An Excerpt From:
BLACKWIND: VIRAIDAN AND BRONWYN

CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2006.

All Rights Reserved, Cerridwen Press Publishing, Inc.

As she scanned the small crowd of customers, she was stunned to see Viraidan Cree at a table near the dance floor. He was sitting hunched over the tabletop, his hands wrapped around a nearly full mug of what looked like dark ale. He was staring into the mug and his face was grim, his lips tight.

Bronwyn silently called his name, wondering if he was capable of “hearing” her in the noisy room. He looked up and turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met, held as the Celtic music swirled around them. For a long time, they stared at one another, then the Reaper”s gaze shifted to Brell and narrowed. He blinked and turned away, lifting his mug to drain it.

“Bronwyn?” Koenen questioned, waving a hand in front of her face.

Bronwyn flinched, heat flooding her cheeks for she'd forgotten all about her date. She jerked her attention back to the man sitting in front of her. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

Koenen looked behind him. “What's so engrossing back there?”

Bronwyn couldn’t refrain from looking toward Cree's table and was surprised to find it empty. She felt keen disappointment plummet to the bottom of her stomach. “I-I thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Anyone I’d know, too?” Koenen inquired as their waitress arrived with their drinks.

“I wouldn’t think so,” she lied.

A lively ballad started from the band and a young woman with long, curly red hair and dressed in a short black skirt and white silk blouse took the stage. As the woman's feet began moving in the tapping rhythms of a lively Irish step dance, Bronwyn and Koenen joined the other patrons in keeping time by clapping.

“Do you step dance?” he called out over the music.

“Lord, no!” Bronwyn laughed.

“I know DeeDee does.”

“She took lessons as a girl. I, on the other hand, have two left feet when it comes to tap dancing.” She took a sip of her Bloody Maria. “How 'bout you?”

Koenen chuckled. “Elephants can dance better than me. I hate dancing. I can't even do the two step.”

“Why do you come here if you don't like to dance?”

“For the atmosphere and the wonderful food you’re going to enjoy.”

Bronwyn had hoped to take a turn on the dance floor. Her regret obviously showed.

“Want me to find someone to trip the light fantastic with you?” Koenen inquired.

Bronwyn was saved from answering when Koenen’s pager went off. He cursed as he unclipped it from his belt. Reading the calling number, he frowned. “Damn it! I asked them not to bother me unless the world was coming to an end!”

“Baybridge?”

“I’m sorry.” Koenen angrily folded his napkin and placed it beside his plate. “I need to see what they want.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious,” she said as he got to his feet.

“The damned buildings better be on the verge of collapse, is all I can say.”

Bronwyn watched him stalk toward the lobby where she”d seen the phones. His shoulders were bunched and she was glad it wasn’t she who had called him. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned to look once more at the spot where Cree had been sitting. Finding even the mug gone caused deeper disappointment.

Loud applause rang out when the dancer finished her number with a high kick and a rapid tattoo of her tap-studded toes on the parquet. While showing her own appreciation of the dancer’s talent, Bronwyn felt hands on her shoulders. Soft warmth invaded her ear along with the words, “Let's dance.”

She turned and blinked. Cree was standing there. He held out his hand.

Moving as though she was in a dream, Bronwyn put her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet. He led her to the dance floor. As they reached it, the music started. Bronwyn tensed, trying to pull away, but he would not allow it. He swept her into his arms, one hand firmly at her back, her right hand clutched tightly in his.

“I don’t want to…” she said, her eyes filling with moisture.

“Shush,” he instructed, moving them to the middle of the floor.

It was the song that had brought tears to Bronwyn's eyes. The slow tune had been Sean's favorite. The memory of her singing the words to him caused intense hurt, the pain of it stabbing at her heart, raking over the wound she knew would never heal. The singer”s words tore at her very soul.

“Red is the rose on yonder garden grows

“Fair is the lily of the valley

“Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne

“But my love is fairer than any.

“Come over the hills, my handsome Irish lad

“Come over the hills to your darling

“You choose the road, love, and I'll make the vow

“And I’ll be your true love forever.

“’Twas down by Killarney”s green woods that we strayed

“When the moon and the stars they were shining

“The moon shone its rays on his locks of golden hair

“And he swore he’d be my true love forever.

“It’s not for the parting of my sister Kate

“It’s not for the grief of my mother

“'Tis all for the loss of my handsome Irish lad

“That my heart is broken forever.”

Cree waltzed with expert grace, his long legs in perfect sync with the soft strains of the Celtic melody washing over them. His eyes were locked on hers as they danced, her body so close to his she could feel his belt buckle against her stomach. The black silk of his shirt shimmered beneath the revolving lights of the disco ball overhead. Sparkles of that playful light reflected off his soft black leather britches, so tight on his powerful legs it looked as though he had been poured into them.

Vaguely aware of the people watching them, of the women staring with hungry eyes at his taut body, she began to relax in his arms. The moment she gave in to the pull of the music, the insistence of his hold, he pulled her closer to him so that her cheek came to rest against the opened collar of his shirt. She felt his chin rest gently on the back of her head and closed her eyes, taking in the cinnamon smell of his cologne and experiencing its fragrance in the pit of her belly.

It was as though they were the only two people on the dance floor. The singer seemed to sense their pleasure, for she sang it again in its entirety. Cree waltzed Bronwyn across the floor, his movements sensual and plying her body with wave after wave of desire. When the music stopped, he dipped her low, held her there for a moment then swept her around in a half circle and finally tight up against him so that their bodies touched from chest to knee.

There was no sound in the room as they stared at each other for the space of several heartbeats. When noise at last intruded on their intimate moment, it was the band's fiddler who played a lively Celtic tune with vigor.

Cree still held Bronwyn's hand in his. He brought it to his lips and turned her arm so he could plant a soft kiss on her upturned wrist. His gaze never left hers.

Bronwyn drew in a slow breath, deeply affected by the sensations his touch sent through her. When he finally released her hand and stepped back, she felt like throwing herself into his powerful arms.

“Another time,” he said, then turned away, disappearing among the dancers before she could bid him stay.