Spellbound

a flash of frustration. But he couldn’t know just how deeply that disappointment, that frustration cut into her heart.
    He’s here, she told herself. He’s come. That’s what matters most now. “It is, yes.” She gave him a smile, let her fingers linger in his hair just another second, then dropped them to her sides. “Welcome to Ireland and the Castle of Secrets.”
    His gaze shifted toward the ruins. “Is that what it’s called?”
    “That’s the name it carries now.” She had to struggle tokeep her eyes from devouring him, every inch, every expression. Instead she offered a hand, as she would have to any wayward traveler. “You’ve had a long journey. Come, sit by my fire.” Her lips curved. “Have some whiskey in your tea.”
    “You don’t know me.” He made it a statement rather than a question. Had to.
    In answer, she looked up at the sky. “You’re wet,” she said, “and the wind’s cold today. It’s enough to have me offer a seat by the hearth.” She turned away from him, stepped up onto the porch where the cat stirred itself to wind through her legs. “You’ve come this far.” Her eyes met his again, held. “Will you come into my home, Calin Farrell, and warm yourself?”
    He scooped dripping hair out of his face, felt his bones tremble. “How do you know my name?”
    “The same way you knew to come here.” She picked up the cat, stroked its silky head. Both of them watched him with patient, unblinking blue eyes. “I baked scones fresh this morning. You’ll be hungry.” With this, she turned and walked inside, leaving him to come or go as he willed.
    Part of him wanted to get back in the car, drive away, pretend he’d never seen her or this place. But he climbed onto the porch, pushed the front door open. He needed answers, and it seemed she had at least some of them.
    The warmth struck him instantly. Welcoming warmth redolent with the fragrances of bread recently baked, of peat simmering in the hearth, of flowers just picked.
    “Make yourself at home.” She set the cat on the floor. “I’ll see to the tea.”
    Cal stepped into the tiny parlor and near to the red eye of the fire. There were flowers, he noted, their petals still damp, filling vases on the stone mantel, pots on the table by the window.
    A sugan chair sat by the hearth, but he didn’t sit. Instead he studied the room with the sharp eye of an artist.
    Quiet colors, he thought. Not pale, but soothing in the choice of deep rose and mossy greens. Woven rugs on the polished floors, mirror-bright woods lovingly cared for andsmelling lightly of beeswax. Candles everywhere, in varying lengths, standing in holders of glass and silver and stone.
    There, by the hearth, a spinning wheel. Surely an antique, he mused as he stepped closer to examine it. Its dark wood gleamed, and beside it sat a straw basket heaped with beautifully dyed wools.
    But for the electric lamps and their jewellike shades, the small stereo tucked into a stack of books on a shelf, he might have convinced himself he’d stepped into another century.
    Absently he crouched to pet the cat, which was rubbing seductively against his legs. The fur was warm and damp. Real. He hadn’t walked into another century, Cal assured himself. Or into a dream. He was going to ask his hostess some very pointed questions, he decided. And he wasn’t going anywhere until he was satisfied with the answers.
    As she carried the tray back down the short hallway, she berated herself for losing her sense in the storm of emotion, for moving too quickly, saying too much. Expecting too much.
    He didn’t know her. Oh, that cut through the heart into the soul. But it had been foolish of her to expect him to, when he had blocked out her thoughts, her need for him for more than fifteen years.
    She had continued to steal into his dreams when he was unaware, to watch him grow from boy to man as she herself blossomed into womanhood. But pride, and hurt, and love had stopped her from calling to him.
    Until there had been no choice.
    She’d known it the moment he stepped onto the ground of her own country. And her heart had leaped. Had it been so wrong, and so foolish, to prepare for him? To fill the house with flowers, the kitchen with baking? To bathe herself in oils of her own making, anointing her skin as a bride would on her wedding night?
    No. She took a deep breath at the doorway. She had needed to prepare herself for him. Now she must find the right way to prepare him