Once upon a Dream Read Free

there was anger in his eyes. Eyes as green as the rain-washed hills of Ireland. He was all in black. Perhaps that was why he looked so dangerous.
    His face was violently handsome—“violent” was the word that kept ringing in her ears. Slashing cheekbones, lancing black brows, a fierce frown on a mouth that struck her as brutal. His hair was as dark as his clothing and fell in wild waves nearly to his shoulders.
    Her heart pounded, a primal warning. Even as she shrank back, she gathered the courage to speak. “Excuse me. What is it?”
    He said nothing. Had been unable to speak since he’d lifted her off the floor. A trick, a new torment? Was she, after all, only a dream within a dream?
    But he’d felt her. The cold damp of her flesh, the weight and the shape of her. Her voice came clear to him now, as did the terror in her eyes.
    Why should she be afraid? Why should she fear when she had unmanned him? Five hundred years of solitude hadn’t done so, but this woman had accomplished it with one quick stroke.
    He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving her face. “You are come. Why?”
    â€œI…I don’t understand. I’m sorry. Do you speak English?”
    One of those arching brows rose. He’d spoken in Gaelic, for he most often thought in the language of his life. But five hundred years of alone had given him plenty of time for linguistics. He could certainly speak English, and half a dozen other languages besides.
    â€œI asked why you have come.”
    â€œI don’t know.” She wanted to sit up but was afraid totry it again. “I think there must have been an accident. I can’t quite remember.”
    However much it might hurt to move, she couldn’t stay flat on her back looking up at him. It made her feel foolish and helpless. She set her teeth, pushed herself up slowly. Her stomach pitched, her head rang, but she managed to sit.
    And sitting, glanced around the room.
    An enormous room, she noted, and filled with the oddest conglomeration of furnishings. There was an old and beautiful refectory table that held dozens of candlesticks. Silver, wrought iron, pottery, crystal. Pikes were crossed on the wall, and near them was a dramatic painting of the Cliffs of Mohr.
    There were display cabinets from various eras. Charles II, James I. Neoclassic bumped up against Venetian, Chippendale against Louis XV. An enormous big-screen television stood near a priceless Victorian davenport.
    Placed at random were Waterford bowls, T’ang horses, Dresden vases, and…several Pez dispensers.
    Despite discomfort, the eccentricity tickled her humor. “What an interesting room.” She glanced up at him again. He’d yet to stop staring. “Can you tell me how I got here?”
    â€œYou came.”
    â€œYes, apparently, but how? And…I seem to be very wet.”
    â€œIt’s raining.”
    â€œOh.” She blew out a breath. The fear had ebbed considerably. After all, the man collected Pez dispensers and Georgian silver. “I’m sorry, Mister…”
    â€œI’m Flynn.”
    â€œMister Flynn.”
    â€œFlynn,” he repeated.
    â€œAll right. I’m sorry, Flynn, I can’t seem to think very clearly.” She was shivering, violently now, and wrapped her arms around her chest. “I was going somewhere, but…I don’t know where I am.”
    â€œWho does?” he murmured. “You’re cold.” And he’d done nothing to tend to her. He would see to her comfort, he decided, and then…He would simply see.
    He scooped her off the couch, faintly irritated when she pushed a hand against his shoulder defensively.
    â€œI’m sure I can walk.”
    â€œI’m more sure I can. You need dry clothes,” he began as he carried her out of the room. “A warm brew and a hot fire.”
    Oh, yes, she thought. It all sounded wonderful. Nearly as wonderful as being carried up a