Page 5

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.”