A Little Magic(62)

Impatient with the distance, he muttered the magic under his breath. And appeared again in the great hall.

He wrenched open the door. Met the fury of the storm with fury of his own.

And saw her.

He stared, transfixed. He lost his breath, his mind. His heart.

She had come.

She looked at him, a smile trembling on her lips and sending the dimple at the corner of her mouth to winking.

“There you are,” she said.

And fainted at his feet.





2




SHADOWS and shapes and murmuring voices. They swirled in her head, swelling, fading in a cycle of confusion.

Even when she opened her eyes, they were there. Revolving. What? was her only thought. What is it?

She was cold and wet, and every part of her was a separate ache. An accident. Of course, an accident. But…

What is it?

She focused and saw overhead, high overhead, a curved ceiling where plaster faeries danced among ribbons of flowers. Odd, she thought. How odd and lovely. Dazed, she lifted a hand to her brow, felt the damp. Thinking it blood, she let out a gasp, tried to sit up.

Her head spun like a carousel.

“Uh-oh.” Trembling now, she looked at her fingers and saw only clear rainwater.

And, turning her head, saw him.

First came the hard jolt of shock, like a vicious strike to the heart. She could feel panic gathering in her throat and fought to swallow it.

He was staring at her. Rudely, she would think later when fear had made room for annoyance. And there was anger in his eyes. Eyes as green as the rain-washed hills of Ireland. He was all in black. Perhaps that was why he looked so dangerous.

His face was violently handsome—“violent” was the word that kept ringing in her ears. Slashing cheekbones, lancing black brows, a fierce frown on a mouth that struck her as brutal. His hair was as dark as his clothing and fell in wild waves nearly to his shoulders.

Her heart pounded, a primal warning. Even as she shrank back, she gathered the courage to speak. “Excuse me. What is it?”

He said nothing. Had been unable to speak since he’d lifted her off the floor. A trick, a new torment? Was she, after all, only a dream within a dream?

But he’d felt her. The cold damp of her flesh, the weight and the shape of her. Her voice came clear to him now, as did the terror in her eyes.

Why should she be afraid? Why should she fear when she had unmanned him? Five hundred years of solitude hadn’t done so, but this woman had accomplished it with one quick stroke.

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving her face. “You are come. Why?”

“I…I don’t understand. I’m sorry. Do you speak English?”

One of those arching brows rose. He’d spoken in Gaelic, for he most often thought in the language of his life. But five hundred years of alone had given him plenty of time for linguistics. He could certainly speak English, and half a dozen other languages besides.

“I asked why you have come.”

“I don’t know.” She wanted to sit up but was afraid to try it again. “I think there must have been an accident. I can’t quite remember.”

However much it might hurt to move, she couldn’t stay flat on her back looking up at him. It made her feel foolish and helpless. She set her teeth, pushed herself up slowly. Her stomach pitched, her head rang, but she managed to sit.

And sitting, glanced around the room.

An enormous room, she noted, and filled with the oddest conglomeration of furnishings. There was an old and beautiful refectory table that held dozens of candlesticks. Silver, wrought iron, pottery, crystal. Pikes were crossed on the wall, and near them was a dramatic painting of the Cliffs of Moher.

There were display cabinets from various eras. Charles II, James I. Neoclassic bumped up against Venetian, Chippendale against Louis XV. An enormous big-screen television stood near a priceless Victorian davenport.

Placed at random were Waterford bowls, T’ang horses, Dresden vases, and…several PEZ dispensers.

Despite discomfort, the eccentricity tickled her humor. “What an interesting room.” She glanced up at him again. He’d yet to stop staring. “Can you tell me how I got here?”

“You came.”

“Yes, apparently, but how? And…I seem to be very wet.”

“It’s raining.”

“Oh.” She blew out a breath. The fear had ebbed considerably. After all, the man collected Pez dispensers and Georgian silver. “I’m sorry, Mister…”

“I’m Flynn.”

“Mister Flynn.”

“Flynn,” he repeated.

“All right. I’m sorry, Flynn, I can’t seem to think very clearly.” She was shivering, violently now, and wrapped her arms around her chest. “I was going somewhere, but…I don’t know where I am.”