Once upon a Dream

by Nora Roberts

  “You’re…” The knife was solid in her hand. A trick of the eye, she told herself. Just a trick of the eye. “You’re a magician.”

  “I am.” His grin was like lightning, fast and bright. Whereas he had been handsome, now he was devastating. His pleasure shone. “That is what I am, exactly. Sit down, Kayleen, and break fast with me. For I’ve hungered a long time.”

  She took one cautious step in retreat. “It’s too much.”

  Thinking she meant the food, he frowned at the table. Considered. “Perhaps you’re right. I got a bit carried away with it all.” He scanned the selections, nodded, then sketched an arch with his hand.

  Half the food vanished.

  The knife dropped out of her numb fingers. Her eyes rolled straight back.

  “Oh, Christ.” It was impatience as much as concern. At least this time he had the wit to catch her before she hit the floor. He sat her in a chair, gave her a little shake, then watched her eyes focus again.

  “You didn’t understand after all.”

  “Understand? Understand?”

  “It’ll need to be explained, then.” He picked up a plate and began to fill it for her. “You need to eat or you’ll beill. Your injuries will heal faster if you’re strong.”

  He set the plate in front of her, began to fill one for himself. “What do you know of magic, Kayleen Brennan of Boston?”

  “It’s fun to watch.”

  “It can be.”

  She would eat, she thought, because she did feel ill. “And it’s an illusion.”

  “It can be.” He took the first bite—rare roast beef—and moaned in ecstasy at the taste. The first time he’d come to his week, he’d gorged himself so that he was sick a full day. And had counted it worth it. But now he’d learned to take his time, and appreciate.

  “Do you remember now how you came here?”

  “It was raining.”

  “Yes, and is still.”

  “I was going…”

  “How were you going?”

  “How?” She picked up her fork, sampled the fish without thinking. “I was driving…I was driving,” she repeated, on a rising note of excitement. “Of course. I was driving, and I was lost. The storm. I was coming from—” She stopped, struggling through the mists. “Dublin. I’d been in Dublin. I’m on vacation. Oh, that’s right, I’m on vacation and I was going to drive around the countryside. I got lost. Somehow. I was on one of the little roads through the forest, and it was storming. I could barely see. Then I…”

  The relief in her eyes faded as they met his. “I saw you,” she whispered. “I saw you out in the storm.”

  “Did you now?”

  “You were out in the rain. You said my name. How could you have said my name before we met?”

  She’d eaten little, but he thought a glass of wine might help her swallow what was to come. He poured it, handed it to her. “I’ve dreamed of you, Kayleen. Dreamed of you for longer than your lifetime. And dreaming of you I was when you were lost in my forest. And when I awoke, you’d come. Do you never dream of me, Kayleen?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There was a storm. I was lost. Lightning hit very near, and there was a deer. A white deer in the road. I swerved to avoid it, and I crashed. I think I hit a tree. I probably have a concussion, and I’m imagining things.”

  “A white hind.” The humor had gone from his face again. “You hit a tree with your car? They didn’t have to hurt you,” he muttered. “They had no right to hurt you.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “My jailers.” He shoved his plate aside. “The bloody Keepers.”

  “I need to check on my car.” She spoke slowly, calmly. Not just eccentric, she decided. The man was unbalanced. “Thank you so much for helping me.”

  “If you want to check on your car, then we will. In the morning. There’s hardly a point in going out in a storm in the middle of the night.” He laid his hand firmly on hers before she could rise. “You’re thinking, ‘This Flynn, he’s lost his mind somewhere along the way.’ Well, I haven’t, though it was a near thing a time or two. Look at me, leannana. Do I mean nothing to you?”

  “I don’t know.” And that was what kept her from bolting. He could look at her, as he was now, and she felt tied to him. Not bound by force, but tied. By her own will. “I don’t understand what you mean, or what’s happening to me.”

  “Then we’ll sit by the fire, and I’ll tell you what it all means.” He rose, held out his hand. Irritation washed over his face when she refused to take it. “Do you want the knife?”

  She glanced down at it, back up at him. “Yes.”

  “Then bring it along with you.”

  He plucked up the wine, and the glasses, and led the way.

  He sat by the fire, propped his boots on the hearth, savored his wine and the scent of the woman who sat so warily beside him. “I was born in magic,” he began. “Some are. Others apprentice and can learn well enough. But to be born in it is more a matter of controlling the art than of learning it.”

  “So your father was a magician.”

  “No, he was a tailor. Magic doesn’t have to come down through the blood. It simply has to be in the blood.” He paused because he didn’t want to blunder again. He should know more of her, he decided, before he did. “What is it you are, back in your Boston?”

  “I’m an antique dealer. That came through the blood. My uncles, my grandfather, and so on. Brennan’s of Boston has been doing business for nearly a century.”

  “Nearly a century, is it?” he chuckled. “So very long.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t seem so by European standards. But America’s a young country. You have some magnificent pieces in your home.”

  “I collect what appeals to me.”

  “Apparently a wide range appeals to you. I’ve never seen such a mix of styles and eras in one place before.”

  He glanced around the room, considering. It wasn’t something he’d thought of, but he’d had only himself to please up until now. “You don’t like it?”

  Because it seemed to matter to him, she worked up a smile. “No, I like it very much. In my business I see a lot of beautiful and interesting pieces, and I’ve always felt it was a shame more people don’t just toss them together and make their own style rather than sticking so rigidly to a pattern. No one can accuse you of sticking to a pattern.”

  “No. That’s a certainty.”

  She started to curl up her legs, caught herself. What in the world was wrong with her? She was relaxing into an easy conversation with what was very likely a madman. She cut her gaze toward the knife beside her, then back to him. And found him studying her contemplatively.

  “I wonder if you could use it. There are two kinds of people in the world, don’t you think? Those who fight and those who flee. Which are you, Kayleen?”

  “I’ve never been in the position where I had to do either.”

  “That’s either fortunate or tedious. I’m not entirely sure which. I like a good fight myself,” he added with that quick grin. “Just one of my many flaws. Fact is, I miss going fist to fist with a man. I miss a great many things.”

  “Why? Why do you have to miss anything?”

  “That’s the point, isn’t it, of this fireside conversation. The why. Are you wondering, mavourneen, if I’m off in my head?”

  “Yes,” she said, then immediately froze.

  “I’m not, though perhaps it would’ve been easier if I’d gone a bit crazy along the way. They knew I had a strong mind—part of the problem, in their thinking, and part of the reason for the sentence weighed on me.”

  “They?” Her fingers inched toward the handle of the knife. She could use it, she promised herself. She woulduse it if she had to, no matter how horribly sad and lonely he looked.

  “The Keepers. The ancient and the revered who guard and who nurture magic. And have done so since the Waiting Time, when life was no more than the heavens taking their first
breath.”

  “Gods?” she said cautiously.

  “In some ways of thinking.” He was brooding again, frowning into the flames. “I was born of magic, and when I was old enough I left my family to do the work. To heal and to help. Even to entertain. Some of us have more of a knack, you could say, for the fun of it.”

  “Like, um, sawing a lady in half.”

  He looked at her with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “This is illusion, Kayleen.”

  “Yes.”

  “I speak of magic, not pretense. Some prophesy, some travel and study, for the sake of it. Others devote their art to healing body or soul. Some choose to make a living performing. Some might serve a worthy master, as Merlin did Arthur. There are as many choices as there are people. And while none may choose to harm or profit for the sake of it, all are real.”

  He slipped a long chain from under his shirt, held the pendant with its milky stone out for her to see. “A moonstone,” he told her. “And the words around are my name, and my title. Draiodoir. Magician.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Unable to resist, she curved her hand around the pendant. And felt a bolt of heat, like the rush of a comet, spurt from her fingertips to her toes. “God!”

  Before she could snatch her hand away, Flynn closed his own over hers. “Power,” he murmured. “You feel it. Can all but taste it. A seductive thing. And inside, you can make yourself think there’s nothing impossible. Look at me, Kayleen.”

  She already was, could do nothing else. Wanted nothing else. There you are, she thought again. There you are, at last.

  “I could have you now. You would willingly lie with me now, as you have in dreams. Without fear. Without questions.”

  “Yes.”

  And his need was a desperate thing, leaping, snapping at the tether of control. “I want more.” His fingers tightened on hers. “What is it in you that makes me crave more, when I don’t know what more is? Well, we’ve time to find the answer. For now, I’ll tell you a story. A young magician left his family. He traveled and he studied. He helped and he healed. He had pride in his work, in himself. Some said too much pride.”

  He paused now, thinking, for there had been times in this last dreaming that he’d wondered if that could be so.

  “His skill, this magician’s, was great, and he was known in his world. Still, he was a man, with the needs of a man, the desires of a man, the faults of a man. Would you want a man perfect, Kayleen?”

  “I want you.”

  “Leannana.” He leaned over, pressed his lips to her knuckles. “This man, this magician, he saw the world. He read its books, listened to its music. He came and went as he pleased, did as he pleased. Perhaps he was careless on occasion, and though he did no harm, neither did he heed the rules and the warnings he was given. The power was so strong in him, what need had he for rules?”

  “Everyone needs rules. They keep us civilized.”

  “Do you think?” It amused him how prim her voice had become. Even held by the spell, she had a strong mind, and a strong will. “We’ll discuss that sometime. But for now, to continue the tale. He came to know a woman. Her beauty was blinding, her manner sweet. He believed her to be innocent. Such was his romantic nature.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “Yes, I loved her. I loved the angel-faced, innocent maid I saw when I looked at her. I asked for her hand, for it wasn’t just a tumble I wanted from her but a lifetime. And when I asked, she wept, ah, pretty tears down a smooth cheek. She couldn’t be mine, she told me, as much as her heart already was. For there was a man, a wealthy man, a cruel man, who had contracted for her. Her father had sold her, and her fate was sealed.”

  “You couldn’t let that happen.”

  “Ah, you see that, too.” It pleased him that she saw it, stood with him on that vital point. “No, how could I let her go loveless to another? To be sold like a horse in the marketplace? I would take her away, I said, and she wept the more. I would give her father twice what had been given, and she sobbed upon my shoulder. It could not be done, for then surely the man would kill her poor father, or see him in prison, or some horrible fate. So long as the man had his wealth and position, her family would suffer. She couldn’t bear to be the cause of it, even though her heart was breaking.”

  Kayleen shook her head, frowned. “I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make sense. If the money was paid back and her father was wealthy now, he could certainly protect himself, and he would have the law to—”

  “The heart doesn’t follow such reason,” he interrupted, impatiently because if he’d had the wit in his head at the time, instead of fire in his blood, he’d have come to those same conclusions. “It was saving her that was my first thought—and my last. Protecting her, and yes, perhaps, by doing so having her love me the more. I would take this cruel man’s wealth and his position from him. I vowed this, and oh, how her eyes shone, diamonds of tears. I would take what he had and lay it at her feet. She would live like a queen, and I would care for her all my life.”

  “But stealing—”

  “Will you just listen?” Exasperation hissed through his voice.

  “Of course.” Her chin lifted, a little tilt of resentment. “I beg your pardon.”

  “So this I did, whistling the wind, drawing down the moon, kindling the cold fire. This I did, and did freely for her. And the man woke freezing in a crofter’s cot instead of his fine manor house. He woke in rags instead of his warm nightclothes. I took his life from him, without spilling a drop of blood. And when it was done, I stood in the smoldering dark of that last dawn, triumphant.”

  He fell into silence a moment, and when he continued, his voice was raw. “The Keepers encased me in a shield of crystal, holding me there as I cursed them, as I shouted my protests, as I used the heart and innocence of my young maid as my defense for my crime. And they showed me how she laughed as she gathered the wealth I’d sent to her, as she leapt into a carriage laden with it and fell into the arms of the lover with whom she’d plotted the ruin of the man she hated. And my ruin as well.”

  “But you loved her.”

  “I did, but the Keepers don’t count love as an excuse, as a reason. I was given a choice. They would strip me of my power, take away what was in my blood and make me merely human. Or I would keep it, and live alone, in a half world, without companionship, without human contact, without the pleasures of the world that I, in their estimation, had betrayed.”

  “That’s cruel. Heartless.”

  “So I claimed, but it didn’t sway them. I took the second choice, for they would not empty me. I would not abjure my birthright. Here I have existed, since that night of betrayal, a hundred years times five, with only one week each century to feel as a man does again.

  “I am a man, Kayleen.” With his hand still gripping hers, he got to his feet. Drew her up. “I am,” he murmured, sliding his free hand into her hair, fisting it there.

  He lowered his head, his lips nearly meeting hers, then hesitated. The sound of her breath catching, releasing, shivered through him. She trembled under his hand, and he felt, inside himself, the stumble of her heart.

  “Quietly this time,” he murmured. “Quietly.” And brushed his lips, a whisper, once…twice over hers. The flavor bloomed inside him like a first sip of fine wine.

  He drank slowly. Even when her lips parted, invited, he drank slowly. Savoring the texture of her mouth, the easy slide of tongues, the faint, faint scrape of teeth.

  Her body fit against his, so lovely, so perfect. The heat from the moonstone held between their hands spread like sunlight and began to pulse.

  So even drinking slowly he was drunk on her.

  When he drew back, her sigh all but shattered him.

  “A ghra.” Weak, wanting, he lowered his brow to hers. With a sigh of his own he tugged the pendant free. Her eyes, soft, loving, clouded, began to clear. Before the change was complete, he pressed his mouth to hers one last time.

  “Dream,” he said.
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  4

  SHE WOKE TO watery sunlight and the heady scent of roses. There was a low fire simmering in the grate and a silk pillow under her head.

  Kayleen stirred and rolled over to snuggle in.

  Then shot up in bed like an arrow from a plucked bow.

  My God, it had really happened. All of it.

  And for lord’s sake, for lord’s sake, she was naked again.

  Had he given her drugs, hypnotized her, gotten her drunk? What other reason could there be for her to have slept like a baby—and naked as one—in a bed in the house of a crazy man?

  Instinctively, she snatched at the sheets to cover herself, and then she saw the single white rose.

  An incredibly sweet, charmingly romantic crazy man, she thought and picked up the rose before she could resist.

  That story he’d told her—magic and betrayal and five hundred years of punishment. He’d actually believed it. Slowly she let out a breath. So had she. She’d sat there, listening and believing every word—then. Hadn’t seen a single thing odd about it, but had felt sorrow and anger on his behalf. Then…

  He’d kissed her, she remembered. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, stunned at her own behavior. The man had kissed her, had made her feel like rich cream being gently lapped out of a bowl. More, she’d wanted him to kiss her. Had wanted a great deal more than that.

  And perhaps, she thought, dragging the sheets higher, there had been a great deal more than that.

  She started to leap out of bed, then changed her mind and crept out instead. She had to get away, quickly and quietly. And to do so, she needed clothes.

  She tiptoed to the wardrobe, wincing at the creak as she eased the door open. It was one more shock to look inside and see silks and velvets, satins and lace, all in rich, bold colors. Such beautiful things. The kind of clothes she would covet but never buy. So impractical, so frivolous, really.

  So gorgeous.