was an ordinary woman who led an ordinary life. How could she be galloping through some Irish forest on a great white horse, plastered against a man who claimed to be a fifteenth-century
magician?
It had to stop, and it had to stop now.
She lifted her head, intending to tell him firmly to rein his horse in, to let her off and let her go. And all she did was stare. The sun was slipping in fingers through the arching branches of the trees. The air glowed like polished pearls.
Beneath her the horse ran fast and smooth at a breathless, surely a reckless, pace. And the man who rode him was the most magnificent man she'd ever seen.
His dark hair flew, his eyes glittered. And that sadness he carried, which was somehow its own strange appeal, had lifted. What she saw on his face was joy, excitement, delight, challenge. A dozen things, and all of them strong.
And seeing them, her heart beat as fast as the horse's hooves. "Oh, my God!"
It wasn't possible to fall in love with a stranger. It didn't happen in the real world.
Weakly, she let her head fall back to his chest. But maybe it was time to admit, or at least consider, that she'd left the real world the evening before when she'd taken that wrong turn into the forest.
Dilis slowed to a canter, stopped. Once again, Kayleen lifted her head. This time her eyes met Flynn's. This time he read what was in them. As the pleasure of it rose in him, he leaned toward her.
"No. Don't." She lifted her hand, pressed it to his lips. "Please."
His nod was curt. "As you wish." He leapt off the horse, plucked her down. "It appears your mode of transportation is less reliable than mine," he said, and turned her around.
The car had smashed nearly headlong into an oak. The oak, quite naturally, had won the bout. The hood was buckled back like an accordion, the safety glass a surrealistic pattern of cracks. The air bag had deployed, undoubtedly saving her from serious injury. She'd been driving too fast for the conditions, she remembered. Entirely too fast.
But how had she been driving at all?
That was the question that struck her now. There was no road. The car sat broken on what was no more than a footpath through the forest. Trees crowded in everywhere, along with brambles and wild vines that bloomed with unearthly flowers. And when she slowly turned in a circle, she saw no route she could have maneuvered through them in the rain, in the dark.
She saw no tracks from her tires in the damp ground. There was no trace of her journey; there was only the end of it.
Cold, she hugged her arms. Her sweater, she thought, wasn't ripped. Cautiously, she pushed up the sleeve, and there, where she'd been badly scraped and bruised, her skin was smooth and unmarred.
She looked back at Flynn. He stood silently as his horse idly