Once Upon a Castle - Jill Gregory [5]
Her hair was wet, hanging in deep-red ropes over her shoulders, framing a face that might have been carved out of ivory by a master. Her mouth was soft and full and seemed to tremble as it curved into a smile of welcome. Her eyes were star blue and swimming with emotions as powerful as the storm.
“I knew you would come.” The cloak she wore flew back as she raced to him. “I waited for you,” she said with the musical lilt of Ireland before her mouth crushed his.
2
There was a moment of blinding, searing joy. Another of dark, primal lust.
Her taste, sharp, potent, soaked into his system as the rain soaked his skin. He was helpless to do anything but absorb it. Her arms were chained around his neck, her slim, curvy body pressed intimately to his, the heat from it seeping through his sodden shirt and into his bones.
And her mouth was as wild and edgy as the sky thundering above them.
It was all terrifyingly familiar.
He brought his hands to her shoulders, torn for a staggering instant as to whether to pull her closer or push her away. In the end he eased back, held her at arm’s length.
She was beautiful. She was aroused. And she was, he assured himself, a stranger. He angled his head, determined to handle the situation.
“Well, it’s certainly a friendly country.”
He saw the flicker in her eyes, the dimming of disappointment, a flash of frustration. But he couldn’t know just how deeply that disappointment, that frustration cut into her heart.
He’s here, she told herself. He’s come. That’s what matters most now. “It is, yes.” She gave him a smile, let her fingers linger in his hair just another second, then dropped them to her sides. “Welcome to Ireland and the Castle of Secrets.”
His gaze shifted toward the ruins. “Is that what it’s called?”
“That’s the name it carries now.” She had to struggle to keep her eyes from devouring him, every inch, every expression. Instead she offered a hand, as she would have to any wayward traveler. “You’ve had a long journey. Come, sit by my fire.” Her lips curved. “Have some whiskey in your tea.”
“You don’t know me.” He made it a statement rather than a question. Had to.
In answer, she looked up at the sky. “You’re wet,” she said, “and the wind’s cold today. It’s enough to have me offer a seat by the hearth.” She turned away from him, stepped up onto the porch where the cat stirred itself to wind through her legs. “You’ve come this far.” Her eyes met his again, held. “Will you come into my home, Calin Farrell, and warm yourself?”
He scooped dripping hair out of his face, felt his bones tremble. “How do you know my name?”
“The same way you knew to come here.” She picked up the cat, stroked its silky head. Both of them watched him with patient, unblinking blue eyes. “I baked scones fresh this morning. You’ll be hungry.” With this, she turned and walked inside, leaving him to come or go as he willed.
Part of him wanted to get back in the car, drive away, pretend he’d never seen her or this place. But he climbed onto the porch, pushed the front door open. He needed answers, and it seemed she had at least some of them.
The warmth struck him instantly. Welcoming warmth redolent with the fragrances of bread recently baked, of peat simmering in the hearth, of flowers just picked.
“Make yourself at home.” She set the cat on the floor. “I’ll see to the tea.”
Cal stepped into the tiny parlor and near to the red eye of the fire. There were flowers, he noted, their petals still damp, filling vases on the stone mantel, pots on the table by the window.
A sugan chair sat by the hearth, but he didn’t sit. Instead he studied the room with the sharp eye of an artist.
Quiet colors, he thought. Not pale, but soothing in the choice of deep rose and mossy greens. Woven rugs on the polished floors, mirror-bright woods lovingly cared for and