Once upon a Dream (2 page)

S
HADOWS 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 Mohr.

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.”

“Who does?” he murmured. “You're cold.” And he'd done nothing to tend to her. He would see to her comfort, he decided, and then…He would simply see.

He scooped her off the couch, faintly irritated when she pushed a hand against his shoulder defensively.

“I'm sure I can walk.”

“I'm more sure I can. You need dry clothes,” he began as he carried her out of the room. “A warm brew and a hot fire.”

Oh, yes, she thought. It all sounded wonderful. Nearly as wonderful as being carried up a wide, sweeping staircase as if she weighed nothing.

But that was a romantic notion of the kind her mother lived on, the kind that had no place here. She kept that cautious hand pressed to a shoulder that felt like a sculpted curve of rock.

“Thank you for…” She trailed off. She'd turned her head just a fraction, and now her face was close to his, her eyes only inches from his eyes, her mouth a breath from his mouth. A sharp, unexpected thrill stabbed clean through her heart. The strike was followed by a hard jolt that was something like recognition.

“Do I know you?”

“Wouldn't you have the answer to that?” He leaned in, just a little, breathed. “Your hair smells of rain.” Even as her eyes went wide, he skimmed his mouth from her jaw-line to her temple. “And your skin tastes of it.”

He'd learned to savor over the years. To sip even when he wished to gulp. Now he considered her mouth, imagined what flavors her lips would carry. He watched them tremble open.

Ah, yes.

He shifted her, drawing her ever so slightly closer. And she whimpered in pain.

He jerked back, looked down and saw the raw scrape just below her shoulder, and the tear in her sweater. “You're injured. Why the bloody hell didn't you say so before?”

Out of patience—not his strong suit in any case—he strode into the closest bedchamber, set her down on the side of the bed. In one brisk move he tugged the sweater over her head.

Shocked, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Don't you touch me!”

“How can I tend your wounds if I don't touch you?” His brows had lowered, drawn together. She was wearing a bra. He knew they were called that, as he'd seen them worn on the television and in the thin books that were called magazines.

But it was the first time he had witnessed an actual female form so attired.

He liked it very much.

But such delights would have to wait until he saw what condition the woman was in. He leaned over, unhooked her trousers.

“Stop it!” She shoved, tried to scramble back and was hauled not so gently into place.

“Don't be foolish. I've no patience for female flights. If I was after ravishing you, t'would already be done.” Since she continued to struggle, he heaved a breath and looked up.

It was fear he saw—not foolishness but raw fear. A maiden, he thought. For God's sake, Flynn, have a care.

“Kayleen.” He spoke quietly now, his voice as soothing as balm on a burn. “I won't harm you. I only want to see where you're hurt.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Certainly not.”

He seemed so insulted, she nearly laughed.

“I know of healing. Now be still. I ought to have gotten you out of your wet clothes before.” His eyes stayed on hers, seemed to grow brighter. And brighter still, until she could see nothing else. And she sighed. “Lie back now, there's a lass.”

Mesmerized, she lay on the heaps of silk pillows and, docile as a child, let him undress her.

“Sweet Mary, you've legs that go to forever.” His distraction with them caused the simple spell to waver, and she stirred. “A man's entitled to the view,” he muttered, then shook his head. “Look what you've done to yourself. Bruised and scraped one end to the other. Do you like pain, then?”

“No.” Her tongue felt thick. “Of course not.”

“Some do,” he murmured. He leaned over her again. “Look at me,” he demanded. “Look here. Stay.”

Her eyes drooped, half closed as she floated where he wanted, just above the aches. He wrapped her in the quilt, flicked his mind toward the hearth and set the fire roaring.

Then he left her to go to his workshop and gather his potions.

 

He kept her in the light trance as he tended her. He wanted no maidenly fidgets when he touched her. God, it had been so long since he'd touched a woman, flesh against flesh.

In dreams he'd had her under him, her body eager. He'd laid his lips on her, and his mind had felt her give and arch, her rise, her fall. And so his body had hungered for her.

Now she was here, her lovely skin bruised and chilled.

Now she was here, and didn't know why. Didn't know him.

Despair and desire tangled him in knots.

“Lady, who are you?”

“Kayleen Brennan.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Boston.”

“That's America?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “It is.”

“Why are you here?”

“I don't know. Where is here?”

“Nowhere. Nowhere at all.”

She reached out, touched his cheek. “Why are you sad?”

“Kayleen.” Overcome, he gripped her hand, pressed his lips to her palm. “Do they send you to me so I might know joy again, only to lose it?”

“Who are ‘they'?”

He lifted his head, felt the fury burn. So he stepped away and turned to stare into the fire.

He could send her deeper, into the dreaming place. There she would remember what there was, would know what she knew. And would tell him. But if there was nothing in her, he wouldn't survive it. Not sane.

He drew a breath. “I will have my week,” he vowed. “I will have her before it's done. This I will not cast off. This I will not abjure. You cannot break me with this. Not even with her can you break Flynn.”

He turned back, steady and resolved again. “The seven days and seven nights are mine, and so is she. What remains here at the last stroke of the last night remains. That is the law. She's mine now.”

Thunder blasted like cannon shot. Ignoring it, he walked to the bed. “Wake,” he said, and her eyes opened and cleared. As she pushed herself up, he strode to a massive carved armoire, threw the doors open, and selected a long robe of royal blue velvet.

“This will suit you. Dress, then come downstairs.” He tossed the robe on the foot of the bed. “You'll want food.”

“Thank you, but—”

“We'll talk when you've supped.”

“Yes, but I want—” She hissed in frustration as he walked out of the room and shut the door behind him with a nasty little slam.

Manners, she thought, weren't high on the list around here. She dragged a hand through her hair, stunned to find it dry again. Impossible. It had been dripping wet when he'd brought her up here only moments before.

She combed her fingers through it again, frowning. Obviously she was mistaken. It must have been all but dry. The accident had shaken her up, confused her. That was why she wasn't remembering things clearly.

She probably needed to go to a hospital, have X rays taken. Though a hospital seemed silly, really, when she felt fine. In fact, she felt wonderful.

She lifted her arms experimentally. No aches, no twinges. She poked gingerly at the scrape. Hadn't it been longer and deeper along her elbow? It was barely tender now.

Well, she'd been lucky. And now, since she was starving, she'd take the eccentric Flynn up on a meal. After that, her mind was bound to be steadier, and she'd figure out what to do next.

Satisfied, she tossed the covers back. And let out a muffled squeal. She was stark naked.

My God, where were her clothes? She remembered, yes, she remembered the way he'd yanked her sweater off, and then he'd…Damn it. She pressed a trembling hand to her temple.
Why
couldn't she remember? She'd been frightened, she'd shoved at him, and then…then she'd been wrapped in a blanket, in a room warmed by a blazing fire and he'd told her to get dressed and come down to dinner.

Well, if she was having blackouts, the hospital was definitely first on the agenda.

She snatched up the robe. Then simply rubbed the rich fabric over her cheek and moaned. It felt like something a princess would wear. Or a goddess. But certainly nothing that Kayleen Brennan of Boston would slip casually into for dinner.

This will suit you, he'd said. The idea of that made her laugh, but she slid her arms into it and let herself enjoy the lustrous warmth against her skin.

She turned, caught her own reflection in a cheval glass. Her hair was a tumble around the shoulders of the deep blue robe that swept down her body and ended in a shimmer of gold lace at the ankles.

I don't look like me, she thought. I look like something out of a fairy tale. Because that made her feel foolish, she turned away.

The bed she'd lain in was covered with velvet as well and lushly canopied with more. On the bureau, and certainly that was a Charles II in perfect condition, sat a lady's brush set of silver with inlays of lapis, antique perfume bottles of opal and of jade. Roses, fresh as morning and white as snow, stood regally in a cobalt vase.

A fairy tale of a room as well, she mused. One fashioned for candlelight and simmering fires. There was a Queen Anne desk in the corner, and tall windows draped in lace and velvet, pretty watercolors of hills and meadows on the walls, lovely faded rugs over the thick planked floors.

If she'd conjured the perfect room, this would have been it.

His manners might be lacking, but his taste was impeccable. Or his wife's, she corrected. For obviously this was a woman's room.