Spellbound

knowledge. And eyes as blue as a living star and just as filled with power.
    His heart leaped, and his blood churned with love, lust, longing.
    She came to him, wading through the knee-high mists, her beauty staggering. With his eyes on hers, he swung off his horse, eager for the woman who was witch, and lover.
    “Caelan of Farrell, ’tis far you’ve traveled in the dark of the night. What do you wish of me?”
    “Bryna the Wise.” His hard, ridged lips bowed in a smile that answered hers. “I wish for everything.”
    “Only everything?” Her laugh was low and intimate. “Well, that’s enough, then. I waited for you.”
    Then her arms were around him, her mouth lifting to his. He pulled her closer, desperate for the shape of her, wild to have whatever she would offer him, and more.
    “I waited for you,” she repeated with a catch in her voice as she pressed her face to his shoulder. “ ’Twas almost too long this time. His power grows while mine weakens. I can’t fight him alone. Alasdair is too strong, his dark forces too greedy. Oh, love. My love, why did you shut me out of your mind, out of your heart?”
    He drew her away. The castle was gone—only ruins remained, empty, battle-scarred. They stood in the shadow of what had been, before a small house alive with flowers. The scent of them was everywhere, heady, intoxicating. The woman was still in his arms. And the storm waited to explode.
    “The time is short now,” she told him. “You must come. Calin, you must come to me. Destiny can’t be denied, a spell won’t be broken. Without you with me, he’ll win.”
    He shook his head, started to speak, but she lifted a hand to his face. It passed through him as if he were a ghost. Or she was. “I have loved you throughout time.” As she spoke, she moved back, the mists flowing around her legs. “I am bound to you, throughout time.”
    Then lifting her arms, raising palms to the heavens, she closed her eyes. The wind roared in like a lion loosed from a cage, lifted her flaming hair, whipped the cloak around her.
    “I have little left,” she called over the violence of the storm. “But I can still call up the wind. I can still call to your heart. Don’t keep it from me, Calin. Come to me soon. Find me. Or I’m lost.”
    Then she was gone. Vanished. The earth trembled beneath his feet, the sky howled. And all went silent and still.
    He awoke gasping for breath. And reaching out.

C HAPTER 1
    “Calin Farrell, you need a vacation.”
    Cal lifted a shoulder, sipped his coffee, and continued to brood while staring out the kitchen window. He wasn’t sure why he’d come here to listen to his mother nag and worry about him, to hear his father whistle as he meticulously tied his fishing flies at the table. But he’d had a deep, driving urge to be in the home of his childhood, to grab an hour or two in the tidy house in Brooklyn Heights. To see his parents.
    “Maybe. I’m thinking about it.”
    “Work too hard,” his father said, eyeing his own work critically. “Could come to Montana for a couple of weeks with us. Best fly-fishing in the world. Bring your camera.” John Farrell glanced up and smiled. “Call it a sabbatical.”
    It was tempting. He’d never been the fishing enthusiast his father was, but Montana was beautiful. And big. Cal thought he could lose himself there. And shake off the restlessness. The dreams.
    “A couple of weeks in the clean air will do you good.” Sylvia Farrell narrowed her eyes as she turned to her son. “You’re looking pale and tired, Calin. You need to get out of that city for a while.”
    Though she’d lived in Brooklyn all of her life, Sylvia still referred to Manhattan as “that city” with light disdain and annoyance.
    “I’ve been thinking about a trip.”
    “Good.” His mother scrubbed at her countertop. They were leaving the next morning, and Sylvia Farrell wouldn’tleave a crumb or a mote of dust behind. “You’ve been working too hard, Calin. Not that we aren’t proud of you. After your exhibit last month your father bragged so much that the neighbors started to hide when they saw him coming.”
    “Not every day a man gets to see his son’s photographs in the museum. I liked the nudes especially,” he added with a wink.
    “You old fool,” Sylvia muttered, but her lips twitched. “Well, who’d have thought when we bought you that little camera for Christmas when you were eight that twenty-two years later you’d be rich and