Page 18

When Cal woke, he was alone, and the sun was streaming. For a moment, he thought it had all been a dream. The woman—the witch—the ruined castle and tiny cottage. The globe that held the world. A hallucination brought on, he thought, by fatigue and stress and the breakdown he’d secretly worried about.
But he recognized the room—the flowers still fresh in the vases, the scent of them, and Bryna, on the air. True, then. He pressed his fingers to his eyes to rub away sleep. All true, and all unbelievable. And all somehow wonderful.
He got out of bed, walked into the charming little bathroom, stepped into the clawfoot tub, and twitched the circling curtain into place. He adjusted the shower for hot and let the steam rise.
He hadn’t showered with her yet, Cal thought, grinning as he turned his face into the spray. Hadn’t soaped that long, lovely body of hers until it was slick and slippery, hadn’t seen the water run through that glorious mane of flame-red hair. Had yet to ease inside her while the water ran hot and the steam rose in clouds.
His grin winked off, replaced by a look of puzzlement. Had he turned to her in the night, in his dreams, seeking that tangle of tongues and limbs, that slow, satiny slide of bodies?
Why couldn’t he remember? Why couldn’t he be sure?
What did it matter? Annoyed with himself, he flicked off the water, snatched a towel from the heating rack. Whether it had been real or a dream, she was there for him as he’d wanted no one to be before.
Was it you, or another, she moved under in the night?
Cal’s eyes went dark as the voice whispered slyly in his head. He toweled off roughly.
She uses you. Uses you to gain her own ends. Spellbinds you until she has what she seeks.
The room was suddenly airless, the steam thick and clogging his lungs. He reached blindly for the door, found only swirling air.
She brought you here, drew you into her web. Other men have been trapped in it. She seeks to possess you, body and soul. Who will you be when she’s done with you?
Cal all but fell into the door, panicked for a shuddering instant when he thought it locked. But his slippery hands yanked it open and he stumbled into the cool, sun-washed air of the bedroom. Behind him the mists swirled dark, shimmered greedily, then vanished.
What the hell? He found himself trembling all over, like a schoolboy rushing out of a haunted house. It had seemed as if there had been…something, something cold and slick and smelling of death crowded into that room with him, hiding in the mists.
But when Cal turned and stepped back to the door, he saw only a charming room, a fogged mirror, and the thinning steam from his shower.
Imagination working over, he thought, then let out half a laugh. Whose wouldn’t, under the circumstances? But he shut the bathroom door firmly before he dressed and went down to find her.
She was spinning wool. Humming along with the quiet, rhythmic clacking of spindle and wheel. Her hands were as graceful as a harpist’s on strings and her wool was as white as innocence.
Her dress was blue this morning, deep as her eyes. A thick silver chain carrying an ornately carved pendant hung between her breasts. Her hair was pinned up, leaving that porcelain face unframed.
Cal’s hands itched for his camera. And for her.
She looked up, her hands never faltering, and smiled. “Well, did you decide to join the living, then?”
“My body clock’s still in the States. Is it late?”
“Hmm, nearly half-ten. You’ll be hungry, I’ll wager. Come, have your coffee. I’ll fix your breakfast.”
He caught her hand as she rose. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
She laughed, kissed him lightly. “Oh, we’d have trouble soon enough if you thought I did. As it happens, it’s my pleasure to cook for you this morning.”
His eyes gleamed as he nibbled on her knuckles. “A full Irish breakfast? The works.”
“If you like.”
“Now that you mention it…” His voice trailed off as he took a long, thorough study of her face. Her eyes were shadowed, her skin paler than it should have been. “You look tired. You didn’t sleep well.”
She only smiled and led him into the kitchen. “Maybe you snore.”
“I do not.” He nipped her at the waist, spun her around and kissed her. “Take it back.”
“I only said maybe.” Her brows shot up when his hands roamed around, cupped her bottom. “Are you always so frisky of a morning?”