“No, it’s not. But some from Talamh choose to live here.”

“They do. I have a cousin who lives in Paris in France. He has a bakery there, and is happy. He has a family, and has made his life there. So.”

They came out of the woods. “His choice was right for him.”

She led him into the house. “I just need to feed the dog.”

“Check first.” After taking off his dripping duster, he hung it on a peg. Then in a gentleman’s gesture she hadn’t expected, held out a hand for her jacket.

“He was with my sister, the children.”

“Right.” She looked at Bollocks, saw he’d eaten and well. “A treat then, for being such a good dog. I’ll get that and the wine if you light the fire.”

He lit it from where he stood and followed her into the kitchen.

“Marg did well here.” He glanced around, with interest and attention. “This is a pleasant cottage, with good views and protection.”

“The pixies come at night.”

“Aye. You’re protected here, but they watch. They’d get word to me or Marg if you needed us.”

He tapped on the stove. “Do you cook on this?”

“Not really.” She sighed as she gave Bollocks his biscuit. “And when I do, poorly. I was going to work on learning to cook this summer, but . . .”

“Things change.”

She got out the wine, the glasses, poured. “They really do.” Then she frowned at him. “Why are you dry? Even your hair.”

He stepped to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and, watching her, ran them—very deliberately—down her sides, along her hips.

She felt the warmth from his hands on several levels.

“Better?”

“Um.”

The phone she’d left on the charger on the counter rang. Blowing out a quiet breath, she turned away. “Sorry.” She saw her agent’s—her agent!—name on the display. “I really have to take this.”

With another shrug he wandered into the living room and the fire to drink his wine.

He would never list phones, especially the ones people carried around in their hands, as a thing he liked. Or the smell and sound of cars. He couldn’t understand why people would choose to fly in a machine, closed in. Or live in boxes stacked on top of each other.

How did anyone find any peace in their mind?

A cottage like this he could understand. It offered room, and quiet and comfort. Did she know, he wondered, that much in it had been crafted in Talamh and sent through?

He drank more wine. And when he decided she’d made him wait long enough, walked back.

She sat at the table, her head lowered to it, weeping, with the dog’s head in her lap.

She might as well have stabbed him in the heart.

“No, no, there now.” He nudged the dog away as he crouched down to stroke her hair. “What is it? You had hard news.”

With tears streaming, she lifted her head, shook it.

At a loss, he lifted her off the chair, carried her in to the fire. “Tell me now what hurts you, and we’ll find a way to fix it.”

Still weeping, she pressed her face to his shoulder. “My book. I sold my book.”

“Well then, don’t worry. We’ll get it back for you.”

“No, I mean. I wrote a story and someone bought it who’ll make it a book. And people will read it.”

He tipped her chin up. “Is this what you want?”

“More than anything.”

“Ah then.” He brushed a tear away. “Full heart tears. Sit then, shed them if you must. I’ll fetch your wine.”

When he came back, she sat, hands clutched in her lap.

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Why?”

“I told myself, if it ever actually happened, I’d tell Marco first. My best friend, my whole life my best friend. And I’ll tell him face-to-face.”

“This is the one who came with you, and lived with you in Philadelphia.”

“Yes. I should’ve told him first.”

“Well, he’ll be the first of this side you’ll tell. It would be a pity if you didn’t tell Marg so she can have the pride and joy for you. And he’ll still be the first in this world you share this with.”

“Yes.” She knuckled a tear away. “He would be. He’s the one who pushed me to write when I wanted to but didn’t believe I could. And now.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I sold a book. Three, actually, but I haven’t written the other two.”

Curious—and relieved the weeping ended—he sat on the arm of the sofa. “How do you sell what you don’t have?”

“You make a promise—a vow. And I—” She took a deep gulp of wine. “Hell, I might as well blab it all. I’m writing another book—for adults. The one I sold is for children. My agent—she’s the one who sold the book. She represents me. She asked to see some of what I’ve written on it, and she likes it. It’s not finished, only maybe half done, but she likes it.”

She hopped up, whirled around the room. “Everything in my life has changed. Everything. This time last year I was stuck. Or I thought I was. So unhappy. So dull.”

“Dull?”

“Dull,” she confirmed. “Believe me. Now I’m—” She flung out a hand and lit every candle in the room. “Magick! I’m a witch. I’m a writer. And by this time next year, I’ll be a published writer, and no one can ever take that away from me. No one can say it doesn’t matter.”

Baffled, he frowned at her. “Why would they?”

“You don’t know my mother. Everything’s changed. I’ve changed.” She glowed, like the candles, as she whirled again. “Let’s have pizza!”

He wasn’t sure how he found his voice through what she stirred in him. “You have pizza?”

“It won’t be like what you had in Italy, but it’s pizza. Let’s have pizza and more wine.”

She rushed into the kitchen and started to yank open the freezer.

And found herself whirled around, her back against the refrigerator with Keegan’s hands tense on her hips.

As the moment, the meaning shot through her, she said, “Oh.”

“Quickly.” His body pressed, not so lightly, against hers. “Yes or no.”

“Yes or—”

His mouth came down on hers, hard and hungry. Every cell in her body erupted, a chain reaction of pleasure and panic and passion so long repressed.

He pulled back, but kept his hands on her. “I heard yes.”

“I didn’t exactly . . . Yes.” She dragged his mouth back to hers. “You heard yes.”

He swept her, literally and figuratively, off her feet. “Show me your room, put it in your head.”

“Oh, it’s . . .” She gestured vaguely as she mentally went up the stairs, made the turn.

No one had ever carried her to bed. No one had ever kissed her senseless in the kitchen. No one had ever looked at her as if the want for her might set the air on fire.

She started to tell him she wasn’t very good at this, and rusty on top of it. But she stopped herself, let herself ride the moment.

Oh yes, yes, yes. She’d changed.

He’d find out for himself, but she’d have the moment. Hoping for the best, she pressed her lips to the side of his throat to taste his skin, to breathe in his scent.

He smelled of rain and leather, of green grass and rich earth.

Of Talamh, she realized. He smelled of magick.

When he turned into the bedroom, he glanced toward the fire. It leapt into flame as he set her on her feet by the side of the bed.

“You’re an orderly soul,” he noted. “All in its place.”

The candles on the mantel, the nightstands, the tables sprang to life.

“I guess I am.”

“I appreciate order.” The window opened a few inches, and the breeze, the night, flowed in.

“You won’t be cold,” he told her, then ran his hands down her sides, up again over her breasts, up through her hair, down her back.

Waves of pleasure swamped her so it took a moment to realize she now stood naked.

“Not a warrior.” He took the hand she instinctively lifted to cover herself. “But a warrior’s body. One I want. One you’ll give me.”

His free hand glided over her breast, rough palm over tender flesh. “Do you wish fast or slow, mo bandia?”

“I don’t care.” As long as he kept touching her. “I don’t care,” she repeated, and chained her arms around his neck, fused her mouth to his.

She willed his clothes away, heard his laugh when his sword clattered to the floor. “You forgot the boots,” he told her, and took care of them himself as he laid her back on the bed.

“My first magickal undressing.” She ran her hands over his back, over iron muscles. A warrior’s body, she thought. A warrior. A man who wanted her.

Then she thought no more as his hands moved over her.

He found soft skin, firm muscles, lovely curves, fascinating angles. He felt her pulse beat in hammer strikes as he learned her body. So easy, he realized, to discover what pleased her, what excited.

He’d wondered and wondered how she would feel under his hands, how her body would move under his, and now he knew and wanted hours of her, days of her, nights of her.

How avid her mouth in seeking his; how greedy her hands as they roamed him.

He knew her breath would catch an instant before it caught. Her quiet moan sounded in his mind before she loosed it. When his fingers, his lips made her tremble, he lingered there until tremble became shudder.

She gave herself so willingly, without pretense or guile. Showed him, so openly, she wanted him, with hands that grew more demanding, with hips that pressed her center to his until he wanted nothing but to give her all and more.

So long since she’d been touched, and never, never like this. Rough hands destroying her, and still somehow making her feel precious. The scruff of beard on his face scoring over her skin lit impossible little fires inside her.