A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,20

her jacket and heavy sweater.

The ease was leaking back into her mind.

Morgan reached out for the curls framing her new friend's face. "Pwetty."

"As are yours, little one." A gentle hand touched Morgan's frizz of red, and then green eyes looked up at Marcus. "She's lovely."

He dug his voice out of eternity's trashcan. "Her name is Morgan."

"Ah, that's a big name to live up to." The stranger smiled down at his girl and then glanced up again. "I'm Cassidy Farrell. Most people call me Cass."

His ears listened through a thick fog.

Moira chuckled quietly from the couch. "The big oaf there who's lost his voice is my nephew Marcus."

Even embarrassment leaked only slowly through the fog.

Small fingers slid into his. "Come sit down, Uncle Marcus. As soon as Aaron gets back, we get to have some scones. Is Morgan big enough to try one yet? Pretty please?"

Fog vanished as parental responsibility crash-landed. Rescued by a seven-year-old. Marcus clutched Lizzie's hand, holding tight to his portal back to reality. "She can have a little nibble of yours. Just a small one." A boon for his savior.

Morgan would survive a small dose of sugar. Probably.

Lizzie's eyes opened wide. "Yay! C'mon, Morgan. Let's go find Uncle Aaron!"

His daughter agreeably hopped down from the stranger's lap and followed her surrogate sister down the hall. Marcus watched them leave, bereft.

Nothing to shield him from green eyes now.

"Come have some tea." Sophie spoke from the old writing desk, mind full of quiet sympathy. "I have chamomile or one of Aunt Moira's special blends."

He always had chamomile. Simple tea for a simple man. "I'll have the blend." Today didn't feel simple.

Sophie poured from a bright green teapot and glanced over at her books. "I'm tracing the lineage of mugwort healing, if you want a research project."

Not a trace of the laughter in her mind appeared in her voice. He reached for the mug she offered. "I'm sure Kevin would be delighted to help." His tone wasn't quite as dry as he'd meant it to be. He was pretty sure she sought clues to help her boy. And if she truly wanted his help, he'd make the time.

There were rules to belonging.

A soft Irish lilt shaded the conversation coming from over by the fire. Moira, entertaining their guest. Something akin to gratitude tickled at Marcus's ribs. In their easy, competent way, they'd slid him out of the limelight and into a corner where he could watch.

They understood him very well.

Marcus sank into a chair, feeling comforted. And vulnerable. And a whole host of other things that hadn't been part of his life until very recently.

He glanced over at their visitor, echoes of her mental signature still reverberating in his head. He'd never felt someone so... alive.

It called to him. And it terrified.

He took a shaky breath and lifted the mug to his lips, hoping it was one of his aunt's calming blends. And then set it down again. The patter of feet in the hallway signaled the return of two small girls.

The precipice that was Cassidy Farrell would have to wait - he had a daughter to tend to first.

She was getting her feet back under her. Literally. Cass sat cross-legged, tucking bare toes under her balls of yarn, and tried to fight the universal Irish fondness for a good bout with destiny.

She was here to relax, not to dance with a difficult man the rocks thought she should fancy.

And most certainly not to topple head-over-heels in love with his child.

She glanced his direction, her fingers working their way into the soft yarn. Seeking comfort.

He'd taken off his enormous winter coat and left an impressive pile of black wool in the corner behind him. The sweater underneath was positively cheerful by comparison - a lovely teal blue that looked knit by very talented hands. Moira's work, perhaps. Celtic knots, a beautiful tangle of them.

Somehow, the black had suited him more.

Morgan toddled over and held out her hands, offering up some unseen treasure. The big man leaned over, his smile cracking a face clearly not used to happiness.

If she'd had her fiddle in her hands, Cass would have played the melancholy dark sounds that told of the unsmiling man in black. And Rosie would have insisted on adding the odd, jarring notes of teal wool and smiles at small-girl treasures.

And the way all of them tugged on Cassidy Farrell's soul.

She turned her back on Marcus and his daughter. Ignored the steady, insistent singing of the rocks and her own traitorous Irish