A Celtic Witch - By Debora Geary Page 0,44

missed it.

A few steps from the inn, she could hear the easy part of her wish well on its way to being granted. The faint sounds of violin made their way out the crooks and crannies of the old walls into the brisk afternoon air.

Calling.

Moira let herself in the door - and realized she wasn't the only one being called. Marcus, however, wasn't nearly so happy about it. He stood, back to the wall, staring at the parlor with something akin to fear on his face.

And underneath it, a longing so fierce, so bright, it was a wonder the wall hadn't melted.

It gave her heart such great, galloping hope. There was no one who more deserved to be blindsided by something he fiercely wanted than her nephew.

Moira stepped forward, holding on to his stalwart strength as she slid out of her boots. "Come. Show an old lady to her seat."

It was a measure of their years together that he did as she asked. And a measure of something entirely different when his hand shook as he did it. Together, they walked into the parlor, one beautiful, scared man and the old woman who loved every inch of his cranky heart.

She wasn't surprised at what they found inside. Morgan was sitting on top of the table, her red curls leaning over Cass's fiddle. Their visitor sat in a chair, doing a skillful job of keeping her bow out of the toddler's nose.

Lovely, dancing notes streamed from Rosie - and Morgan was enthralled.

Her father, however, was not. Marcus made it to his daughter's side in three short steps, nearly yanking her off the table. "She'll go deaf sitting that close. And the table top is no place for a child."

Moira winced, at both the tone and Morgan's wails.

Cass was made of sterner stuff. She looked up at the cranky man hovering over her. "She wanted to see."

Marcus's face blackened. "She's a baby. Much of what she wants is completely irrational."

The baby in question was quieting now, her attention caught by the interplay in front of her. Moira hid a smile - perhaps Morgan had some Irish blood in her veins after all.

"If I'd let her drink my coffee, you'd have the right to take that tone with me." Cass's eyes snapped fire.

An explosion built in the man she stared down. Young and old watched, fascinated.

And then Cass reached out a hand and touched her fingers to his. "She was hoping for some music, I think. Why don't you sit with her and I'll play a little for the two of you?"

The giant crumbled. Marcus nearly fell into the straight-backed chair behind him, eyes never leaving the green-eyed Irish witch who'd knocked him over.

Moira sat down on the couch, her own knees none too steady. There were very few people who could breach the thick walls of Marcus Buchanan's fortress.

And Cassidy Farrell had done it with the touch of her fingers.

He must have the flu.

Marcus sat in a hard chair, squirmy daughter in his lap - and felt like he'd been hit with a bubonic plague spell.

Hissing water ran in his veins, overheating and pushing painfully against the natural order of things. His head radiated shades of the terrible morning after the night he'd discovered bourbon. And something slimy and green threatened just on the edges of his vision.

He shuddered, a man overwhelmed with his own weakness.

Cass raised her violin to her shoulders, a witch oblivious to the devastation she'd caused.

Marcus would have run if his legs had still been attached. Or if his daughter hadn't cuddled into his chest, soft cheeks glowing as she waited for Rosie to sing.

With eyes only for the child, their visitor began to play, a lilting, light melody that spoke of flowers and meadows and days filled with sunshine.

It delighted Morgan.

And it drained the last drops of blood from Marcus's heart.

Another ten seconds and her teeth were going to freeze.

Too damn bad.

Cass angled into the twists and turns of the road heading south and hoped the garda were sitting somewhere snug by a fire. They might consider her speed a little extreme.

Her hair streamed behind her, glorying in the sudden, unexpected winter freedom. Ten thousand tiny pricks of salt mist lanced her face, scrubbing skin and washing away the trail of frustrated tears that had exploded as she'd left.

Fisher's Cove had welcomed her, enticed her. Filled her belly with good food and put a soft pillow under her head. Assembled themselves into a gorgeous dancing, living, delighting