“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 curtains. 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.