He stared at her a long minute then got up off the floor and picked her up off the bed as if she were as light as a sleepy cat.
He held her in his arms, a little awkwardly because of having to twist the arm with the handcuff. “If you truly are my Brigid, you would love me. You’d only do what was best for me, and you wouldn’t want anything from me.”
Gulp. He’d called her gambit. But he spoke the truth. If she were Brigid, and she was his true love, then she would do everything in her power to help him.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she said. “Except to make you happy and fulfilled.”
“I will test you and see if you are my true love. Only then will I believe you mean me no harm.”
“Test me,” she whispered. “See if I amthe real Brigid in your heart.”
“Uncuff me.”
Clare had no choice but to comply. After all, if she were who she wanted to be, she would love him and put his best interests in front of hers. She slipped the key from her pajama pocket and unlocked the cuffs.
“Thanks.” He turned her in his lap so her legs hung off the bed and she was sitting crosswise. Tipping her chin, he gazedinto her eyes as if looking into the depths of her soul.
It felt strangely intimate, like they had sat together many nights in front of a cozy fire. She closed her eyes and let herself melt against his sturdy, warm chest. His woodsy scent, of cedar and mountain air wrapped her in a sensual and heady mist.
A rush of water tumbled down over jagged rocks, drowning out the thump of herracing heart. The night sky was murky and starless. Gray mist shrouded a ghost of a moon, but it was warm in front of the crackling bonfire.
She was sitting on a log, wrapped in the arms of her husband, and her clan was celebrating the return of an expedition. Children ran circles around the fire, and a little girl put her hands on top of Clare’s knees, looking up at her with innocent trust.
Clare smoothed the child’s silky hair back from her face and pointed to the animated face of the elderly storyteller, telling her to pay attention.
He pantomimed a fight and regaled the clan with tales from their distant past. Clare knew the story by heart, and when they got to the part of the marriage of Brigid to the arrogant and impetuous Bres, Clare felt her husband’s whiskersnuzzling the side of her neck. His tongue flicked and darted, teasing her and his breath was heavy in her ear.
Even though their clan was gathered around, the mist was descending and blocking out her sight. The little girl spotted one of her brothers and ran off, chattering and giggling. Embers and sparks jumped from the dancing flames, but Clare no longer paid attention to the voice ofthe storyteller.
She turned her face and her lips locked with her husband’s hungry kisses. His hands moved to her breasts, fondling them and filling her with a needy sensation.
The veil of vapor turned into the skins hanging on the frame of their tent. Clare and her husband whose name was at the tip of her tongue—Bres, that was it, lay down on their fur-lined bed.
She wrestledwith his clothes, stripping his chest bare while he unlaced the ties of her dress. Hot skin to hot skin, she rubbed herself against his hairy chest, running her hands and fingers over the corded ridges of his muscles. Their kisses grew more fervent, drilling deep with unslaked desire, and fire raced through her veins at the pressing of his hardened spear between her thighs.
Her breathscame in pants, and her entire body pulsed for this man with the strange name, Bres which meant beautiful.
She opened her eyes, wishing to behold the beautiful man who was believed to be the image of perfection—made king because he was a formidable warrior with no blemish or fault.
“Brigid.” The raven-haired man looked out of place and not at all the beautiful fair-haired Bres she’dimagined. For one, his hair was cropped short, and his nose listed to one side. Small lines were etched at the corners of each eye, and he had a dagger-shaped scar on his forehead.
A lurching sensation, like the sudden stop of music, crashed against Clare’s chest. Her palms pushed the man back. The mist had lifted, and the fire was gone. She was lying on the lumpy mattress of her bed, andthe scent of forest and night sky faded into the drone of traffic noises and the ticking of a clock on the wall. The bulb in the bedside lamp flickered, and stacks of boxes were piled against the wall of her room.
“Griffin, what were we doing?” She was on her back with him on his side, his upper body hovering over her.
He gazed down on her, his eyelids at half-mast, and stroked hercheek. “You were becoming my beloved Brigid.”
She didn’t want to contradict him—that he wasn’t what she’d expected from her vision. But then, Bres turned out to become a cruel tyrant—hated by his subjects, and Brigid was not in love with him. It had been a political marriage from the start.
Could it be that her true heart lay with this dark and mysterious man? A griffin?
He was imperfect with his scars and broken nose. He struggled with his memory losses and seizure attacks, but if he proved to have a beautiful heart inside, then she would have no trouble showing him she loved him.
Her eyelids were heavy, but she wanted to etch his image in her mind and remember the moment when she figured out that if she fell in love with him, she would become his belovedBrigid.
“Don’t ever forget me,” she begged. “Don’t forget the woman of your heart, whatever her name turns out to be.”
He shot her a puzzled look, put his hand on her forehead, then kissed her on the cheek.
“You’ve had a long day, love.” Reaching over her, he turned off the lamp on the nightstand. “See you in the morning, or the next life.”
