Once upon a Dream

by Nora Roberts

  “Umm. So sorry for the women who don’t have you for a lover.”

  He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Generous of you, mavourneen. I prefer being smug that I’m the only man who’s had the delights of you.”

  “I saw stars. And not the ones up there.”

  “So did I. You’re the only one who’s given me the stars.” He stirred, pressing his lips to the side of her breast before lifting his head. “And you give me an appetite as well—for all manner of succulent things.”

  “I suppose that means you want your supper and we have to go back.”

  “We have to do nothing but what pleases us. What would you like?”

  “At the moment? I’d settle for some water. I’ve never been so thirsty.”

  “Water, is it?” He angled his head, grinned. “That I can give you, and plenty.” He gathered her up and rolled. She managed a scream, and he a wild laugh, as they tumbled off the bank and hit the water of the pool with a splash.

  It seemed miraculous to Kayleen how much she and Flynn had in common. Considering the circumstance and all that differed between them, it was an amazing thing that they found any topic to discuss or explore.

  But then, Flynn hadn’t sat idle for five hundred years. His love of something well made, even if its purpose was only for beauty, struck home with her. All of her life she’d been exposed to craftsmanship and aesthetics—the history of a table, the societal purpose of an enameled snuffbox, or the heritage of a serving platter. The few pieces she’d allowed herself to collect were special to her, not only because of their beauty but also because of their continuity.

  She and Flynn had enjoyed many of the same books and films, though he had read and viewed far more for the simple enjoyment of it than she.

  He listened to her, posing questions about various phases of her life, until she was picking them apart for him and remembering events and things she’d seen or done or experienced that she’d long ago forgotten.

  No one had ever been so interested in her before, in who she was and what she thought. What she felt. If he didn’t agree, he would lure her into a debate or tease her into exploring a lighter side of herself rarely given expression.

  It seemed she did the same for him, nudging him out of his brooding silences, or leaving him be until the mood had passed on its own.

  But whenever she made a comment or asked a question about the future, those silences lasted long.

  So she wouldn’t ask, she told herself. She didn’t need to know. What had planning and preciseness gotten her, really, but a life of sameness? Whatever happened when the week was up—God, why couldn’t she remember what day it was—she would be content.

  For now, every moment was precious.

  He’d given her so much. Smiling, she wandered the house, running her fingers along the exquisite pearls, which she hadn’t taken off since he’d put them around her neck. Not the gifts, she thought, though she treasured them, but romance, possibilities, and above all, a vision.

  She had never seen so clearly before.

  Love answered all questions.

  What could she give him? Gifts? She had nothing. What little she still possessed was in the car she’d left abandoned in the wood. There was so little there, really, of the woman she’d become, and was still becoming.

  She wanted to do something for him. Something that would make him smile.

  Food. Delighted with the idea, she hurried back toward the kitchen. She’d never known anyone to appreciate a single bite of apple as much as Flynn.

  Of course, since there wasn’t any stove, she hadn’t a clue what she could prepare, but…She swung into the kitchen, stopped short in astonishment.

  There certainly was one beauty of a stove now. White and gleaming. All she’d done was mutter about having to boil water for tea over a fire and—poof!—he’d made a stove.

  Well, she thought, and pushed up her sleeves, she would see just what she could do with it.

  In his workroom, Flynn gazed through one of his windows on the world. He’d intended to focus on Kayleen’s home so that he could replicate some of her things for her. He knew what it was to be without what you had, what had mattered to you.

  For a time he lost himself there, moving his mind through the rooms where she had once lived, studying the way she’d placed her furniture, what books were on her shelves, what colors she’d favored.

  How tidy it all was, he thought with a great surge in his heart. Everything so neatly in place, and so tastefully done. Did it upset her sense of order to be in the midst of his hodgepodge?

  He would ask her. They could make some adjustments. But why the hell hadn’t the woman had more color around her? And look at the clothes in the closet. All of them more suited to a spinster—no, that wasn’t the word used well these days. Plain attire without the richness of fabric and the brilliance of color that so suited his Kayleen.

  She would damn well leave them behind if he had any say in it.

  But she would want her photographs, and that lovely pier glass there, and that lamp. He began to set them in his mind, the shape and dimensions, the tone and texture. So deep was his concentration that he didn’t realize the image had changed until the woman crossed his vision.

  She walked through the rooms, her hands clasped tightly together. A lovely woman, he noted. Smaller than Kayleen, fuller at the breasts and hips, but with the same coloring. She wore her dark hair short, and it swung at her cheeks as she moved.

  Compelled, he opened the window wider and heard her speak.

  “Oh, baby, where are you? Why haven’t you called? It’s almost a week. Why can’t we find you? Oh, Kayleen.” She picked up a photograph from a table, pressed it to her. “Please be all right. Please be okay.”

  With the picture hugged to her heart, she dropped into a chair and began to weep.

  Flynn slammed the window shut and turned away.

  He would not be moved. He would not.

  Time was almost up. In little more than twenty-four hours, the choice would be behind him. Behind them all.

  He closed his mind to a mother’s grief. But he wasn’t fully able to close his heart.

  His mood was edgy when he left the workroom. He meant to go outside, to walk it off. Perhaps to whistle up Dilis and ride it off. But he heard her singing.

  He’d never heard her sing before. A pretty voice, he thought, but it was the happiness in it that drew him back to the kitchen.

  She was stirring something on the stove, something in the big copper kettle that smelled beyond belief.

  It had been a very long time since he’d come into a kitchen where cooking was being done. But he was nearly certain that was what had just happened. Since it was almost too marvelous to believe, he decided to make sure of it.

  “Kayleen, what are you about there?”

  “Oh!” Her spoon clattered, fell out of her hand and plopped into the pot. “Damn it, Flynn! You startled me. Now look at that, I’ve drowned the spoon in the sauce.”

  “Sauce?”

  “I thought I’d make spaghetti. You have a very unusual collection of ingredients in your kitchen. Peanut butter, pickled herring, enough chocolate to make an entire elementary school hyper for a month. However, I managed to find plenty of herbs, and some lovely ripe tomatoes, so this seemed the safest bet. Plus you have ten pounds of spaghetti pasta.”

  “Kayleen, are you cooking for me?”

  “I know it must seem silly, as you can snap up a five-star meal for yourself without breaking a sweat. But there’s something to be said for home cooking. I’m a very good cook. I took lessons. Though I’ve never attempted to make sauce in quite such a pot, it should be fine.”

  “The pot’s wrong?”

  “Oh, well, I’d do better with my own cookware, but I think I’ve made do. You had plenty of fresh vegetables in your garden, so I—”

  “Just give me a few moments, won’t you? I’ll need a bit of time.”

  And before she could
answer, he was gone.

  “Well.” She shook her head and went back to trying to save the spoon.

  She had everything under control again, had adjusted the heat to keep the sauce at low simmer, when a clatter behind her made her jolt. The spoon plopped back into the sauce.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She turned around, then stumbled back. There was a pile of pots and pans on the counter beside her.

  “I replicated them,” Flynn said with a grin. “Which took me a little longer, but I didn’t want to argue with you about it. Then you might not feed me.”

  “My pots!” She fell on them with the enthusiasm of a mother for lost children.

  More enthusiasm, Flynn realized as she chattered and held up each pan and lid to examine, than she’d shown for the jewels he’d given her.

  Because they were hers. Something that belonged to her. Something from her world.

  And his heart grew heavy.

  “This is going to be good.” She stacked the cookware neatly, selected the proper pot. “I know it must seem a waste of time and effort to you,” she said as she transferred the sauce. “But cooking’s a kind of art. It’s certainly an occupation. I’m used to being busy. A few days of leisure is wonderful, but I’d go crazy after a while with nothing to do. Now I can cook.”

  While the sauce simmered in the twenty-first-century pot, she carried the ancient kettle to the sink to wash it. “And dazzle you with my brilliance,” she added with a quick, laughing glance over her shoulder.

  “You already dazzle me.”

  “Well, just wait. I was thinking, as I was putting all this together, that I could spend weeks, months, really, organizing around here. Not having a pattern is one thing, but having no order at all is another. You could use a catalogue system for your books. And some of the rooms are just piled with things. I don’t imagine you even know what there is. You could use a listing of your art, and the antiques, your music. You have the most extensive collection of antique toys I’ve ever seen. When we have children…”

  She trailed off, her hands fumbling in the soapy water. Children. Could they have children? What were the rules? Might she even now be pregnant? They’d done nothing to prevent conception. Or she hadn’t, she thought, pressing her lips together.

  How could she know what he might have done?

  “Listen to me.” She shook her hair back, briskly rinsed the pot. “Old habits. Lists and plans and procedures. The only plan we need right now is what sort of dressing I should make for the salad.”

  “Kayleen.”

  “No, no, this is my performance here. You’ll just have to find something to do until curtain time.” She heard the sorrow in his voice, the regret. And had her answers. “Everything should be ready in an hour. So, out.”

  She turned, smiling, shooing at him. But her voice was too thick.

  “I’ll go and tend to Dilis, then.”

  “Good, that’s fine.”

  He left the room, waited. When the tear fell from her eye he brought it from her cheek into his palm. And watched it turn to ashes.

  9

  HE BROUGHT HER flowers for the table, and they ate her meal with the candles glowing.

  He touched her often, just a brush of fingers on the back of her hand. A dozen sensory memories stored for a endless time of longing.

  He made her laugh, to hear the sound of it and store that as well. He asked her questions only to hear her voice, the rise and fall of it.

  When the meal was done, he walked with her, to see how the moonlight shone in her hair.

  Late into the night, he made love with her, as tenderly as he knew how. And knew it was for the last time.

  When she slept, when he sent her deep into easy dreams, he was resolved, and he was content with what needed to be done.

  She dreamed, but the dreams weren’t easy ones. She was lost in the forest, swallowed by the mists that veiled the trees and smothered the path. Light shimmered through it, so drops of moisture glittered like jewels. Jewels that melted away at the touch of her hand, and left her nothing.

  She could hear sounds—footsteps, voices, even music—but they seemed to come from underwater. Drowning sounds that never took substance. No matter how hard she tried to find the source, she could come no closer.

  The shapes of trees were blurred, the color of the flowers deadened. When she tried to call out, her voice seemed to carry no farther than her own ears.

  She began to run, afraid of being lost and being alone. She only had to find the way out. There was always a way out. And her way back to him. As panic gushed inside her, she tried to tear the mists away, ripping at them with her fingers, beating at them with her fists.

  But her hands only passed through, and the curtain stayed whole.

  Finally, through it, she saw the faint shadow of the house. The spear of its turrets, the sweep of its battlements were softened like wax in the thick air. She ran toward it, sobbing with relief. Then with joy as she saw him standing by the massive doors.

  She ran to him now, her arms flung out to embrace, her lips curved for that welcoming kiss.

  When her arms passed through him, she understood he was the mist.

  And so was she.

  She woke weeping and reaching out for him, but the bed beside her was cold and empty. She shivered, though the fire danced cheerfully to warm the room. A dream, just a dream. That was all. But she was cold, and she got out of bed to wrap herself in the thick blue robe.

  Where was Flynn? she wondered. They always woke together, almost as if they were tied to each other’s rhythms. She glanced out the windows as she walked toward the fire to warm her chilled hands. The sun was beaming and bright, which explained why Flynn hadn’t been wrapped around her when she woke.

  She’d slept away the morning.

  Imagine that, she thought with a laugh. Slept away the morning, dreamed away the night. It was so unlike her.

  So unlike her, she thought again as her hands stilled. Dreaming. She never remembered her dreams, not even in jumbled pieces. Yet this one she remembered exactly, in every detail, almost as though she’d lived it.

  Because she was relaxed, she assured herself. Because her mind was relaxed and open. People were always saying how real dreams could be, weren’t they? She’d never believed that until now.

  If hers were going to be that frightening, that heartbreaking, she’d just as soon skip them.

  But it was over, and it was a beautiful day. There were no mists blanketing the trees. The flowers were basking in the sunlight, their colors vibrant and true. The clouds that so often stacked themselves in layers over the Irish sky had cleared, leaving a deep and brilliant blue.

  She would pick flowers and braid them into Dilis’s mane. Flynn would give her another riding lesson. Later, perhaps she’d begin on the library. It would be fun to prowl through all the books. To explore them and arrange them.

  She would not be obsessive about it. She wouldn’t fall into that trap again. The chore would be one of pleasure rather than responsibility.

  Throwing open the windows, she leaned out, breathed in the sweet air. “I’ve changed so much already,” she murmured. “I like the person I’m becoming. I can be friends with her.”

  She shut her eyes tight. “Mom, I wish I could tell you. I’m so much in love. He makes me so happy. I wish I could let you know, and tell you that I understand now. I wish I could share this with you.”

  With a sigh, she stepped back, leaving the windows open.

  He kept himself busy. It was the only way he could get through the day. In his mind, in his heart, he’d said good-bye to her the night before. He’d already let her go.

  There was no choice but to let her go.

  He could have kept her with him, drawing her into the long days, the endless nights of the next dreaming. His solitude would be broken, the loneliness diminished. And at the end of it, she would be there for that brief week. To touch. To be.

  The need for her, the desire to hav
e her close, was the strongest force he’d ever known. But for one.

  Love.

  Not just with the silken beauty of the dreams he’d shared with her. But with the pains and joys that came from a beating heart.

  He would not deny her life, steal from her what she had known, what she would be. How had he ever believed he could? Had he really thought that his own needs, the most selfish and self-serving of them, outweighed the most basic of hers?

  To live. To feel heat and cold, hunger, thirst, pleasure and pain.

  To watch herself change with the years. To shake the hand of a stranger, embrace a loved one. To make children and watch them grow.

  For all his power, all his knowledge, he could give her none of those things. All he had left for her was the gift of freedom.

  To comfort himself, he pressed his face to Dilis’s neck, drew in the scents of horse and straw, of oat and leather. How was it he could forget, each time forget the wrenching misery of these last hours? The sheer physical pain of knowing it was all ending again.

  He was ending again.

  “You’ve always been free. You know I have no claim to keep you here, should you choose to go.” He lifted his head, stroking the stallion’s head as he looked into his eyes. “Carry her away safe for me. And if you go beyond, I’ll not count it against you.”

  He stepped back, drew his breath. There was work yet, and the morning was passing fast.

  When it was done, the last spell, the thin blanket of forget spread at the edges of his prison, he saw Kayleen in his mind’s eye.

  She wandered through the gardens toward the verge of the forest. Looking for him, calling his name. The pain was like an arrow in the heart, almost driving him to his knees.

  So, he was not prepared after all. He fisted his hands, struggled for composure. Resolved but not prepared. How would he ever live without her?

  “She will live without me,” he said aloud. “That I want more. We’ll end it now, quick and clean.”

  He could not will her away, will her back into her world and into life. But he could drive her from him, so that the choice to go was her own.