Spellbound

you as a man would, with desire.”
    “We’re not spirits. We have our needs, our weaknesses. He wants me, yes. He has broken into my dreams and shownme just what he wants from me. And rape in dreams is no less a rape.” She trembled and her eyes went blind. For a moment she was only a woman, with a woman’s fears. “He frightens me. Is that enough for you? Is it enough that I’d rather die than have his hands on me? He frightens me,” she said again and pressed her face into Cal’s shoulder. “Oh, Calin, his hands are cold, so cold.”
    “He won’t touch you.” The need to protect was too strong to deny. His arms tightened, brought her close. “He won’t touch you. Bryna.” His lips brushed over her hair, down her temple. Found hers. “Bryna,” he said again. “Sweet God.”
    She melted into him, yielding like wax, giving like glory. All the confusion, the doubt, the fear slid away from him. Here was the woman, the only, the ever. His hands dived into her hair, fisted in those soft ropes of red silk, pulled her head back so that he could drive the kiss deeper.
    Whatever had brought him here he would face. Whatever else he might continue to deny, there was no denying this. Need could be stronger than reason.
    The sounds humming in her throat were both plea and seduction. Her heart hammered fast and hard against his, and her body shuddered lightly. She nipped at his lip, urging him on. He heard her sigh his name, moan it, then whisper words ripe with longing.
    The words were in Gaelic, and that was what stopped him. He understood them as if he’d been speaking the language all his life.
    “Love,” she had said. “My love.”
    “Is this the answer?” The fury returned as he pushed her back against the wall. “Is this what you want?” Now his kiss tasted of violence, of desperation, nearly of punishment.
    Her own fears sprang hot to her throat, taunting her to fight him, to reject the anger. But she offered no struggle, took the heat, the rough hands until he drew back and stared at her out of stormy eyes.
    She took a steadying breath, waited until she was sure her voice would be strong and sure. “It’s one answer. Yes, I want you.” Slowly she unfastened the buttons running down the front of her dress. “I want you to touch me, to take me.”Parted the material, let it slide to the floor so that she stood before him defenseless and naked. “Where you like, when you like, how you like.”
    He kept his eyes on hers. “You said that to me before, once before.”
    Emotions swirling, she closed her eyes, then opened them again. And smiled. “I did. A thousand years ago. More or less.”
    He remembered. She had stood facing him, flowers blooming at her feet. And she had undraped herself so that the pearly light had gleamed on her skin. She had offered herself without restrictions. He’d lost himself in her, flowers crushed and fragrant under their eager bodies.
    He shook his head, and the image faded away. Memory or imagination, it no longer mattered. He knew only one vital thing. “This is now. This is you and me. Nothing else touches it. Whatever happened or didn’t happen before, this is for us.”
    He scooped her into his arms. “That’s the way I want it,” he stated.
    She stared at him, for she was spellbound now. She’d thought he would simply take her where they stood, seeking release, even oblivion. She’d tasted the sharp edge of his passion, felt the violence simmering under his skin. Instead, he carried her in his arms as if she were something he could cherish.
    And when he laid her on the bed, stepped back to look at her, she felt a flush warm her cheeks. She managed a quick smile. “You’ll be needing your clothes off,” she said, tried to laugh and sit up, but he touched a hand to her shoulder.
    “I’ll do it. Lie back, Bryna. I want to see you with your hair burning over the pillows, and the sun on your skin.” He would photograph her like this, he realized. Would be compelled to see if he could capture the magic of it, of her—long limbs, slender curves, eyes full of needs and nerves.
    He watched her as he undressed, and his voice was quiet and serious when he spoke. “Are you afraid of me?”
    “I wasn’t. I didn’t expect to be.” But her heart was fluttering like bird’s wings. “I suppose I am, yes. A little. Because it means…everything.”
    He tossed his clothes toward the little chair, never taking his eyes from hers. “I don’t know what I