Under Your Spell

UNDER YOUR SPELL

Shiloh Walker

Under Your Spell

Chapter One The first time they had seen each other she had been striding, naked, out of the water of the lazily flowing stream, her gilt-edged hair sleeked back from her lovely face, leaving it unframed. Such a face, heart-shaped, with a pink, soft mouth, big round blue eyes, a small, delicate nose. She should have looked fragile. So few women he knew moved like she did, so confident, so easily, with her arms swinging freely at her sides. Her head was up, hair flowing in wet streams down her back, shoulders and back straight, displaying that lovely naked body so casually. His mother and sister, they…flowed. Like a billowing cloud across the sky in their fine silks and satins, making nary a sound unless they meant to, as they went about their business in the manor. The serfs scurried and dashed, heads down, hands busy, as they sought to keep their lord and lady happy with them. Men strode. Women did not. But this one did, her blue eyes full of pride and dignity and humor. No fear, not even embarrassment at being caught bathing nude, something that should have had her blushing and running for cover. No woman of morals… Her eyes met his at that exact moment and a smile curved her lips, as she paused for only the briefest of moments, lifting one brow at him, her blue eyes meeting his before continuing on to her clothes, using a length of cloth to dry herself before donning her shift. Whatever do morals have to do with needing a bath? Nicholas blinked as the random thought ran through his head, almost like it wasn’t his thought. A woman like no other he had ever seen. Nay, she did not appear at all fragile. She looked like a pagan goddess. Confident, aware, sensual. Through the damp, thin cloth, he could see the rise of her hard, pouting nipples, the flat of her belly, her sweetly flared hips, the mound of her sex, covered by wispy curls of gold. His cock raged to rampant life and he ground his teeth, hating that he was tempted to go to her, take her to the ground and bury his rod in that body. She was young, she was common. He was a lord and this was his family’s land. He had every right—she was here, flaunting herself at him…

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It was that very thinking that had led him to despise the nobility he had been born into. How many broken young women had he seen cast out of their homes because some noble man forced his child on her? Raped her, abused her, and impregnated her? Then her family turned her out and left her to starve. And here he was wanting to bury his rigid flesh in this sweet young thing’s womanhood, all because she walked naked out of his family’s stream. What harm was there in her taking a swim? Hadn’t he often done the same? Ah, but she was lovely. Nicholas hated that he had to clear his tight throat before he could even speak. “You trespass on Montgomery land,” he said slowly. “Forgive me, my lord. I wanted only to take a bath. Such a lovely stream,” the girl all but purred at him, sliding him a look from under a fringe of heavy golden eyelashes. He arched a brow at her and said, “‘Tis not safe for a woman to be alone in the forest, much less a naked woman.” He lowered his brows, his voice stern, arrogant, and she should have been utterly cowed. She smiled serenely. “I can take care of myself, my lord,” she said confidently. Her bright blue eyes all but sparkled with laughter. If only that were true, Nicholas wished bleakly. “There are bandits, I fear, preying upon our people, especially our women. We have captured a few, but not all. It is not safe. Come, I will escort you home.” A tiny, cold smile graced the woman’s face. “I say it again, I can take care of myself, my lord,” she repeated, moving gracefully out of his reach, pulling her simple gown over her head and easily lacing it up on her own. Seating herself on a rock, she reached for her slippers and put them on, humming under her breath, ignoring him. “I will escort you home,” he said firmly. He had not wanted to do it this way—he had always been very careful how he used his abilities. Mother had taken great care that he understand that. He could coerce a great many people to do a great many things, and had. Many of those impregnated young women would never know why the fathers of their bastard children suddenly appeared to offer money, a home, food, everything the child could ever need. And he would coerce this woman to let him escort her home. Ridiculous, surely, but she would not listen to an order from a lord, and he would not risk seeing another broken, battered corpse. So as he spoke, he inflicted his will upon her. From experience, he knew his grassgreen eyes would be glowing, though the woman would never remember that. He knew she would be unable to resist, that she would docilely follow him home, and would obey his unspoken command to not wander alone again. Again, he said, voice throbbing, echoing with power, “I will escort you home.”

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“No. You will not,” she said just as firmly, her sweet voice stubborn, insistent, her wide blue eyes lifting from the ground to meet his. Nicholas nearly fell on his ass. Those blue eyes, as blue as the summer sky, glowed hot and clear, swirling and sparking. She rose from the rock she had sat on, her hair blowing back from her face by an unseen wind, her heart-shaped face glowing as if from within. Hair that had just been sopping wet was now completely dry and falling in thick curls around her shoulders as that unseen wind continued to blow. Her lush, pink mouth curved in a smile and she laughed brightly. “Oh, look what we have here—another witch,” she exclaimed as she clapped her hands twice, looking as pleased as a child with a toy. “And in the revered Montgomery family, too,” she whispered, conspiratorially. Then the laughter died from her eyes as she held out one hand and a light sparked there. No, not a light, Nicholas realized, a ball of fire. It grew and grew until he could feel the heat. It was real, not an illusion. He could conjure illusion. His mother could as well. So could his sister. But they couldn’t call true fire. Their magic was not of that nature. Such wild, free magic was something so few witches could do. She banished the flame and the power, the wind died, her dry hair floated down to curl wildly around her face. “I can take care of myself, my lord, I promise you that. And I know of the bandits. They are why I am here.” Settling down on the rock, she drew her knees up to her chest, smoothing her skirts over them, and then resting her chin on her knees, staring back into the water. “The last woman you found was my sister, my lord Montgomery,” she said softly, her soft blue eyes going dark and haunted. “And they will die for what they did to her. I swear it.” The low, insistent throb of her voice struck a chord in his heart as he stared down into her somber face. “They will pay.” And her eyes started to glow.

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Chapter Two Her name was Aislinn. She was enchanting. She was intoxicating. She was forbidden. She was irresistible. She was passionate. When she spoke of her murdered sister, her voice throbbed and heated with a need for justice that Nicholas knew he could not deny her. But he would find it for her, he assured her. He could not. She had to do it herself, she had said. And he had given in. How had she convinced him? Ah, but she was lovely and winsome, more than any woman he had ever seen, with her laughing eyes and glowing smile. And then, quick as a blink of the eye, the laughter would fade, and such sorrow would fill her eyes, and he knew she thought of the battered and beaten body of her sister, the last lifeless body he had found. And he could not deny her need for justice and vengeance. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. But sometimes it came in human form, Nicholas believed. In witch form, as he studied the young, determined woman in front of him as she laid out her plan. It could work. She knew where they had made camp. She had tried drawing them out as she bathed, but he had come instead. But she knew where they had made their camp. She would not tell him, but she would allow him to join her, help her. It could work. They could stop them. And he wouldn’t have to find another lifeless, battered woman. Or even worse, look into the empty, lifeless eyes of a woman who had survived their attack—yet still her heartbeat. Nicholas knew, even as he followed her into the woods, that this was dangerous. Witch or no, she was a woman. She could fall, hit her head and pass out. Unconscious, her magic would be of no use. But he would let no harm befall her. And the bandits terrorizing his lands had to be stopped. The sheriff’s men had been of no help. His father’s men had tried, but Nicholas suspected one of them was a bloody traitor. He had intended to question each of them on their last return, only half of them

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had not returned. He believed one of them had only pretended to be dead and had in fact joined his new friends. His eyes stayed on the bright banner of her golden curls. Such impossible colors there, some nearly silvery-gold, some nearly the color of gold coins, others almost butter-yellow. He recalled, too, the color of the hair covering her sex, a soft mellow gold, covering sweet, tender pink flesh. Beneath the simple green wool of her gown, her hips swayed back and forth, her every move a subtle call to him. Nicholas had to clench his teeth and stifle a moan when she turned and glanced at him over her shoulder, smiling her little feline smile, her eyes filled with secrets and magic. She moved through the forest like some sort of spirit, making nearly no sound, pausing from time to time to just…listen. He suspected she was listening with something other than her ears. He could sense some strange sort of power flowing from her as she stood there, her hair caressing her face in the soft breeze, her large blue eyes half-closed, her pink lips parted. Nicholas could not stop himself. Covering the distance between them, he covered that sweetly parted mouth with his, waiting for her to push him away. Instead, her small, surprisingly strong hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him closer. Nicholas moved his hands down her narrow back, gripping her waist and pulling her small body close to his, groaning when he felt her firm breasts against his chest, his cock cuddling against her soft belly through the layers of cloth that separated them. He slowly thrust his tongue inside her mouth, finding a taste like honey and mead and sex, heady and addictive. His chest, hard, warm, and firm crushed against her and Aislinn made a soft, startled sound in her throat, her head falling back, before she shyly moved her tongue against his. At the same time, she rocked her hips, caressing his shaft as she slid her hands up his neck to bury her fingers in his hair, fisting and holding there. He trailed one hand up her side to cup her breast, finding her nipple already hard and pouting and firm. Quickly, he freed the laces of her gown, shoving the cloth to her waist as he pulled away to nibble on her lip, her chin, down her neck and collar bone, his hands closing over her narrow waist, lifting her up so that he could feast on those pretty breasts. She made a startled cry when his hot mouth closed over one pink, pouting nipple, her legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, bringing her sex into direct contact with his cock, their bodies separated by only a few thin shields of cloth. Aislinn whimpered when he swirled his tongue over her nipple before biting it gently. His mouth…so hot, so fierce, so wondrous. She was absently aware that he was removing more of their clothing. But his hands, those magical hands, were moving over her body and creating trails of fire everywhere he touched.

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And his mouth…he pulled his mouth away from her nipple, kissing his way down her torso, her belly as he dropped to his knees, setting her on the ground, and his lips and tongue left little trails of fire everywhere he touched. Catching her behind one knee, he lifted it and draped it over his shoulder and put his face between her thighs. Right against her sex, and he smelled her, lifting his face briefly to look up at her and say, “Such a sweet thing you are.” Then he licked her, using two fingers to open her folds, licking her slowly. His long, black hair fell around his wide, golden shoulders, spilled past a rather magnificent chest. A flat belly, narrow hips, and the long heavy thighs of a knight who was used to battle—he was so beautiful. He looked like one of God’s own angels, with his narrow, lean face, high, arched black brows, a sculpted mouth, and large intelligent green eyes. But considering what he was doing, pressing his face against her sex, nuzzling her, kissing her, his unclothed body kneeling in front of her naked one, perhaps she should be thinking of Lucifer rather than the highest Angel in heaven. She cried out when she felt the wet swipe of his tongue, but she absolutely screamed when his teeth found that one little spot she had discovered last year, that hard little bump that would drive her mad when she stroked it. He stroked it. He licked it. He bit it. Then Nicholas stroked it some more with his tongue, tenderly at first and then faster and faster until she was rocking her hips urgently against his mouth and whimpering and pleading. Aislinn fell and he caught her, taking her to the ground and lying on her on their discarded clothes, before returning to his place between her thighs. He entered her with his tongue now, and she moaned weakly. Using his fingers, he pumped them in and out, first one and then two, slowly at first, and then faster until she was screaming and moaning and pleading for something she didn’t even understand, sobbing out, “Please, please!” as he pumped his fingers harder and faster inside her. Nicholas stared up the length of her body at her sweet face flushed with passion, her eyes glittering brightly, blindly, her tongue dampening her lush, swollen mouth. Her breasts moved rapidly as she tried to catch her breath, the dark pink nipples drawn into tight little buds, her sweetly rounded little belly and hips, and the silky curls that covered her sex. He fixed his gaze there, watching as he pushed two fingers back inside her wet passage, the tight, silky walls closing over him. The pink, tender flesh was hot, slippery with her cream and softer than the finest of silks. She had made no protest, none, at anything he had done. No virgin was likely to let him taste her with nary a complaint. But she was tight, and so sweet, and she had been so startled when he had kissed her, both her mouth and her womanhood. The sweet, spicy taste of her cream was intoxicating. Whoever had taken her first had done a poor job of it, he decided as he moved atop her, spreading her legs as he mounted her. He would show her what it was like to be loved, and loved well. He would not hurt her, and perhaps…perhaps he could even keep her. 10

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Her sweet, wet passage closed over the head of his cock and he had to grit his teeth to keep from driving ruthlessly inside her. She made a soft distressed sound and he lowered his head and kissed her deeply, sharing the sweet, addictive taste of her own body, as he slowly forged his way deeper inside her, reaching down and lifting her hips up. When he came to her maidenhead, he froze. Bloody hell. He jerked up, staring down at her in shock, while his body, his heart and soul clamored that he finish, that he mark and claim her for always. Always? This girl he had just met? Impossible…part of him whispered. Destiny… “You have not lain with a man before,” he said roughly, his chest heaving, muscles gleaming with a light coat of sweat. “Nay,” she gasped, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. He was hurting her, Nicholas realized. Lowering his head, he kissed her eyes, licked away the tears that fell, soothing her gently, strapping down the urges inside him. He wanted to drive and plunge inside her. But this sweet young virgin…he had no right. “I can stop now, and no harm will be done,” he offered. It would be the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, to withdraw now, when she hugged the first few inches of his cock so sweetly and tightly, wet and soft as silk. Aislinn glared up at him. “If you stop now a great deal of harm will be done, and all of it to you. I will do it to you,” she told him, squirming underneath him, clenching her inner muscles around him. “Are you certain? This cannot lead to anything between us,” he said, groaning and closing his eyes as she caressed his flesh with hers. “I can offer only this.” “Please, my lord,” she whimpered, rocking up. “Nicholas,” he whispered, against her ear, lowering his body to hers, feeling the soft push of her breasts against his chest, the silky wet heat that held only the first few inches of his cock. “When we are together, I am Nicholas. You are Aislinn. Not my lord or my lady. Nicholas.” “Nicholas, please.” “This will hurt,” he murmured in apology. Then he reared back and drove in, feeling the tearing of her maidenhead around his cock, feeling her body stiffen. He swallowed her scream as he kissed her roughly, sliding his hand between them to circle and stroke the hard nub of flesh until the shudders wracking her body were those of pleasure instead of pain. When she was bucking and arching against him, he moved higher on her body and lifted her legs up, opening her body more and driving deeply into her, staring down so that he could see where they joined, his darker flesh spearing her paler, pink flesh, her

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golden curls caressing his rod each time he shafted her. “Watch,” he purred, using his fingers on her clit again, smiling as she shuddered and broke around him, wet waves of cream coating his cock as she screamed in ecstasy, her blue eyes darkening to midnight in her pleasure. Sliding his hand up her side, he painted her nipple with cream before lowering his head and catching the plump pink tip between his teeth. With a hungry groan he licked it clean and continued to suckle as he shafted her with short deep digs of his cock, working one arm under her hips and lifting her for better penetration. The satiny, tight confines of her pussy tightened convulsively around him again, and Nicholas growled against her breast, palming her butt. Burrowing his head between her breasts, he pounded himself into her as she started to scream and score his back with her nails as she came again. He climaxed inside her with a roar, flooding her welcoming depths with his seed, as an orgasm unlike any he had ever known ripped through him. When it finally ended, he rested on her sweet body, struggling to breathe. To his disgust, he realized his eyes burned with tears. He loved her. This was his soul mate, the one he had been born for, as she had been born for him. What a sad joke for the Lord God to play on him, and of all the times to be playing it. His Spanish bride, the woman he had been promised to for the past ten years, was to arrive in three months for their marriage. And now, he held his heart’s desire in his arms. His mother knew the moment she saw his father she loved him. But they had both been of noble blood. And both had already been promised to the other. Fate, or perhaps God, had been kind. But Nicholas—he cuddled her sweet body to his, and damned himself to hell. He should have gone hunting with his brothers that day.

***** Nicholas kept her, for three short months, after they managed to find the bandits. He still could not believe what he had seen that night. After they had finished their loving, she had lain against him for a few brief moments and then had leaped to her feet, agile as a deer and stood listening, her eyes closed. He had sat up slowly and watched her. The forest fell into an unnatural silence and he had the oddest feeling it was speaking to her. An unseen wind blew her hair back from her face, caressed her body, but left him untouched.

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Her eyes opened and locked with his and she said softly, “They are close. They’ve left their camp and go hunting for sport tonight. We must go, my lord.” And her voice had throbbed and echoed while her eyes glowed richly with her power. She had pretended to be lost, while Nicholas stood, waiting in the shadows, sword drawn and ready. He never should have allowed it, but she was a persuasive little witch, and she had convinced him, rather, he had let her convince him. And he knew he wanted no other women to die. His conscience could not take seeing another broken, bleeding body, so many of them hardly more than children. She had stared at him, her blue eyes swirling with power and confidence and rage and he had known, just known, that she could do all she promised, and more. There need be no more deaths, no more rapes, nor bloodied, broken women who stared at everyone and everything with fear in their eyes. It could all end, that very night. Once the bandits came upon her, Nicholas came out of his place in the shadows, and the bandits turned and saw him, laughing. They numbered eight, and could easily dispose of one highborn lord, even a knighted one. Of course, Nicholas had a few weapons they knew nothing of. And so did Aislinn. Three of the eight died the moment they laid hands on her, simply falling to the ground, stone cold and drained of life. She had smiled coldly, smugly, as she lifted her gown and daintily stepped over them. Three others went after Nicholas and he dispatched them with his sword, not even bothering to use any of his mind-magic. He saved the traitor, the one who had been a family servant, for last and he took his time, letting the bastard think he might even spare him. The other two were the leaders and Aislinn insisted she be allowed to deal with them. Nicholas had not answered, intent on dealing with them himself, but before he could even move two steps, she had started and finished, reaching out towards him with an unseen hand. Using her gifts and his, she had the men convinced they were women, the women they had abused, and they were caught in a mental loop of endless abuse and rape and torture. He asked how long it would last. She had coldly said, “Until they decide to end it.” Until they committed suicide. He had to admit, it was rather…fitting. They had left the men screaming, whimpering, crying like the broken women who had survived what had been done to them, begging and pleading for mercy.

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***** They started to meet, often and always in secret. In those few short months, he had learned his magic was more similar to hers than he had thought. He had nowhere near her abilities, but he could move things from one place to another, including himself, with just a thought. He couldn’t create fire, couldn’t summon the elements like she could, but he had more magic inside him than he had thought. She helped bring it out. He was not certain whether he was happy or sad about that. He was seeing the world through new eyes, and learning how to spin rainbows from his own hands. Such pure, fine magic, and so few things he could share with anyone other than Aislinn. Only with her. It gave such joy, brought such joy. The rush it gave him was a maddening, sexual one that never failed to bring a wild grin to his face. It was little wonder she had looked so much like a goddess striding out of the stream that first morning. Wielding such a deep, seductive power was addictive. It soon changed so many things about him—the way he walked, the way he looked at things. Now that it was out, how could he ever push it back inside again? And now that he had her? How could he ever live without her?

***** Would he come? Aislinn didn’t know. Pacing back and forth, she cast one fretful glance after another towards the tree line. To the left ran the stream, her mare waiting patiently for her. Kicking her long skirts out of the way, she paused to stare at Diana. The gray mare gazed back at her with wise, knowing eyes. Frustrated, Aislinn said, “Stop looking at me so, Diana.” The mare heaved a sigh and went back to grazing, occasionally lifting her eyes to study her mistress worriedly. Her chest was tight, with both residual rage and fear. Her throat was swollen, raw and aching from the tears she had finally stopped shedding. There would be no more tears—no matter what he told her. She would not shed another tear over Nicholas Montgomery.

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The rage inside her had finally burned itself from a wildfire down to a smoldering one that was just waiting to be stoked again. And the pain…oh, the pain, it was a biting, gnawing thing that continued to eat at her, driving her to near insanity. But no more tears. She was a witch, a strong, proud witch, not some silly little silken lady who would pine herself away over the likes of the handsome lord. The past three nights had been the longest of her life. And she had shed enough tears to last her a lifetime. In the little shop that had belonged to her parents, where they had spent so many nights in each other’s arm, he had come to her, lain with her one last time. Afterward, he had told her—while she still had his seed wet on her thighs, while her heart still thundered from the climaxes he had given her—that he was to wed another three days hence. He had known for years, and had not told her. He had shattered her. The pain had been visceral, devastating—betrayal at its worst, while she still had his semen inside her. But, most painful had been when he had offered to make her his mistress. Nay, she thought with a snarl. His whore. No matter how much he professed to love her, if he was fucking her while married to another, providing for her while married to another, it made her a whore. It was even more painful, though, that she had been tempted…very tempted. And if he knew how very few choices she had, how very little time, he would have pushed, and she might have given in. And she would have hated herself. Eventually she would have hated him. But he loved her. He would not leave her, surely. “I am not being foolish,” she insisted, staring into Diana’s dark, soft eyes. “He loves me. I know he does.” The mare seemed to shrug before returning to nibbling delicately at the grass. “What is taking the man so long?” she wondered aloud. Her hand clenched and her right eye twitched ever so slightly. Her skin crawled as the wild magic ran loose inside her, her control weak and shaky. She could go to him. Or bring him here. She was more powerful than him. It would take so very little. No, she told herself adamantly. Not now. Just a month past, she had heard rumors of a woman hanged concocting herbal potions. If that alone endangered a woman, what would happen to a woman who could summon a person to appear right before her very eyes? Or to a man who disappeared into thin air? She couldn’t endanger him that way. Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths, swallowing the power down, calming herself, soothing herself, as her mother had taught her years earlier. Though neither parent had been quite as powerful as Aislinn the same laws for magic still held. Control was everything to a witch.

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Once the prickling of her skin stopped, she opened her eyes and resumed her pacing. Damn him, she thought. Why is he not here? Tension filled the air, warning her only moments before he appeared with a flash of light in front of her. She could not stifle the pride, or the fear, that feat brought. Only months before he had not been capable or even known he could do such powerful magic. In such dangerous times as these, it might have been better if he had never learned. “Nicholas,” she whispered, flinging herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “What kept you?” “Aislinn,” he murmured, closing his eyes against the pain that swept through him. Why could he not free himself of this spell she had cast around him? Why could he not go a single moment without thinking of her? “Aislinn, we cannot see each other again,” he said, drawing her back. “We have spoken of this.” “I needed to speak with you again,” she told him, clutching at his shoulders, staring up into his deep-green eyes. His hair, long and thick and the color of midnight, fell around his face, tumbled to his wide, powerful shoulders. She had lost count of the times she had buried her hands in that hair, held him pressed against her while he loved her, his strong, muscled knight’s body rubbing against her. “I am to wed today,” he said gently, as if the softer the words were spoken, the less pain they would bring. His deep blue doublet gleamed dully, shot through with threads of silver. On his right hand, he wore a large ring of hammered silver that reflected the dim light filtering through the trees. “You cannot. Nicholas, we belong together. You know it as well as I,” she whispered. Stay with me, come away with me, she pleaded silently. “I cannot shame my family that way. I told you from the beginning we could not be husband and wife. Aislinn, you knew of this always.” He cupped her cheek in one large hand, studying her lovely face, the soft blue eyes, the silky blonde hair that curled wildly around her shoulders, committing those features to memory. As if he could ever forget. He would see her image every time he closed his eyes, from now until the day he breathed his last. “Things have changed,” she told him, drawing away and taking a step back. Closing her eyes, she turned to face the stream. “Drastically. We had no idea this would happen.” The warmth in her heart was slowly turning to ice and she felt cold, so very cold. Aislinn was certain that if she was touched, she would shatter. Aye, you told me that we could never be together. But you never told me why. I never would have lain with a man promised to another. She liked to think she could have resisted him that first time, but if not, then after. Surely after—she surely would have stayed away after that. No woman liked having her heart broken. “I knew I loved you the first time we were together, the first time we made love,” Nicholas whispered roughly. “But I cannot dishonor my family.” 16

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“And what of my honor? You claimed to love me, you lay with me, night after night, never telling me that you were promised to another, only that we could never be together. You knew I would think that I could change your mind, that I would think I could persuade you to stay with me. And you betrayed me, telling me only days before you were to wed your Spanish bride. And you even fucked me one final time before you told me.” She turned slowly as she spoke and smiled with cool satisfaction when he flinched at her blunt language. “What of my honor?” “You are a woman,” he said simply. And then, he could have bitten his tongue off. Witch or not, he was a man who knew better than to anger a woman, particularly one he loved so dearly. Her blue eyes narrowed and flags of color rode high on her cheeks. “A woman,” she repeated, shaking her head slightly. She moved away from him, crossing her arms over her chest. “So because I am a woman, my honor means less than nothing. Or is it because my family’s wealth comes from being merchants, not being lords? Does your Spanish bride have honor? Would you insult her this way?” she asked coldly, arching an arrogant brow at him and smiling a tiny, cold smile. “I must go,” he said, roughly. Shaking his head, he turned away, tensing his arms and tipping his head back. I cannot do this again. His heart was already shattered and his own honor bruised from what he was doing, the choices he had made, the way he had hurt Aislinn. “The offer is open, Aislinn. Be it now or twenty years from now, you can come to me. I will love you until the day I die and I will be with you as often as I can.” “It seems that I cannot be your wife. I will not be your whore,” she said heatedly. “That is not what I offered you,” he rasped, glaring at her with angry, insulted eyes as he grabbed her arm and jerked her against him. “Never have I thought of you as such.” “A woman who lies with a married man that is not her husband, and allows him to provide for her is a whore. Call it all the pretty names you wish, Nicholas Montgomery, but I call it whore. And I will not do it,” she said, her voice chilly as she jerked her arm away from him. “And you dirty what we had by even suggesting it.” “That is your choice,” he said quietly, shoulders slumping. “I’ve loved you as I have loved no other.” He opened his eyes and looked at her, his gut freezing at the changes he saw on her face. The laughter that had always been there was gone, the warmth and the vitality absent, replaced by a lifelessness that frightened him. He remembered, for some odd reason, something his mother had told him only last night. Honor is important, Nicholas. But so is love. Honor and love are both things that last. But honor will not keep you warm at night. Nor will it make you happy. He did not know why she had said such an odd thing. She knew nothing of Aislinn. Of course his gifts came from her, so he assumed she knew more than she let on. But his mother was a woman. She could not be expected to understand a man’s honor.

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“I do love you, Aislinn.” A cold smile, one he had never seen, spread over her face, leaving her eyes empty and cruel. “Yes. I know that. Of course, your honor means more than I do. A pity, that. I hope your honor keeps you happy and gives you many sweet memories in life, Nicholas.” “You have already given me more sweet memories than I could ever have hoped for,” he said, his voice hot and smoky, his hands itching to touch her one last time. He would have given anything to erase that coldness from her face, to leave her happy this last time. It was the last time, he knew. Her pride would keep her from coming to him, even if they both lived two hundred years. “I hope you are not too surprised when I destroy them,” Aislinn said mockingly, strolling around him in a slow circle, pausing by Diana to stroke the mare’s neck. “Nothing would do that.” “Be careful what you say, Nicholas. I would have said that, once, but three nights ago you destroyed my sweet memories, and they are now bitter. My heart has been like ashes in my chest and the only thing worth living for was the belief that you would see reason,” Aislinn said, stroking her hand down Diana’s graceful neck. “My sister is dead. My father died just weeks ago, and Mother has been gone for several years,” Aislinn said, with a faraway look in her eyes. “When father died, the church decided it could seize the money and—” “Why did you not tell me?” Nicholas demanded. He knew her father had died. But the church had taken the money? She had nothing? A shameful joy bloomed inside his heart. She would have to come to him if she wanted to survive. He would be the only way she could make it, unless the church returned the money. Unless she wanted to join the church. She froze him with a look. Fuck me. She would not dare. “Why?” she asked. She shrugged her slim shoulders, shoulders far too small for the burdens she had been bearing the past weeks. “I do not know why I did not share it with you at the time. Perhaps…” her voice grew disturbingly quiet and Nicholas had to strain to hear her. “Perhaps I knew this was coming. Perhaps I knew I would never share my life with you, so why share my troubles?” A cold, unreasonable fear was settling inside Nicholas, one he could not throw off. And try as he might, he could not see her thoughts, could not see past the hard blue of her eyes. Never before had anything about his sweet Aislinn been hard. He had done that to her. Had taken the light from her eyes. Neither the deaths of her family, nor the loss of her way of life had done it. He had. “Aislinn—” Nastily, in a winter-cold voice, she whispered, “Go to your pretty noble young bride, Nicholas.” A wind came up out of nowhere, blowing her golden curls back from her face, whipping her gown around her. “And enjoy your honor while you remember

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how easily you shoved mine aside. You will never love another like you love me. You will never know a moment’s peace for what you have done,” she said coldly, her eyes glowing with a strange inner light. In a warning tone, Nicholas advised, “Be careful, Aislinn. You are angry—” “No. I am past angry now,” she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head. She had passed anger the night he had told her of his betrothal to a woman he had never met. And for the past several moments, she had even been past despair. “Go to your bride, Nicholas. And may you remember this day always, until your heart beats no longer.” As the wind started to rush past his ears, she whispered, “Look at me once more, Nicholas. Remember me.” Her final words were spoken in a gentle command as she flung her arms into the air. Unable to deny her, he met her eyes across the vortex that swirled at his feet. “Aislinn, wait,” he cried out. He tried to stop it, tried to reach out with his own magic and hold to the ground on which he stood. He could not leave her. He feared what would happen if he did. But he could not fight her either. Her magic had always been so much stronger than his. “Aislinn, no!” he shouted, terrified, clawing against the magic, even though to fight it caused pain. The pain shrieked through his head, splitting and tearing and biting at him with claws. He cared not—it could kill him and it would not matter. He had to get to Aislinn and stop whatever she was planning. For what he had seen in her lovely blue eyes had chilled him to the bone—he had looked into the face of death.

***** It was by rote that he said the sacred prayers, made his vows to his tiny, delicate bride, the woman-child who stared at him with fear in her dark-brown eyes. Nicholas could not free his mind from the way Aislinn had looked before land and time and space all became one and he had reappeared in the chambers of his father’s house. She had sent him away. Remember me … She had never done that before. But he had fled from her only days before, when she had pleaded with him to stay. Do not leave me, his proud, stubborn little witch had begged. Woman, why can you not understand? I cannot dishonor my family. Remember me…

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Yet living in dishonor seemed a small price to pay if he could have Aislinn at his side always. Momentarily, he was stunned that he had thought such a thing. ‘Twas impossible. They could be together, if only the woman wasn’t so stubborn, maybe not as man and wife, but together. . . If I had even half of the talent she had, I would force her to come to me, until she regained her senses. We belong together. Nicholas stood on the stone steps at the chapel door, facing the priest, Isabella’s right hand lying atop his left while he repeated his vows in a smooth, steady voice. But inside, he was in turmoil. Foreboding had filled him the moment Aislinn had commanded, “Remember me.” As if he could ever forget. Her whispered voice, that gentle command, seemed to echo over and over in his mind, lulling him into a trance. Remember me… Remember me… Remember… So preoccupied was he with his thoughts that he barely noticed the disturbance that started in the back of the crowd, until the murmurs grew so loud even he could not ignore them. Remember me… A shiver ran down his spine and the hair on the back of his neck stood stiff and straight. Premonition, never one of his stronger gifts, was so great he could almost see the blackness that was to come. But it was too late. A mocking laugh drifted down over the crowd and he turned his head slowly, knowing that laugh, knowing there was trouble. Aislinn sat reclining on the sloping roof, one leg, bare to the knee, swinging lazily back and forth while she surveyed the mass below her. Slowly, she straightened and stood, one hip cocked out as she balanced easily on the uneven roof. A shift the color of blood lay against unfettered breasts before dropping down to lie lovingly against her hips. The hem fell unevenly around her legs, but no matter where it fell, it fell no lower than mid-calf, revealing the lovely, curved lengths of her legs. The shift sloped down in the center between her breasts, and there, she’d pinned the brooch he had given her weeks earlier. Rouged lips and cheeks, hair curling with even more abandon, she looked every inch the temptress. Even her eyes looked darker and more exotic. “Aislinn, no,” he whispered soundlessly, dread rising in his heart. Even as he raised his hand toward her, his entire body was frozen from the inside out. Or rather, from the outside. By a gift far more powerful than his. “Remember me, Nicholas,” she whispered to him silently and he could have sworn he felt the brush of her lips against his.

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In the past weeks, women had been put to death, one for making potions, one for dressing in bold brazen colors and hinting that she might be a witch. She had not been—she in truth had wanted death, had been seeking it, courting it, since her lover had cast her out months earlier. Like Aislinn. She was killing herself, Nicholas realized with growing horror. She was not here to embarrass him with vulgar behavior or shame him in any way. She was revealing what she was, and setting herself up for death. And she wanted him to know. He projected, as strongly as he could. Aislinn, do not do this, please. I beg of you. I love you. You love your honor more, she mocked silently. As she ran her hands up her sides, over her breasts, she licked her sweet, pink lips, drawing the eye of every man there. Aislinn, enough. Stop this. Now. If I cannot live as your wife, what is the point of living? she asked, her words echoing in his head. Leave this place, I will go with you, he pleaded silently. She cast him a flicker of a glance. I will go with you, whatever it takes to keep you safe. And you will damn me for the rest of your life, for costing you your family’s love and honor. No, Nicholas. A sad smile appeared on her lips and she shook her head before taking her eyes from him to roam over the audience with practiced boredom. You enjoy your lovely little bride, Nicholas, and live a long, healthy life. She looks lovely and strong. She’ll breed well. Once she grows up. “It seems there is to be a wedding and I was not invited,” Aislinn called out, the blue sky and brilliant sun at her back. The crowd gasped, one woman screamed, as she extended one bare foot out into space. A thick gold chain gleamed at her ankle, tiny bells tinkling as she moved. Murmurs grew louder as she shifted her weight and another woman screamed. But instead of plummeting to the earth, her feet took the air as it were a grand set of stairs, walking her way down to earth, the bells at her ankle tinkling musically as she walked, hips swaying seductively, mouth curved up in a sweet, tempting smile. “Witch.” “Witch.” Aislinn weaved her way through the crowd, smiling at people here and there, pausing to stroke a hand down the arm of a large hulking brute who stared at her with lust in his eyes. Aislinn laughed, shaking her head as she passed by him, coming to a halt in front of Isabella, smiling up at the tiny woman who stood next to Nicholas atop the stone steps. A bold, brazen smile on her painted mouth, she asked, “A young thing, are you not? Are you even thirteen-years-old?” Isabella cast Nicholas a fearful glance, but he was unable to tear his eyes from Aislinn. In a whispery soft, heavily accented voice, Isabella whispered, “I am thirteen just last week, milady.”

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“Milady?” Aislinn repeated, laughing, one graceful hand going to her half naked breast. “Oh, you are a sweet child. A very young, sweet child. But most likely fertile. That is the way the Montgomery family likes them. “If you cannot conceive by fall, come to me. I know a potion or two. Or three.” She laughed, sliding Nicholas a sidelong, admiring glance. “Not that this one will have much trouble in that area. His cock works rather well. I hope he does not frighten you too badly.” His eyes were drawn to his mother and he saw that she had realized what was happening. But moments later, his hopes that she could intervene died. She was frozen in place as well. “What I would not give to be in your place tonight, milady,” Aislinn whispered saucily, flicking Nicholas another glance before moving away, hips swinging seductively as she moved on to study the bride’s brother. “Hmmm, what have we here? Are you on the wedding block as well?” He stared at her, bemused, eyes flicking from her face to his hosts, and then back, dropping down to linger on her lithe form as she turned and strolled away. All eyes were trained on her, but she had yet to see malevolence in anybody’s eyes, and no sign of fear. With a flick of her hand, she was straddling the solid stone wall that surrounded the chapel yard, some thirty feet away, skirts rucked up so that her legs were bared to the knee. “Rather cold day for a wedding,” she remarked. With a smile, she threw her head back and her hands out. “Perhaps a fire for the festivities afterward? Think of it as a wedding gift.” Just outside the stone wall, a huge fire flared out of nowhere, feeding on absolutely nothing, glowing with an eerie blue light. Ah, success. Nicholas flinched at her words, sick inside, but unable to do anything. He rammed himself against the barrier that held him, knowing it was useless. Aislinn could hold him easily, tirelessly, endlessly. It had never bothered him, that she was stronger. Until now. Aislinn didn’t even blink as hands seized her, twisted her arms painfully behind her back, binding her. “Her eyes!” somebody shouted. “Cover her eyes, so she can cast no spells.” Still frozen, unable to even twitch a muscle, Nicholas quivered inside with rage. Aislinn, do not do this to me. I have no choice! There was no answer. Aislinn! A smile curved her lips as she was carried, without resistance, to the center of the courtyard. Her head turned fleetingly in his direction, but the soiled cloth that someone

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had tied hastily around her head obscured her vivid blue eyes. No choice, my Nicholas? When did you ever give me one? Struggling futilely against the bonds he couldn’t see, Nicholas stared beseechingly at her, knowing she could damn well see him, blindfold or no. But he remained frozen. Aislinn, do not do this, he begged, straining against the invisible bonds that held him silent and locked in place. Regretfully, she said silently, It is already done. We will be together again, somewhere in time, Nicholas. Perhaps honor will not mean so much. You cannot mean to die like this, he snarled at her. Nor can I live like this. With myself, or with you. I am ashamed of us both, she said sadly. For our actions over the past few months, and mine today. I want it over. So you take the coward’s road? You run from me? This is how it is to be solved? Is this how much you love me? he demanded of her. If you love me truly, face me now, and let us end this the way it is meant to end. Her sad laughter drifted to him on a ghost of a breeze. I am. Even though she spoke in a whisper, yards and yards away from him, he heard her words. You did not love me enough to forsake your family honor, she said to him, staring straight ahead. While curses filled the air, rocks were thrown at her. She gasped in pain as one glanced off her brow. Until you love me enough to forsake everything—your honor, your pride, your own soul, we cannot be together. I cannot lose you! Do not make me watch you die! I love you. Aye… Her voice was a sweet gentle whisper. I’ll not make you watch. Nicholas wanted to weep with relief as more and more branches were piled at her feet. As he waited for her to do something, she did. Her magic swarmed up and took him, pulling him into the sweet embrace of sleep. No! If he allowed her to pull him under with her magic like that, then he couldn’t save her, couldn’t stop her. He battered at the sleep spell that held him, knowing it was useless. But he broke through—somehow he broke through, sleepily, hazily, just in time to see them set fire to the branches at her feet. “No!” He broke through the paralyzing hold she had over his body as her magic started to break. Lunging for the flaming pyre, he knocked people aside, intent only on getting to her, saving her. People tried to grab him and he struck out, knocking them flat, before two other powers intervened. His mother and his sister. Alone, neither of them could hold him. But together… Nicholas. No. We will not let that happen to you as well, his mother whispered as she slid inside his struggling mind.

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Abigail, young Abigail, only fifteen, was white and her eyes were filled with tears as she struggled to hold him, and deal with the horror of what she was witnessing. Nicholas tried to strike out—thinking only to get to Aislinn, as fire caught her hair and her skin started to burn and char. Aislinn’s power slid between him and his family’s powers, deflecting him as she forced him back to where he had been. Fight them no more…Do you think I would live easily? Death is a blessing now. I just want the pain to end. All of it…the anger, the rage, the pain… And her voice was filled with pain. Turning his head, he stared into her eyes and felt his heart die. Gathering his strength, he amassed his power and struck out. Not at his family, where his brothers had joined their meager powers to hold him in thrall, but at Aislinn. To end her pain. I love you, he whispered only moments before he delivered a blow to her unprotected mind. He watched her head slump and felt her heart stop. When it was over, he stood still, in the same spot, staring out through the open doors into the courtyard. A sharp pain in his hand broke him out of his daze and he looked down to see blood trickling from his clenched fist—the brooch he had given Aislinn. Only days after they had first met, he had given her a golden brooch set with an emerald the size of his thumb. The brooch she had worn on her bodice as she was carried, without resistance, to the stake. Tears fell silently down his face as he turned to look at his bride and said quietly, “Forgive me.” The young woman, hardly more than a child, stood there, horrified, tears streaking her innocent young face, her hands pressed to her mouth, while her mother held her tightly and stroked her hair. He whispered one last time, “Forgive me.” He walked to his mother’s side and cupped her cheek in his hand. Katherine Montgomery stood by her husband and both of them knew what had happened, even though Nathaniel Montgomery had no magic to call his own. Both of them stared at him with horror, anger, and compassion. He saw the knowledge there. When he touched his mother’s cheek, he felt her anger at him and at Aislinn. She had known, and she had urged him to go to Aislinn only days earlier. Honor be damned, she was thinking. He felt her grief and her despair, her horror and her fear. But he could not see past that. “Good bye,” he said hoarsely. Abigail wrapped her arms around her mother and held tight, her eyes closed as she sobbed. Nicholas lifted her face with his index finger and kissed her nose. “Brave young thing,” he whispered.

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Glancing at the Montgomery brothers who were gathered behind his father, he simply stared at them and nodded. Then he turned his back on the manor and walked through the courtyard to where the pyre no longer burned. The fire had stopped the moment Aislinn died. Had she fueled it? he wondered. There was no joy or laughter in the air. Normally such an act led to a rather manic sort of party, but now, almost all were gone already. Gently, he cut her body free and carried her away, into the woods. To the stream. He would bury her there. Nearly halfway there, he stopped and cursed himself as he realized he hadn’t brought any tools. “Here, we shall help—” Nicholas had not realized his two youngest brothers had followed. And with the proper tools. “No. This is mine to do,” he said gruffly, lowering his brow to touch it to Aislinn’s. Her face was grayed by soot, but untouched by the fire. So lovely, still. “As she is mine.” “Brother, you haven’t the clothing or the coffin. Let us at least get that,” Robert offered quietly. “She shouldn’t rest in the ground as she is.” She cannot rest. He wanted to scream out that his wild, wonderful witch shouldn’t be resting at all. And he knew that she couldn’t rest. Not yet. But they were right. She deserved better than to go into the ground like this, like a pauper. Or a witch damned. “By the stream. I will meet you by the stream. But let no one know. We must not let the family be endangered more than it already is.” After they brought him a coffin and a silken blue dress, he sent them away. Cleaning her body free of soot and dust and smoke, he cut the singed bits out of her hair, leaving it shorter, far shorter. And he cut a long tress from the back, tucking it into his doublet, close to his heart as tears rolled down his face in silence. Dressing her body in the blue silk, he smoothed it down, covering the hideous black burns on her legs and hips and belly. The ones on her elbows were angry red, but her hands, the gentle, delicate hands were untouched, like her face. As he lay her in the coffin, he lifted first one hand, and then the other, pressing kisses to each palm, each finger.

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“I never should have touched you, sweet, lovely Aislinn. Never should have hoped for somebody as wonderful as you,” he murmured thickly as he smoothed her hair down. He heard a soft whicker behind him and froze with shock when he saw Diana standing there in the clearing beside the stream, staring at him with eyes that looked…sad. Did horses feel grief? “This is my fault. I might as well have lit the flames myself.” The horse whickered again and he saw something that looked like disagreement in her eyes. And Nicholas decided grief had shattered his mind if he thought a horse was capable of that as well. “I know Aislinn said you were special.” He covered her still lips with his, wishing he could breathe life back into her. “I’d go away with you if I could turn back time, love. Know that, wherever you are. Honor without love means nothing.” Lowering the lid on the coffin was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life, even harder than walking away from her. Nicholas used magic to lower her into the earth as gently as he could. Tears rolled down his face like rain as he silently and stoically covered her grave with earth. Her marker was the stone on which she had sat as she dried herself that day they had first met. He never saw another rainbow. His grief-stricken eyes seemed to see little more than black and white and gray. He never laughed again. Her screams rang in his ears and woke him from sleep every night for the rest of his life. Nicholas died seventeen years later, in Ireland, in the home of a young witch he had saved from burning. He trained her, to the best of his ability, and hoped, maybe, the scales were balanced, just a little.

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Chapter Three The smoke stung her lungs as the flames ate her flesh, but she held silent for so long, until in the end she nearly choked with the effort it took to hold back the screams. And then they started— Her screams…those loud, tortured screams that woke him from his sleep for easily the thousandth time. He rolled from his bed, his gut roiling, nauseated, his mind filled with anger at himself and at her. He paced the room until it had passed a little and then he wandered to the window and flung it open, breathing in the cool night air and wondering. Where are you? The smoke stung her eyes and filled her lungs so that she couldn’t breathe. The pain…she clenched her teeth against it so tightly that her jaws ached with it, but finally she couldn’t hold them back the screams started— She woke up, screaming, sweating, crying and struggling with her blankets like they were ropes, convinced that they were, that she was tied to a pole, burning…and then the memories, like those from a bad dream, faded, as they usually do. And she remembered nothing but the terror. And gleaming, pain-filled green eyes as she stumbled for the bathroom and fell to her knees, retching and heaving until the nausea passed. When she curled up again in bed, from her subconscious, a murmuring voice and those gleaming green eyes rose up and guided her back into sleep. With a sigh, she surrendered. Rhiannon had no idea why she turned to go into that particular booth. The items for sale were junk, even the uneducated eye could see that. Strands of chipped glass beads, faux gold necklaces to turn the neck green, tables missing legs, or worse, tables sporting an obviously fake leg that someone had put there in hopes of catching the untrained eye. But nonetheless, she swerved for the booth, dodging other shoppers at the crowded monthly flea market held at the fairgrounds. Smiling politely at the old man who sat on a folding metal chair, she wandered the tiny cramped area, frowning absently. A box of glittery gems caught her sharp eye. Sifting through it, she lifted a necklace of glass beads that was actually in good shape. She guessed it to be less than fifty years old, but it was pretty, the beads all the color of the leaves in the spring. Looping it over

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her wrist, she figured it would bring her a few dollars, at least, considering the popularity of retro styles. Pulling her hand from the box as she turned to study a row of books, something pricked her finger. “Damn it,” she hissed under her breath, jerking her hand out. A drop of blood oozed from it as a scowl formed on her face. She turned, ready to light into the shop owner when a sparkle of green caught her eye. There was no reason for the brooch to gleam so richly. The disc shaped brooch was the color of old gold, glinting in the sunlight that filtered through the windows. The green stone sparkled and danced, casting light as she lifted it, angled it. It was old. And she didn’t think old as in a few measly decades or even a few centuries. It was old. Ancient, older than anything an American could understand. And completely real. Heavy and solid, and oddly warm in her hand. This was the once-in-a-lifetime kind of find that so many antique shopkeepers dreamed of. Old…the kind of old that could bring in a small fortune. And hot, sudden greed sang through her. Mine. She cooled the fire in her eyes, refusing to let anyone see it as she studied the brooch. “How much is this?” she asked quietly, her voice noncommittal, even though she would have sold her whole shop to have this brooch. “I imagine we can agree on a price,” he responded in a very distinctive voice. It sent a rough, sensual shiver down her spine and without realizing, she looked up into deep, deep, green eyes, set into a lined weathered face. He was an older man, but older the way Sean Connery was older, still handsome enough to turn heads and that voice was probably enough to talk a woman into climax. Wordlessly, she reached into her purse, plucked out her glasses and put them on, studying the brooch more closely. It was genuine. She would bet the bank on it. “Any idea about the history?” His only response was a shrug of his still strong, broad shoulders. There was something about this older man, something almost familiar, with his iron gray hair, and dark green eyes, like the color of an evergreen pine. He folded his weathered hand over hers, tilting the brooch to study it better. “I know not. What is history after all? Either you want it, or you do not. It is very lovely, isn’t it?” It didn’t matter. Not to Rhiannon. And that was just plain strange. An orphan who had no idea of her own ancestry, she loved antiques simply because of the wealth of history and information available. Rhee rarely bought anything without some clue to its history. But this wasn’t going in the shop. “Yes, it is. How much do you want for it?”

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He smiled, a charming, gentle smile. If it hadn’t been for the rather kind, almost— well, it looked like apology–in those eyes, she would have been disturbed by just how charming he was. “How does one-hundred-seventy-five-dollars sound?” One-seventy-five? No way. It was worth maybe ten times that. But she couldn’t afford to pay that, and she was afraid that if she pointed that out, he’d change his mind. To her surprise, he seemed to realize what was going on in her mind. Lowering his head until he was eye level with her, he said softly, “Sometimes, sweet child, things are worth more than just the dollar value, are they not? You will cherish this piece, and it is rightfully yours. Trust me. I know this. I could easily sell it for far more. But why? You want it.” Casually, she asked, “Are you seeking mental treatment? That seems a little crazy to me.” She fished the money out of her wallet. To her amazement, he laughed as he accepted the money. He shook his head as he tucked the money into his pocket and looked for change for the two one-hundreddollar-bills. “No. Would you believe I am seeking atonement?” Folding her hand around the brooch, she felt that wild greed sing through her again, unrestrained this time. Mine. She felt like she had found an incredible buried treasure that she had lost long ago and had just now remembered where the map was. Leaving the booth, not seeing the crumpled fives the shopkeeper held out to her, she stroked the smooth disc, studying the clasp on back that oddly enough, was solid and sturdy. Behind her, the shopkeeper grinned widely, the crumpled fives fading from sight, the rest of the wares turning into simple plastic dolls and salvage goods and damaged boxes of hair dye. And in less time than it took for Rhee to move five steps away, he was gone.

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Chapter Four He had been waiting for centuries. Centuries without end. Nearly seven hundred years had passed since he had seen her, touched her, loved her. Watched her die, when she could have so easily saved herself. How much longer must he wait? Where was she?

***** “It is exactly like the one you’ve been looking for,” Teri told Sean. Calmly, she met his intense gaze, until he dropped his eyes to the rough sketch she had shown him. While she waited, Teri shifted in the seat, crossing her silk covered legs, smoothing her practical navy skirt over her knees. “A shopkeeper in Bardstown?” he asked again, frowning as he laid the sketch down. A band of hammered silver gleamed on the ring finger of his right hand, reflecting the light as he leaned back, crossing his hands over his lean belly. “It’s a town in Kentucky,” she offered, “becoming very popular for collectors.” Arching an ebony brow at her, he replied dryly, “That, I know. What I’m curious about is how a shopkeeper in Bardstown, Kentucky came to own it. The brooch was last in Killarney, Ireland, more than three hundred years ago. It belonged to the Concannon family, as it was left to them by a Nicholas Montgomery back in the fourteenth century. I am wondering how it ended up across the Atlantic and in the midwest at an antique shop when it was supposed to have come down my family line to me.” Giving him a serene smile, Teri said, “I imagine she bought it somewhere.” “Why do I put up with you?” he muttered, raising his eyes heavenward as he plowed a hand through his raven-black hair, reaching for patience. “Because you’d hate to do all that searching for the brooch yourself,” Teri supplied, reaching for her teacup. It was part of an early nineteenth century set that she, of course, had secured and purchased for her boss—very few of his possessions were kept behind glass. Sean had a deep-seated belief that things, no matter how old, were meant to be used and appreciated, not locked up and hidden away from the world. Sipping the excellent coffee, she asked, “Shall I look into it?”

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Not answering her, Sean rose from the desk and turned to the window. “How did ya find out about this, iffen ya don’t mind me askin’?” As always, when he was thinking deeply, or distracted, his Irish accent thickened. And now…he was both. A tiny smile curved her mouth as Teri studied him. Lifting one shoulder delicately, Teri said, “Pure luck. Or you’d call it karma. I was in the area on a busman’s holiday, of sorts. They have this marvelous inn in what used to be the jailhouse and I stayed there over the weekend. I was in the shop. Timeless Treasures, looking for a snuffbox for my father and the owner was wearing the brooch. I asked about it but she didn’t give much of an answer.” When he offered no more than a hmm, Teri added, “The shop is terrific. The building itself is an antique. Used to be a blacksmith’s shop. She said the original building dated back to the late 1700’s. There’s an add-on that was done sometime in the 19th century.” “What about the owner?” he asked, his voice oddly flat. “What can ya tell me o’ her?” “Why don’t you check out your crystal ball?” Teri drawled, grinning at him when he snarled at her. “Because this is what I pay you for?” he suggested in an irritated voice. She admired his restraint. She was certain his first instinct was to tell her to go fuck herself. Or to fire her. Then she took pity on him. For some reason, that brooch was extremely important to him. With a sigh, she said, “Oh, all right.” She already knew the answer to that one anyway. Sean had already tried scrying to find it. And he’d gotten no response. “Her name is Rhiannon Welles; she inherited the shop from her adopted parents, Michael and Eliza Welles, both deceased. She’s 27 years old, a graduate from Bellarmine College—with honors, might I add. Rhiannon majored in Arts Administration, with a minor in history. Did some individual studies with an art academy in England that specializes in the study of antiques, but most of her knowledge is what she learned from her parents.” Silence fell once more and Teri finished off her coffee while she waited. After a few minutes of silence passed with no response from Sean, Teri asked, “Do you think this is the brooch you’ve been searching for?” Sean Concannon turned his head and met her eyes across the expanse of the office. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Get it for me.” “Is there a limit to what you’ll offer?” “No. No limit. I want it.” “Are you sure this is the one you’ve been looking for? I can have some photographs done, try to see if she’ll tell me the history of it.”

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Slowly, Sean settled himself back into his chair, his eyes, an odd silvery gray, unfocused as the ring gleaming on his right hand started to shimmer. Softly, he said, “I already know its history. Just get it for me, Teri—will ya do that for me, darlin’?” Too used to Sean’s…odd ways to be disturbed, Teri merely sighed. He was certain. The door closed behind her and Sean’s breath left him in a shudder. A hum of magic filled the room and for a brief moment, his control left him. Outside, thunder rolled through the air, lightning streaked through the clear blue sky and the wind whipped. Inside his office, every piece of furniture lifted from the ground and hung suspended for a split second while he struggled to rein in his emotions, and the wild magic his loss of control caused. First, he thought, dragging air in through his mouth, he had to get the brooch. Once he had the brooch, he would be that much closer to finding Aislinn. It wanted to be back with her. It would find a way to lead him to her. That, he knew. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. As always, he had to stifle the start it gave him. It was him, sort of. The black hair was the same, long, past his shoulders, thick and straight. The eyes were different, silvery gray, and he had pale skin that would never tan. He was much taller than he had been in that first life—probably a good foot, but it was so hard to tell. The things he could have measured by had all changed, people were taller, horses were taller, hell, even the trees seemed to be taller in this life. He reined in the magic and lowered himself into his chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Aislinn would look different as well. Maybe much different. But he would know her when he saw her. And when she saw him? Would she know who he was? Would she see Nicholas? Or the world-famous magician, Sean Concannon?

***** She was dreaming, of a man with a wide powerful body, thick black hair, compelling green eyes. Dreaming of him as he made love to her, as he whispered how much he loved her and needed her. As he broke her heart. As he married another woman. And then fire— She woke screaming, gasping for air, and unable to remember any of it.

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Rhee glanced up from the photographs she had scattered on the glass countertop. Underneath the chimes that danced as the door opened, stood the woman who had been in the shop a week earlier. Smiling, Rhee removed her reading glasses and tucked them in her pocket. Shop owners always liked repeat customers. Especially customers who didn’t seem to mind paying high-dollar for fine quality antiques. “Well, hello. I see you decided to come back,” Rhee said, moving out from behind the counter, one hand stretched out in greeting. “Here for the chiffarobe this time?” Casting the expensive piece a covetous glance, Terrance McGuire smiled slightly. “Maybe. Just maybe. Especially if my first business goes well. I’m here in a professional capacity today. I…acquire certain objects for my boss, Sean Concannon.” A slim blonde brow rose and Rhiannon repeated, “Sean Concannon. The magician?” That name brought a face to mind, a lean face with silvery-gray eyes, black hair, high cheekbones, a mouth that would make a woman shudder and wonder. At least, Rhee often had. He had wide, powerful shoulders and a matching chest that tapered down to a slim waist, lean hips and muscled legs that he liked to display in casual jeans and white button-downs, even for his tours. And nobody seemed to mind. After all, those jeans showed his ass to perfection as he strolled across the stage, flirting with the ladies in the audience as he worked his illusions with an ease that was…well, magical. An Irish accent that could have you laughing as he stripped you clean of your valuables while telling a funny little joke, or have a woman shuddering and sighing as he coaxed her on stage for one of his fabulous illusions. He was, without a doubt, one of the sexiest creatures ever to walk the earth. “One and the same,” Teri said with a polite smile. “I mentioned my trip down here to him. He was particularly interested in a piece of jewelry.” “Was he now?” Rhee wondered exactly which piece he was interested in. Terrance hadn’t shown much interest in the jewelry, only the collection of snuffboxes and the chiffarobe. Maybe if she hedged enough, she could get the man himself down here, just to see if he looked as good in person as he did on screen and in magazines. “And which particular piece caught his eye, Ms. McGuire?” “Teri, please,” the smaller woman said with another polite smile. “All right, then. Now which piece was Mr. Concannon interested in?” Rhee said, turning toward the showcase, lifting the key ring from the pocket of her boxy jacket. “The one you are wearing.” Teri said, already reaching for her checkbook. “You need only to name your price.” The keys went back into her pocket and Rhee retreated back behind the counter. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t for sale,” she said, reaching up to trace the brooch at her lapel. It wasn’t precisely the right piece for her wardrobe, but she had a hard time not wearing it. In fact, she had worn it almost daily since she had purchased it.

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For a mere one-seventy-five. She knew of its value but refused to have it appraised by an expert, simply because she refused to let it out of her sight, even for a minute. She had done some rough estimates on the web and was guesstimating it was from the twelfth or thirteenth century. Complete and intact. She didn’t want to share the brooch with anyone. Sometimes, she wondered if the man who had been selling the trinkets in that tiny little cube had infected her with his insanity. Even though in her gut, she knew he had not been crazy—a bit fey, maybe. But not crazy. The way he had spoken to her—seeking atonement, maybe—that it was meant to be hers. But she knew, on some odd level, that this brooch was hers. It belonged to her, and had always been meant to come to her. It was in those moments, when she felt that gutdeep belief, that she was certain she was going insane. Teri donned her bargaining face and offered, “Two thousand dollars. If you like, I can get you cash.” “I’m sorry.” Rhee turned her shoulder, donning her glasses and turning her attention back to the photographs. Two thousand? It was worth twenty, easy, and Ms. McGuire knew it. Recognizing the dismissal was one thing. Refusing to heed it was another thing altogether. “Four thousand.” The pleasant confident smile never left her face and Rhee knew that Terrance McGuire had every intention of acquiring the brooch for her employer. “I wouldn’t part with this brooch for all the tea in China, all the art in the Louvre, or the Hope Diamond,” Rhiannon replied, shooting the woman a cool glance over the top of her glasses. “How does ten thousand sound? I imagine that is more than you usually make in a month running this shop,” Teri said, pen still held ready over her open checkbook. “For that amount, sentiment seems to be a foolish reason to decline.” “For that amount, sentiment seems to be a foolish reason to pay it,” Rhiannon returned, stacking the photographs neatly together and taking off her wire-rim glasses. Meticulously, she folded them and returned them to the breast pocket of her jacket. “And you’d be surprised what I make in this shop,” she smirked. “Fifteen thousand.” Slim golden brows rose over her violet eyes and Rhee said, “Exactly how high has he given you leave to go?” “Eighteen.” “Not for one-hundred-eighteen.” “That’s a bit excessive for that piece, even if it is genuine.” “The piece is genuine, the price is excessive, and I wouldn’t sell even for ten times that price,” Rhee drawled mockingly, lifting a brow. “It would appraise between fifteen

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and twenty thousand and you could offer me fifteen or twenty million and I would still say no. It belongs to me. Not you, and not your boss.” “I doubt he’s willing to pay twenty million for a medieval brooch,” Teri said, shaking her head. “You’re nuts to even suggest it.” “I didn’t suggest it,” she said, exasperated. Rhiannon placed her hands flat on the glass display case, leaning slightly forward as she studied the trim, tidy woman before her. “Exactly what is it you are having difficulty understanding? This piece has not been, is not now, nor will ever be for sale. It is mine.” Eyes wide, lips pursed, Teri studied the tall, extraordinarily lovely woman in front of her. “You are saying that you have no price,” she said levelly, studying her without betraying any of her skepticism. “That is exactly what I am saying,” Rhiannon replied in the same tone. A grin broke over the perky, freckled face and Teri laughed as she shook her head. “My dear, everyone has a price.”

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Chapter Five “Everyone has a price,” Sean said flatly, glaring at Teri. Rolling her eyes, Teri repeated, “She will not sell it, Sean. For any price. I offered her everything short of…of all the art in the Louvre. And she will not sell it.” Teri leaned back, aware of the dark, angry look on her boss’s perfect face, but unfazed. He was as likely to cause her harm as he was to, well, turn into a troll right in front of her. She had been thinking sprout wings and fly…but she had learned that far too many of his magic tricks involved real magic. So how did she know he couldn’t fly? “I need it, Teri,” he said roughly, his accent deepening as he dropped into his chair, burying his face in hands that shook. “Sean, I—” “I’ll go meself, damn it. Damn the girl, I’ll go and get it. It is mine by right. I do not know how she came by it, but ‘tis mine,” he rasped, raising his head, rising smoothly to his feet and moving to the window, his big hands curling into tight fists. “Mine,” he repeated, staring outside. Teri realized he had forgotten she was there. Before he had turned away from her, she had seen his eyes and they had taken on that odd, eerie glow, gleaming like silver moondust, wide, unfocused, while unseen winds blew his black locks away from his face. The hair on her arms stood on end and she shuddered when thunder rolled outside, through the cloudless sky. The room itself started to vibrate and the spit inside her mouth went dry. “Sean, are you all right?” she asked quietly. The magic was breaking out so she spoke louder, calling him back to himself, and the magic started to calm. “Leave me be, Teri. Fine, I am. Or will be,” he muttered, driving a hand through his hair. Hours later, he was in his rooms, pacing. Teri had already made arrangements for him to fly into Louisville International. He’d been into the city a time or two before on tour. From there, he’d rent a car and drive into Bardstown and find this shopkeeper. He smirked as he imagined just sending himself there…but such actions could cause too many questions. And he definitely did not want that. Damn her.

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Whoever Rhiannon Welles was, she had no fucking right keeping that brooch from him. It belonged to him, no matter what she thought. It had disappeared from his family hundreds of years ago, and he had been seeking it since he was twenty. No. Longer. He had always remembered. Not all of it, no. That would have been torture. But he had always dreamed of a beautiful woman with hair every shade of blonde imaginable, with wide blue eyes and a pink, pretty mouth who could spin rainbows and fire in her hands. It was from those dreams that he learned how to do the same. It was odd—in this life, he had such magic. Would Aislinn have it as well, when he finally found her? Oh, those dreams. They had grown more vivid, more complete, as he grew older. The night after he turned twenty, he remembered all of it, the night he had gone to her, lain with her, knowing it would be the last time, waking from their bed in that tiny little shop her parents had owned, telling her that he was to wed a young Spanish noblewoman in only three days. And Aislinn, purposely flaunting her magic, at a time when fear of such ran rampant, just so they would kill her. That brooch, first on her bodice, then, just as she breathed her last through tortured lungs, it was in his hand, his fingers closing around it, the sharpened piece driving deep. And even though he had held nothing in his hand while he slept, he had woken with a small, disc shaped scar on his hand that he still carried to this very day. Nicholas had been a fool, Sean could admit that now. It stung his pride some, but he wasn’t the same man he had been centuries ago. Losing her had seen to that. Living four long meaningless lives searching for her had changed that. He wasn’t the same man. She had been right about one thing, at least…You will never know a moment’s peace for what you have done. And he hadn’t, not in that life, or those that followed. But Aislinn had been a coward. And cruel. He never could have imagined his sweet, loving Aislinn could be so cruel. A cold smile settled on his face as he completed packing. It was an easy chore. The magic that had not come so easily to him in his first life was child’s play now— packing took barely a thought. When he found her, he was going to make certain she understood they were on equal ground now.

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Rhee settled in bed, stroking her fingers absently over the glass of iced tea, eyes focused on the book she had just received in the mail. Her staid, sedate, sweet parents would be very shocked to see her curled up on her four-poster bed with this very naughty book. And the handy little vibrator next to her. She’d had a few boyfriends, none she had brought into this bed, though. None she had liked enough. The vibrator suited her just fine. She was happy as could be this particular publisher had gone into paper publishing. She liked eBooks, truly. But some books were just better read in bed. And an eBook reader just wasn’t as…cozy, somehow. Sometime later, the book forgotten, she lay panting, the vibrator deep inside her, the outside piece quivering against her swollen clit, head flung back. The swollen, wet folds of her sex clung to the ridged pulsating vibrator as she rocked her hips against it and moaned, busily stroking her hips up and down. Panting, she worked it in and out, and groaned as the climax broke over her. Not as good as a man, but a hell of a lot more reliable. And she was pretty damn certain some men would never live up to what a good Jackrabbit could give you. That, and Dreamsbynight.com could take care of her just fine until she found a good man. The phone rang five seconds later. She answered, her voice husky and rough, “Hello.” “Rhiannon Welles, please.” The voice was male and Irish and distinctive. Even though she had never spoken to him, she knew damned good and well who was calling her at nearly midnight. Amused, aroused, and aggravated all at once, Rhee stuck out her tongue at the receiver and said, “Mr. Concannon, I’m not selling the brooch. Get that through your thick Irish skull and leave me alone.” Before he could answer she hung up the phone, turned out the light and went to bed, sliding into sleep with a sated sigh. She had not just hung up on him. He stared at the phone and fought the urge to call back. If she had just hung up on him, she would surely repeat the gesture, which would only make him madder. Sean shook his head, baffled. Her voice…called to him. Was it her? Impatience filled him. He couldn’t wait for the bloody plane. Questions be damned. He called Teri and told her to make sure his luggage got to Kentucky and then he flung his arms high. When he materialized, he was standing just outside the airport in Louisville. A place he had been to before. It worked that way…had to. He couldn’t just pop from one place to another without having a picture in his head. Even magic had its own rules, and those rules had to be followed. 38

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He pulled his wallet out and strolled casually inside, projecting an image of indifference to the security clerk. And fancy that, he thought with a smirk. Security hadn’t even seen him. He had rented a car within thirty minutes. And was on the road to Bardstown within the hour. He took the turn onto the tiny country road at breakneck speed and slowed only when it was that or take out the stupid cow that had wandered into the road. A cow, he thought with a laugh. How…quaint. Almost like home. He had her address and used a map he had bought to lead him to her house. His blood pounded hotly through his veins. This is it. Sean knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he and Aislinn would find each other this time. This would be their time. And maybe the searching was already over. Maybe the brooch had found its way to Rhiannon Welles because Rhiannon was Aislinn. His cock hardened. God, to be inside her again, after all these centuries. To hear her laughter, and feel that happiness he had felt only with her. To once more share the joy of making rainbows and spinning magic out of the air. To feel the wet clasp of her pussy around him while he rode her hard…feeling their magic join as their bodies mated. Damn it. And then Sean stood outside, staring at the quaint little house and the hope that had been blooming inside him withered and died. It wasn’t her. If Aislinn had been inside Rhiannon’s body, her magic would be permeating this house and he would sense it. He scrubbed his hands over his face and muttered, “Fuck me, I’ve gone bloody insane.” All because her husky voice, for one brief second, had sounded familiar. Grimly, he turned to get back into the car. He’d wait for her at the shop. Get the brooch, even if it involved stealing it from her. He’d replace it with a replica and she’d never notice, mortal that she was, and he would get back to searching for Aislinn. And then the door opened. Turning, he looked. And stopped dead in his tracks. Aislinn.

***** Rhiannon left the house, tired and achy. She hadn’t slept. Those damned dreams. Dreams of a medieval knight with dark hair and wild green eyes, and strong, gentle

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hands that held her close. Magic that she used to make, rainbows and laughter that filled her soul. And fire. Scorching her skin, her hair, her lungs, burning her, eating her flesh. Smoke burning her lungs, choking her, until it killed her, and she still kept burning, until the fire turned her flesh to blackened ash. She had woken with the screams still ringing in the room. She had always had a deep, abiding fear of fire. Her adoptive parents had done everything they could think of to soothe her past it, but to no avail. Every therapist, every counselor, no luck. One shrink, upon learning she was adopted had suggested she had been burned, or perhaps witnessed a bad fire before they adopted her. But they had taken her at birth. Scratch that idea. But Rhee hated fire. No fireplaces. No fireworks. She couldn’t even stand cookouts, or cigarette lighters. She was halfway to her car when she saw the man standing there, staring at her with eyes that saw through to her soul, burning silver, scorching eyes that stared at her, eating her as though starved for the mere sight of her. And she froze as some bone deep recognition tore through her.

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Chapter Six It was her. Aislinn. Sean moved across the distance that separated them and caught her shoulders, staring down into her face, so much the same, even the blonde hair that fell around her shoulders in soft waves. Her eyes were wide and purple, not blue, but purple, her mouth wider, lusher, her figure trimmer, and she was a bit taller. But it was her. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, staring down into her face as shock raged through him. Cupping her face, he covered her mouth with his and ravaged her. Rhee went still. That odd moment of recognition was gone. She knew him, of course. Most people did know his face. Who didn’t know Sean Concannon? He was easily as well known as David Copperfield. Tall and lean, with wide shoulders, slim hips, handsome, winsome, with a sexy Irish accent and illusions that stunned and awed. He was at her house and wanting her property. But that didn’t explain why he was staring at her as though he knew her. Or why something inside her seemed to know him, know how he would taste, how his body would feel against hers, how it would feel to have his naked chest crushing her into a bed a of grass…grass? Or why he ran across her property and took hold of her like he had a right to, burying one hand in her hair and fisting it, pulling her head back. It didn’t explain why he was kissing her. And man, oh man, did the guy know how to kiss. His tongue easily breeched the barrier of her lips and he tasted her, sucking her tongue deep into his mouth. He was nibbling at her lips, biting hungrily at her chin, kissing his way down her throat. She did not know how it happened. One moment they were on her sidewalk. Then they were inside her house. Rhee’s blouse was gone, her skirt pushed to her waist. His clothes were just gone. Poof. Like magic. Then Sean Concannon, world famous magician, was lifting her, cupping her, driving his fingers deeply inside her, working them into her slippery wet sheath as he ate her mouth and she whimpered under his touch and craved more. And some analytical part of her whispered…Okay, this is all moving a bit too fast. Sean sifted through her mind, took a picture of what her home looked like, held it inside his head and focused, so he could whisk them away inside her house as she

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stood there stunned and let him kiss his way down her neck. Her pretty silk blouse was nearly the same color as her lilac eyes so he whisked it away as well, rather than rip it from her body. Damn it, Aislinn, he thought, raggedly. Staring down into her flushed, upturned face, those smudged violet eyes, Sean felt his heart thudding in his chest, his cock aching. Her scent filled the air, vanilla and lavender, and her skin…soft, silken, so smooth. Rubbing his thumb around her clit, he leaned into her and ducked his head, catching one diamond-hard nipple in his mouth, suckling hard and deep, feasting on her sweet, exotic taste as her rough moan filled the air. Rubbing the head of his cock against her damp entrance, he groaned, the wet honey of her cream burning him. Unable to believe it, he lifted his head from where he had been feasting on her sweet little nipples and watched as he entered her, the tight little entrance stretching around him as he drove deeply in one savage, hard thrust. Rhee cried out, arching up, staring blindly into those dark silvery eyes that held her pinned in place. He was asking something of her. Demanding, actually. Staring at her as though he expected her to know him. When he couldn’t find any recognition, Sean lashed down his disappointment. It was her. His heart knew, his soul knew. His body sure as hell knew it, he thought as he stared down, watching as she took him deep inside, the sweet lips of her sex stretched tight around him. Something else was missing. Something important. But right now, he needed her too badly to figure out just what it was. Hooking his arms under her legs, he opened her wide and drove into her hard, reveling in her wild screams, shifting so that he could play with her clit while he shafted her. She shuddered and shivered around him, her cream hot and sweet, perfuming the air with her intoxicating scent. Rhee’s head was thrashing wildly against the door behind her. His thumb was driving her to distraction as it tweaked and massaged her clit. And his mouth returned to eat at her like he had been starving for her. And all the while, the rational part of her brain was telling her she had lost her fucking mind. Rhee cheerily told that part to go to hell as she looped her arms around Sean’s neck and thrust her tongue into his mouth while he drove his cock into her. He made her wonder why on earth she had been telling herself a vibrator was perfectly satisfying. Like hell. Rainbows seemed to bloom and flutter all around them, Rhee thought blissfully, as his hips hammered against her repeatedly. She could feel his cock driving deep, pulsing inside her, each pulse teasing her sensitized tissues until she thought she’d scream. His teeth caught her lower lip before he kissed her deeply, and as his tongue started to 42

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retreat she sucked it greedily back into her mouth. Forcing her eyes open just a fraction, she gazed at his face as she came, the muscles in her vagina clamping down on his cock greedily as he drove inside her. Sean’s chest shuddered as the muscles in her sweet, wet pussy clamped tightly over him, milking him dry as he pulled out and pushed his cock back inside her sheath one final time, his release jetting deep inside her sweet body. Sweat dripped off their bodies as he slowly lowered her legs to the floor, cupping her face in his hands, murmuring to her in old English without even realizing it. The anger he had always expected to feel wasn’t there. And she was staring at him as though he had grown a second head. Sean frowned, as it slowly sank in. She truly did not know him. Part of her did, otherwise she would not have let him touch her. Her ivory cheeks flushed a pale pink and he smiled slowly, charmed, smoothing her skirt down. This was going to take some finesse, he decided. “Would you believe me if I swore I have never done anything like this in my life?” The flush deepened and she said huskily, “I know I never have.” She stared around, flustered. And Sean watched as her confusion deepened. He saw why, when she spotted her pretty lilac blouse hanging on a padded hanger on the coat tree. He recognized that look. Well. Very well. It was the look he saw on thousands of faces hundreds of nights a year, the look of a logical person trying to get their logical minds around something that didn’t make sense. And then, when they simply pushed it aside. Something vital had been missing earlier. He remembered feeling it. “I don’t even remember coming inside,” she said, laughing shakily. He forced an awkward smile and said, “Maybe it was magic.” She laughed. Laughed. Sean recalled the rather empty feel of the house. The lack of magic. The connection he had been seeking with her mind that just hadn’t happened. Their bodies had connected, and in fact, he thought their bodies had connected even more completely than ever before. But the magic wasn’t there. No. Sean rolled his eyes heavenward and whispered, Please. You can’t do this to me. Slowly, he crossed the room and took her shoulders. She had turned away from him to don the bra that he had considerately draped over the neck of the padded hanger. He could see in the mirror that the pale purple lace cupped her sweet breasts lovingly, and unbelievably, his cock hardened and swelled, hungry for more. Wrapping his arms around her, he lay his cheek beside hers, and whispered, “Magic. Do you believe in it?”

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She smiled, looking a little nervous. Sean could read her thoughts, and this time, this life, she couldn’t stop him, couldn’t even tell. “No. I…uh. Well, I’ve seen your specials on TV and they are fantastic, but they are just illusions.” Illusions. Aislinn would have seen the difference between the illusion and the real magic. Illusion, he thought, bitterly. The love he had been searching for thought it was all illusion. Some sleight-of-hand and pyrotechnics. Some, yes. Not all. He wasn’t so arrogant as to believe he could work true magic in front of millions, indefinitely, and never get caught. And illusions were…well, fun. She didn’t realize that some of it, though, came from deep inside—were his own creations, his own magic, his pride and joy in life. What kept him going when he couldn’t find her. “What about destiny?” he asked. “Happily-ever-after?” “If you’re here to tell me that you were destined to have my brooch, you’re wasting your time,” she said, stalling. He smiled, stroking her hair, cuddling her against him, while he sifted through more of her memories. “I think the brooch is truly meant to be yours. I believe that, now. And you did not answer me.” “I believe in fate, to some extent. And happily-ever-after can happen.” “What about love at first sight?” he asked, reaching around, freeing the bra that she had just pulled on. She was not leaving this house, not yet. She laughed a quick, surprised sound. “You’re mistaking lust for love,” she said, gasping when he nudged her backside with his cock. Catching her hands, he forced her to bend forward, over the table in the hall, placing her hands on it, still staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were open wide, and staring into his, so lovely, so perfect in that heartshaped face. Her curls spilled in abandon down her back, her rounded butt curved against him, teasing him with the firm perfection of it. Those firmly rounded breasts, topped with dark-pink nipples teased and taunted him as he tugged her skirt down, revealing a pair of thigh-hi hose and her sweetly shaped butt before he looked up to meet her eyes in the mirror. Shaking his head slowly, he said, “No. I’m not.” And then he pushed inside, lids drooping low over his eyes, while he worked his thick shaft inside her. “I’ve been dreaming of you all m’life. And every other life before, waitin’ f’ya, searchin’ the world f’ya. The minute I saw your face, I knew.” Her creamy heat caressed his shaft and he shuddered. “I knew how you would taste, how you would feel, and the sounds you would make when you come. “And you knew the same of me, didn’t you? Can ya tell me I’m wrong, pretty girl?” he murmured. He pulled out, and surged back inside, feeling her close tightly over him, the hot wet silk hugging him tight and snug. Slowly, he lifted his eyes back up to stare at her in

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the mirror. Aislinn, he thought. Finally. The rounded head of his cock butted up against the mouth of her womb and he groaned as she spasmed around him, shrieking in pleasure. The thick head nearly left her, and he smiled slowly as she whimpered in protest and pushed her butt back against him, taking him deep inside her again, squeezing her muscles around him and moaning hungrily. He rubbed over the buried bundle of nerves that was nestled high inside her passage, making her whimper, making her moan and cry out as he released his grip on her hips, sliding his hands up her sides, cupping her breasts and tweaking her nipples. Plumping her breasts together, he leaned forward and started to nuzzle his way through the thick curls that covered her nape. Nudging them aside, he bared her neck and caught a patch of skin between his teeth, biting down gently and scoring it with his teeth, marking her, listening to her sharp gasp, and feeling her buck and writhe against him. Rhee felt weak in the knees as he pushed back, impossibly hard and long, filling her so full. He murmured in his soft, sexy accent, “You have the softest, wettest little pussy, darlin’. Like silk. Come for me, again, darlin’. Let me feel it.” As though brought on by that softly muttered order, the climax rolled through her, starting in her heart, and rolling down, until it washed over her, bringing a sob to her lips as the cream flooded from her body. She felt the fiery heat of his sperm as he came inside her—her—he was not using a rubber. She had completely lost her mind. Totally and completely. Because thirty minutes later, she was calling Les Morell to have him put a sign on her shop door. Closed. She never closed the shop. Right now she was wide open, lying on the bed with her thighs pushed high and wide and Sean Concannon, world-class magician and illusionist, was working magic with his tongue on her clit. Her vibrator was deep inside her and she would have sworn he was magic, because she had never been able to make it shake like that. It was rubbing on her G-spot in a way that she hadn’t thought possible, while he took her clit in his mouth and licked on it like it was a piece of candy. He had turned the vibrator around so that the ‘rabbit’s’ ears were tormenting the sensitive flesh of her rosette. Sean groaned as he swallowed more of her sweet cream. Her clit was stiff and swollen when he pulled away. He drew the vibrator from her pussy and drove into her, working past her swollen tissues, as he kissed her hungrily. His mouth and chin gleaming with her cream, he pushed his tongue past her teeth and lips, demanding a response as he started to pump his cock hungrily inside her. Kissing his way over her chin and down to her neck, he bit that same spot he had bitten before and her lashes fluttered open. She was still gasping for air. “Sean…can’t,” she muttered. 45

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“Need you,” he muttered, grabbing one leg and pulling it up over his hip. “Been waiting for centuries.” A startled little giggle left her, then a gasp when he swiveled his hips against her and brushed her sensitized G-spot with his cock, causing her to scream. He swallowed the soft little sound, and went back for more as he pulled out and drove back into her wet, hot sex. He thrust harder, and harder until she was raising her hips eagerly and pulling his mouth to hers. The rhythmic waves of her orgasm milked his cock until, with a muffled roar he came inside her again, pumping his cock roughly into her until she milked him dry before he collapsed on top of her. Rhee would have sworn the whole earth moved when she came that time. But she was too tired to look outside the window and see. Sean lashed the wild magic down and hoped she hadn’t noticed the miniature earthquake. He usually had better control than that. Finally, they slept. He lay on his side facing her, stroking her hair as she drifted into dreams. Something had disturbed him when he had touched her mind earlier. The fire. She remembered none of it, nothing. But it caused her nightmares. He had felt them when he touched her, had felt the remnants of one from just the past night as he loved her. She couldn’t stand fire. She had mentioned seeing his TV specials, with an odd kind of yearning. She had always wanted to go watch…but he used fire in his shows, real fire, and she had true pyrophobia. There was no way she could go. She had a fear of fire so great that even the sight of a match flaming was enough to cause her to break into a cold sweat. He let her silky hair slide through his fingers before resting them on her cheek. With a shuddering sigh, he slid through her consciousness, trying to find the blocked memories, hoping he would find a well of blocked off magic there as well. If he didn’t— No. I’ll not be thinking on that just now, he told himself. The trauma could very well have blocked off a million things, suppressed memories and tapped down her magic. Some part of her may well remember the pain, but not the joy. He sifted through memories of this life and several others. Not in one of them had she been a witch. Her first life after Aislinn died had started quickly, within three years of her first death, and she had been a noblewoman. She had been forced into an unwanted marriage—and, of course, she had made the best of it. In another life, she had journeyed to the new world aboard an overcrowded ship, smiling and laughing, touching the arm of another man—loving another man. Other men. There had been other men. He shoved the anger down deep. Once he saw her slaving in the fields, a child of mixed race on a southern plantation. In the most recent past-life she had been an aspiring actress, singing in a club in Hollywood in the fifties.

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The club had been burned to the ground by a loan shark. He had gotten a bit upset when she had refused the owner’s orders that she go to the office and fuck the loan shark to pay off his debt. The owner had been furious she had refused his orders. The loan shark had taken the refusal well enough though, and had even taken the replacement girl with a beaming smile. He had returned a week later though, and while she was in her dressing room one of his thugs had struck her across the jaw, knocking her out. He had raped her while she was unconscious, then he had set the club afire. She had come around just in time to realize she couldn’t get out. She had died, scared, trapped and alone. If she had been a witch she could have saved herself. But she had not been a witch. She had not ever been a witch. Ever. Not since Aislinn. Sean stopped himself from jerking away from her mind, making himself withdraw slowly, the way he had entered, but the second he was clear of her, a violent shudder wracked him as he relived that last life. Fury and nausea roiled, but the sickness won out and he rolled from the bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Just in time to puke, vomiting until his stomach was empty, and then he heaved until he couldn’t see straight. He stood at the sink, splashing water on his face, rinsing out his mouth and finally, he used her toothbrush, since that awful taste in his mouth wouldn’t fade. It still didn’t—he still felt ill. Sick, and shaking with fury, his head almost numb with confusion. This made no sense. On legs that felt weak and shaky, he walked back to the bed. It shouldn’t have happened. If she had been a witch, she would have been able to protect herself. Hot, bitter fury pumped through him, scalding him as he stared down at the slender woman sleeping under the tangled sheets. She had lived nearly twice the number of lives he could remember. He had lived four since he had been Nicholas Montgomery. Four. Each one, save for Nicholas, had been long-lived, and he had been blessed with magic. Each time he had been more and more powerful than in the life before. And the more powerful the magic, the longer each life had been. You would never guess it by looking at him, but Sean Concannon was nearly onehundred-years-old already. He would probably see his second century before old age caught up with him. He intended to continue to use the stage and illusions for another ten years and then retire into obscurity before disappearing altogether. Wouldn’t the

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media love to know why the charismatic, gorgeous magician who had appeared out of Ireland five years ago never seemed to age? He had looked exactly the same for the past seventy years, and wouldn’t change much for probably a good five more decades. And unless he could find some untapped magic in Rhiannon Welles’ body she would die long before that happened. How could she have no magic? Even after four lives, he was just now equal to what Aislinn had been. In all his travels over all the centuries he had seen through his combined lives, he had met many others like them. Aislinn had been special. The power he remembered seeing inside her had been like no other he had ever known. Why had that been taken away? Was this her punishment? To never know that joy again? She’d once held rainbows in her hands. She’d been able to walk on clouds and puffs of air. True magic, but she also had the healing gifts, and she had thrown it all away in her grief and anger. There was another piece of the puzzle missing. Something else. He settled down, easing her troubled mind further into sleeping, murmuring an apology for the intrusion as he thrust himself completely into her unguarded mind, and delved into her subconscious, where all the memories of her past lives lay. He had seen the past lives. But something had been missing. She had blocked off that first life, and the burning. The why lay inside the fire at the club. There had been a flash…almost, like a flash of memory, something… in her mind at the club. Some kind of memory had leaked out of her subconscious and into true memory. What…? Something that had leaked over into this life…scarring her. He felt scorching, burning pain, the bruising, tearing pain from the rape as though it had happened to him. He shoved past that, and as he went, he wiped it away. He took it inside himself, and forced a wry smile. Poof. Now you see it. Now you don’t. The memory of it, even subconsciously, was gone. But another one lingered. This one was the slave girl. Sweet Mother of God, the Burning of Atlanta. The girl had been freed, but had stayed by the side of her mistress, a girl she had thought of as her sister. And they had died in that fire together. Another death by fire. Sean took that one as well. Another life…an Indian on the plains. By the time he came to the woman he had seen laughing on the ship holding the hand of another man, he was weary and angry. He had taken two more memories inside himself, and in both of them she had died by fire. Shaking, utterly weary, he pulled out of her mind. And yet another. 48

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There would be more. But he couldn’t finish it tonight. He was too weary. She had made a stupid fucking mistake, but she didn’t deserve to keep being forced to die the same fucking way, Sean thought, taking his hands from her face and stalking the room, sweat covering his body. “Is something wrong, dear?” Even though she was thousands of miles away, her voice filled the room, not his head, but the room. Rhiannon slept on, undisturbed. He froze at the familiar voice. “Mama…” Her voice, as gentle and soothing as a spring rain, came to him. “I feel some terrible anger in my soul, and it all feels like it is coming from you.” But he was in no mood for soothing just yet. “I found her.” It all poured from him in a torrent. His mother had been his teacher in this life, like she had in his first. Somehow, they had found each other again, and Sean had suspected then that this would be the life that would close the circle, finally. “No magic. She is totally mortal then.” Maura Concannon’s voice was soft and low, somber. “Aye.” “I need not ask if you are certain it is truly Aislinn,” she said regretfully, her sigh rustling through the air. Her laughter followed, the sound filled the room, blowing his hair back from his face and it had the chimes that hung over Rhiannon’s window dancing as she added, “And I had better not ask why you are in her room, when you have only just met, now had I?” “I have known her always,” he said heatedly. “I know that. The memories you are taking, how many more?” “A few. Not many.” “Are you certain you must?” Sean laughed bitterly. “She has never even gone to watch fireworks, Ma. She is that afraid of fire. And regardless of what you say, I am as much to blame as she. I did not lead her to kill herself, nor did I ever intend for such a thing to happen, but I misled her for months. I must carry that blame. I drove her to such grief, such pain—” “No. Nicholas and Aislinn are to blame, equally. Rhiannon Welles and Sean Concannon are no longer Nicholas and Aislinn,” Maura said firmly. Across the Atlantic, she slid her husband a reassuring look and sighed, telling herself she was doing the right thing. Because she knew, if she had stopped the wedding centuries before, none of this would have come to pass. So she must also carry some of the blame. Katherine had known of Aislinn. And she had trusted Nicholas to follow his heart. When he hadn’t stopped the wedding, she had believed he had done what he wanted. It wasn’t until that very day she realized how horribly wrong she was. She should have followed her own heart, and stopped it herself. Aidan Concannon crossed the room, his aching body at peace now that he had finally taken Maura’s advice and taken the bloody potion she had pushed on him. For 49

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years, he had suffered through the various aches of old age, stiff joints, stiff knees, bad bones…until finally, Maura had started slipping potions into his food. He had thought it was mind over matter. Until she hissed out, “Bosh! It’s in yer bloody food, you old Irish goat.” So now, refusing to be spoon-fed, or tricked like a babe, he took it himself. And suffered far less now. His iron-gray hair still fell thick and full to his shoulders, even though he was nearing his second century. He had been close to his first century before Maura had finally conceived—they had thought they would never have a child. They had known, oddly enough, who they had been in that first life together, and had wondered at finding each other again. But even more amazing was finding their Nicholas in Sean again. What a child he had been. Sean had been worth the wait. Aidan’s deep-green eyes misted as he realized how very little time they had left with him. Even as long-lived as their kind was, Maura and he were pushing the limits. They were not as powerful as their son. Perhaps God was extending their time here, to tie up some loose ends. The brooch was one of them. Seeing it into Rhiannon’s hands had been his job. Folding his hand over Maura’s, he murmured, “You cannot carry all the blame, beloved. I knew Nicholas did not want that marriage. I wanted to strengthen the Montgomery family and I forced it on him. I could have called an end to it—you encouraged me to do just that. If I had listened to my wife, if I had looked at my son and seen his unhappiness, I would have done just that. If you want to shoulder some of the blame then so must I.” “We all make our own choices, love,” Maura said, for his ears only, before speaking to their son so many miles away. “If she has no magic, Sean, she will grow old the way any mortal woman does. Not the way a witch would, regardless of who she was back then.” Maura chewed her lip, as she always did when she was nervous, and hoped she was keeping her shields tightly in place. She had known Rhiannon had no magic. And she had known Rhiannon was the girl Sean was seeking. For years, she had known. For there was one gift that she had where she overreached even her son—sight. She could see decades into the future, though not always clear, not always complete. But she had known of Rhiannon before the girl had even been born. “I know that.” Sean’s voice was grim and thick with anger, rage, and even now the grief of a life lost centuries before, and the lives broken because of it. “What will you do?” “She has it in her, somewhere. I’ll find it.” “And if you cannot? Will you let her grow old and die, while you watch?” Maura turned her eyes to Aidan, stroking her fingers through his iron gray hair. “Live another century beyond that without her?”

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Now Sean’s helplessness came through, and the fear that he had been refusing to let show. A gut-deep fear that this was the price he would have to pay. “I have no choice, have I? I cannot leave her again, now that I have found her. I cannot.” “You could find a way to live without your magic?” It should have been anathema to even speak it, Maura knew. She knew how heady it was, to feel it rush through her body, almost sexual, always joyful and always powerful. But she had done it once. Not in this life. But she had done it…she had given up the magic for love, and she had never once regretted the choice. Across the Atlantic, Sean scoffed and kicked the doorjamb. “You either have the magic or you do not, Mama. You can choose not to use it, but it is still there.” “Ah, my sweet boy, that is where you are wrong. I found a way to live without it once. I lived, and died, as a mortal. I grew old with your father, lifetimes ago, and died with him. And I bless the woman who showed me the way. For that, I am ever grateful.” Her faded blue eyes closed and she remembered that life, when her son had ridden away, not just broken in his heart, but in his soul. His sister and brothers had married and left within two years, and Nathaniel had started to grow old as she watched, while she stayed young and strong. She could not imagine living her life without him, but she would not cast her life away as the young witch had done. But she knew what many did not. The magic could be burned up. Used up. All lives were like a candle, and the life of a witch was two candles inside one body. Magic needed fuel, and if you didn’t give your body time to rest, it could easily burn itself out. So, if you tried hard enough, you could put one of those candles out. She had done it, and damn near killed herself in the process, but she had been able to grow old beside Nathaniel Montgomery. She had died with him—within a week, actually—and it had been sweeter than ten lifetimes as a witch. Sean stared into nothingness as his mother relayed this. She had never told him this before. And finally, her familiar presence faded. There it was. His choice. Or rather, Aislinn’s choice, the one she had laid before him nearly seven hundred years ago. Until you love me enough to forsake everything, your honor, your pride, your own soul, we cannot be together. Not his soul. Not his pride. Not even his honor, as he had always expected it would come down to. And he had been prepared to forsake his honor, his name, everything, to have this lifetime with her. But it had come down to something that meant even more. 51

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His magic. He stared down at his hands and breathed magic into them, watching as a tiny rainbow formed. It danced and spun and grew larger and larger, until it filled the entire room, casting its light on Rhiannon’s lovely, naked body. Will she ever remember? he wondered. But he already knew the answer. He had to destroy the painful memories and once he destroyed them, there was no hope of her ever remembering any of it. But did it really matter? He loved her and they belonged together. She may not know it, but she loved him as well. What did the memories matter? He wished just once, he could make love to her while the magic swelled around them. But if he had to lose it, then it was better to do it before she knew about it, so he wouldn’t have to explain it. He crossed to her as the rainbows faded and dimmed and died. He took her face between his hands and went back to the tedious, heartbreaking task of destroying the memories that had been tormenting her. If he was lucky, maybe this task would be enough to burn his gift out. He was bone weary as it was. He had been prepared to wait a night or two before trying to erase the last few memories, especially that first, horrendous death. If he did it all now, as exhausted as he already was with coming here, finding her, wiping so many memories out, it just might be enough. Otherwise, he was afraid he’d lose his nerve. It was the first burning that was the hardest for him. Not because he was there to witness it, but because she was hurting so terribly inside, in her heart. And because he had caused it. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but she was angry enough that she didn’t care. And the stubborn little witch was stubborn to the end. Almost to the very last she could have saved herself, but she had chosen not. She had chosen to die. Maybe that was why it was harder to erase that memory. His strength was sapped by the time he was finished, and it took what little remained of his reserves just to pull himself out of her mind. He felt weaker than a kitten when he was done. He rested a fingertip on her brow and sifted through her mind, searching for the torment. And found nothing. When he was finally done, he rolled her into his arms and slept, curling her against him, tucking her head up under his chin and sighing with pleasure, his heart feeling almost replete, for the first time in centuries.

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Chapter Seven Neither of them felt the magic that slid between them and separated them that night. A light, motherly hand stroked Rhee’s head and whispered, “Forget.” A deep, rolling voice, said “In time, my boy. You’ve set the groundwork. Now we have to wait a bit.” Something invaded his mind, weakened by the exhausting work he had done, and wiped away his own memory of the past day and night, of meeting Rhiannon, leaving just a vague memory of the shopkeeper who wouldn’t sell. The groundwork, as it were, had been set. “Are ya sure it must be this way m’love?” Aidan asked as they entered their own home. “Why must he forget it as well?” “Too much torment for him to remember, I’d suspect. I just have the feeling this is how to do it. And he needs to be here just now.” Both were weary from the magic they had used. Normally neither of them would have expended such energy. They weren’t young anymore, but time was running short. Maura stroked Sean’s head as Aidan lay him on the bed. “Aye. We’re running out of time, you and me. And he made the conscious decision to give up the magic. That’s all he needed to do. That’s all anybody should ask. When the time comes, the magic will go away on its own. But he must be here when it happens. And he will want to be here when our time comes.” Aidan sighed and asked, “I do not suppose you could be telling me how you know this?” His wife slid him a look from her fey blue eyes and laughed. “The same way I knew she was Aislinn, beloved,” she said, taking his hand and guiding him from the room.

***** Sean Concannon woke up in Ireland at his family home, befuddled, confused, the past few weeks blurry and misty. He recalled America and Teri, thinking she had found the brooch, and a shopkeeper who wouldn’t sell. Had it been the one? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t have the brooch. And when he spoke with Teri, when his blasted parents finally let him get to the bloody phone, Teri said the shopkeeper still refused to sell—and by the way, how was he feeling? “I got a call from your parents that you had taken ill and wouldn’t be coming to Kentucky after all. You’ve cancelled interviews, cancelled tours…what’s going on?” she asked, worried. 53

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“I really canna say.” And he couldn’t. Sean felt not quite right. Weary, fatigued, shaky. Like he had lost something. Well, besides his mind. His mother stroked his brow and said he had been sick. His father wouldn’t look him in the eye and shrugged off his questions, saying he still hadn’t heard of the blasted brooch. Sean told him about the shop in Kentucky and Aidan assured him he would take care of it; if this American had it, Aidan would see to it that she brought it to Ireland, and he should get some more rest, or maybe some good Irish whiskey. Sean had both. And then, for some odd reason, promptly forgot about the brooch. His parents died, in their sleep, holding each other, two weeks later. The serene, peaceful smiles on their faces lingered with him, for some time after. They were satisfied with their lives, and what they had done. He realized they had brought him home for that. But exactly what was it they had done? He thought his life was falling apart a few months later. Not only had he lost his parents, but he was in a car wreck that scrambled his fucking brain, and did something awful. He couldn’t find his magic. It seemed, the past few months, like it had been leaking out of him, at a steady pace. He had been so very weary when he had woken at the family home and he had never fully regained his strength. He left the hospital, spent a few weeks recovering, and he felt almost…normal, like he hadn’t felt since months before his parents had died. And his psychic skill returned in full-force, much like it had been when he had lived as Nicholas Montgomery. Sean hadn’t had this strength in this life. Oh, he had a bit of psychic power, but not nearly what Nicholas had had. His father had definitely been the stronger of the two. But now…well, he was quite back to what Nicholas had been. Maybe even more. Strong enough, in fact, that he was able to tell if something, or someone, had been fiddling with his mind. Of course, it wasn’t true magic. It would not keep him young for decades on end. And there was only one person he could think of who would have crept into his mind and done such delicate work without damaging him—cut out bits and pieces and left without a trace. Da, what were ya doing’, tinkerin’ with m’ mind? he wondered, as he walked down the cobbled street in Kilkenny. He strode past Kyteler’s Inn and sidestepped some of the tourists going in and out before turning onto High Street and heading for Kilkenny Castle and the shoppes near it. What pieces of me did ya take and would ya be so kind as to tell me why? It had to have been his father. Mum hadn’t that kind of magic. 54

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If Sean’s strength had been there, it never would have happened. His magic had been too strong for it. But at the time his father had done it, Sean had been weak, from what he didn’t know, but he had been weakened, and whatever Aidan Concannon had done, it had been done well and good and permanent. The pieces and bit Aidan had taken were good and gone. He was baffled, but he missed them too bloody much to be angry. And he needed to know why. He paused outside an antiques shoppe just off of High Street, as he always did. Hoping. He was certain he’d never find the brooch. This wasn’t the life in which he’d find Aislinn. For so many years things had seemed so right. The magic had been so strong. His parents. Everything. Then they had died. Then the wreck. The magic was gone. This morning he had seen something he had never expected to see, a fine silver hair threading through the dense black on his head. He was aging. Granted, it was just one hair, but he had not aged in nearly seven decades. With a sigh, he acknowledged a sad fact. The way his bloody luck was going, he’d find Aislinn and she’d be in the bloom of her youth, full of power, and he’d be a bloody old man. His magic seemed to be well and truly gone. Damn it all to hell. How much longer must I wait?

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Chapter Eight A woman came out of the store, walking toward him, head down. She had a banner of golden curls, some silvery, others nearly golden, tall, slender, smelling of vanilla and lavender. Gold twinkled on her breast. She was glancing at her watch and didn’t see him. She walked straight into him, dropping her bag, her purse, and landing flat on her butt, muttering under her breath in a distinctly American accent. Sean knelt down to help her pick up her things, smiling crookedly as he offered, “It does help to watch where you are going, even in Ireland, lass. Especially here around the castle and the inns. Did ya hurt yourself?” She looked up, briefly lowering a thick fringe of golden lashes over her eyes as her lips parted. He stared into her purple eyes and time fell away. The eyes shifted, changed into blue as she walked out naked from a stream while he stared at her, wearing his fine noble clothes, feeling his shaft harden while fear turned his blood cold. If the bandits had been the ones to find her— Those purple eyes darkened and her tongue slid out to wet her lips. Sean saw acknowledgement in her eyes and realized he had been projecting. He gathered her things and rose, slowly, offering a hand. “My lady,” he said graciously. She accepted, staring at him with those wide eyes. She should have been staring at him as though he had lost his mind, but rather, she was watching him with wonder. Sean reached out, brushed his fingers over the brooch she wore. It looked, impossibly, like it had the day he had first given it to Aislinn—as though the centuries had not passed. “It’s lovely,” he said softly, drawing her away from the door and under the narrow overpass that led to the courtyard of shoppes. “May I ask where you found it?” “At a flea market,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s an American thing, where—” “I’ve been to America many times.” Not since his parents’ deaths, but he knew of flea markets. She had found it there, among junk and old books and furniture? “You are serious? That appears to be, ah, very old.” “It is. An Irishman sold it to me, actually. I was hoping to find out some of its history,” she said, looking down to where he still held her hand. She knew who he was, Sean Concannon. The famous magician had been in an accident several months ago, and afterward had retired to his native Ireland. But seeing his face in magazines and on TV didn’t explain why his touch seemed so familiar. Sean’s eyes narrowed. “An Irishman, really?”

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“Hmm. I was describing him to the lady inside the shop. Antiquing is actually a small world, and I was hoping he was someone she knew,” she murmured, feeling a bit dazed, and very hot. The brush of his thumb over the back of her hand seemed much more erotic than it should. It felt as though he was actually stroking her nipples, or her clit, for all that one light caress was doing. “Perhaps you could describe him to me? I’m a bit of a collector myself,” Sean fibbed. But he already knew. Da. You old schemer. “Tall. About your height. Iron gray hair. Dark-green eyes,” she replied, suppressing the shudder that started to run through her body. She really needed to get her hand away from him before she embarrassed herself. She was very close to falling into a moaning, steaming puddle at his feet as she screamed and moaned her way through orgasm. All from him just touching her hand. She was so starved. Had been waiting for his touch again for so very long. Taking a deep shaky breath, she continued, “A very deep voice. And he looked—sad. I thought maybe he was, well, crazy, for a while, selling me this for what he sold it for. He told me I was meant to have it, like he knew me or something. It’s worth so much. But he’s right.” She reached up and folded her free hand over, whispering fiercely, “It’s mine.” Sean smiled, and replied, “It is, that.” He offered her his arm and said, “If you will let me walk you to your hotel, I have a bargain of sorts. I recognize the piece, if you will believe that. It comes from a family that is local. I know some of the history and I can tell you. We can deposit your purchases and then go have some dinner. All I ask is that you not think I’m…crazy when I’m through.” Fighting not to make a moue of disappointment as he stopped stroking her hand, she laughed and said, “After the last few months I’ve had, very little would faze me.” He smiled down at her and said, “I understand that, trust me, I do.” Back at the hotel, she was reluctant when he offered to wait in the lobby. “Come up, please.” As they stepped off the elevator, she rummaged for the key to her room while she continued to just stare at him. Rhee didn’t understand why she offered, but offer she did. “I’d rather just order room service. I’ve been on my feet so much the past few days, I really would rather just sit for a while.” Sean’s hands fisted in his pockets. Staring into her lovely, familiar face, he cursed silently. Alone. In a room, with Aislinn. After centuries without her. Fuck me, he thought savagely. But he forced an agreeable smile and shrugged his shoulders, saying, “I’ll not take much of your time, Miss…?” “Welles. Rhiannon Welles. And I’m tired of eating alone, actually. I’d rather you stay,” she said as she stepped out of her strappy sandals and offered the room service menu. “You shouldn’t be offering strange men meals in your room, Miss Welles,” he told her, glancing over the menu before handing it back to her, his eyes irresistibly drawn to her slim, narrow feet. The pencil slim skirt of the dress she wore slid a little higher on 57

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her thighs as she lowered her body into the overstuffed chair by the phone and lifted the receiver, sliding him a questioning look as she did so. After they ordered, she looked back at him and said, “I promise not to think your story, whatever it is, is crazy, if you don’t think this is crazy, Mr. Concannon.” “Sean.” Her wine-red-slicked-mouth curved in a smile and she said, “Sean. I looked up at you after I so gracefully landed on my butt and the first thing I could think was, There you are. Where in the hell have you been? I felt like—and I still do—I’ve been looking for you for my entire life. Am I crazy?” He moved across the room and knelt in front of her, staring up at her with serious eyes that had darkened to the color of pewter in his need, his hunger for her showing in the stark lines of his face, in the roughness of his voice. “No, you are not. Now, you might be thinking that I am. I’m ah, shall we just say, well, I’m psychic. I can see things that happened in the distant past, or…” his lids drooped and he smiled slowly as the thoughts from her mind bloomed in his. “You left your room three times this morning, and walked right back in, telling yourself what a ridiculous outfit you are wearing to go shopping in. And no, ‘tis not ridiculous. You look quite lovely.” He stroked one hand down her silk covered calf and hummed with appreciation. Her eyes widened and she looked down. “How did you know that?” she whispered, looking down at the green silk sheath she wore. Sean lifted one shoulder and just stared at her. “What else?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. The grin that spread across his face was hot and wild and she turned a very lovely shade of pink. His lids drooped as he shared the image he had lifted from her mind, how she had seen herself, standing in front of the mirror, wearing the scanty lingerie, studying herself, wondering why on earth she was wearing it to go shopping. “Are you still wondering why?” he asked roughly. “Ahhh….ummm, no,” she murmured, shaking her head, her cheeks pink, tongue nervously wetting her lips. He lifted his hand, palm out. “I can tell you, or I can show you.” His voice throbbed and pulsed, and he could see the reflection of his own gaze glowing in her violet eyes. Her palm lifted and met his, and their hands touched lightly, and he projected. Everything but her death, the way she died, and the fact that he had killed her, to spare her further pain, ending the pain, as she had wanted. That was his, and only his. He would never share that, because it was his horror now, his alone now and forever. Their meeting at the stream, their lovemaking in the woods, the bandits, their alltoo-brief love affair, and he let her think it ended in the hut that final time, when she sent him away. “Such a lovely thing, you were. I wanted ya so badly, and I took you. I had no right.” When his hand fell away, he opened his eyes and looked into hers, saw

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them glimmering with unshed tears. “I’ve lived four times since then, and have looked for you in every single one of those lives,” he said roughly. “This is the first time I have been able to find you.” “Maybe we are both crazy,” she said on a watery laugh. Sean felt the disappointment inside, but it died when she moved off the seat and ended up on his lap, her slim, strong arms winding around his neck, her mouth on his. Finally. But oddly, it didn’t seem like it had been centuries since he had tasted her. No matter. He shoved the slim skirt of her dress high, finding only the tiny thong that he pulled aside. Her head fell back and she whispered, “Room service?” “Fuck them,” he rasped as he devoured the sweet, smooth scented skin of her neck as his fingers sought the zipper of her dress. With his big hands under her bottom, he lifted her onto the chair and searched frantically for the zipper, refusing to rip or tear away her clothes. Finally, Sean found the zipper under her arm and yanked it down, stripping the dress away. He found the thing that had made her blush so adorably, a sheer green bra, dotted with fragile violet flowers that matched the skimpy thong she wore. The thong had only one flower, larger, blooming right over the bud of her clit. Sean curled his fingers into her hips and pulled her to the edge of the seat as he lowered his face to that flower. Swirling his tongue against it, he bit her clit gently through the delicate fabric before pulling it aside and thrusting his tongue deeply inside. “Are we really doing this?” Rhiannon gasped just as he screwed two long fingers deep inside her wet vagina, causing her last words to die on a scream. Her wet, creamy heat closed tightly around his fingers, gloving him in satin warmth that made his cock swell even more in the confinement of his jeans. “This and more,” Sean promised as he stood and lifted her up with him, carrying her to the bed before kneeling down in front of her, sliding his hands along her body to remove the pretty bra, then inside the waistband of her panties, gliding them down the length of her legs. “So damn sweet,” he crooned, pausing to flick her clit with his tongue, delving into the depths of her weeping pussy as he tossed her panties aside before he rose and stared down at her sprawled on the bed, his heart pounding in his chest. Bloody hell…finally, he thought, as he came down on top of her. Pausing long enough to rip his shirt from his body and shove his worn jeans down and off, kicking his boots away with them, before driving deeply inside her. His long, muscled body went rigid as he burrowed inside her wet, creamy sheath to the hilt. “Finally,” they both whispered as one, and then they stared up into each other’s eyes, startled at first, but then they both smiled slowly and then wider. Sean pulled out and surged back in, linking his hands with Rhee’s, leaning down to rub his cheek against hers briefly before lifting up to stare down at her as he pulled out.

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The ruddy, rounded head of his cock showed briefly as he pulled completely out and surged back inside, spearing her, spreading her open. Against his chest he could feel the softness of her breasts, the hot, hard press of her nipples, and he groaned as he shifted to the side, lowering his head so he could capture one swollen nipple between his teeth. Sean stroked his fingers across the swollen, slick bud of her clit and smiled as she shrieked and lifted her hips against him, seeking more. “Like that, aye?” “Yesssss…” she moaned as she reached up and buried her fingers in his hair, tugging his head up to hers, catching his lower lip between her teeth and nibbling on it before sucking it into her mouth as she frantically ground her pelvis against him. He caught her other breast in his hand, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger as Rhee wrapped her legs around his waist, and he shuddered when she started to come. That narrow, snug little sheath went into divine, sweet milking spasms that hugged his cock and drove Sean into a mind-numbing state of near bliss as his cock jerked roughly inside her pussy. His balls drew tight against him and he swore roughly. “I wanted this to last,” he whispered against her breast. “We can do it again,” she moaned, her chest heaving against his, her breasts gleaming under a fine light coat of sweat. “Not going anywhere.” Sean reached down and gripped her hips, driving his cock deeply inside, moving up on her body and catching her mouth, sharing the sweet, tangy taste of her own body as he drove his tongue deep inside her mouth. She shuddered around him, and her entire body trembled. She screamed and he growled against her lips, plunging more deeply within her pussy as she screamed again and he drank it down as she came again, just as his own orgasm ripped through him and spilled into her hot pussy. Sean collapsed onto her heaving chest, his head spinning wildly. A few minutes later, she whispered, “I feel like I’ve finally come home.” He searched through the tangle of sheets until he found her limp hand and he brought it to his mouth and kissed it. “You have, my lady. You have.”

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