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.