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years of faithful service.” It was a facile lie and they both had known it, even then.
    “But the ship?”
    “Sel it as wel , or keep it for your own. I do not care, Padraig.” Rosamunde uttered that heartfelt sigh, acknowledging the shadow of dread that touched her heart. “I have had wealth and I have had love. Love is better.”
    It was a lie. She had never had Tynan’s love. She had had the il usion of his love, and had been seduced by that. She had had no more than the physical expression of his love, and that was a paltry offering.
    On the other hand, Rosamunde saw in her dream that Padraig’s love had been before her, awaiting her invitation, for years.
    “You wil fare wel enough,” she said in her dream, and the declaration of her gift of foresight struck her as ironic. “I have seen it and we know that whatsoever I see wil be true.”
    “What do you see for yourself?” Padraig asked softly, his survey of her so searching that Rosamunde could scarce hold his gaze. He frowned and looked away. “I always said that you saw farther than most, but could not see what was before your own eyes.” There was a truth in his claim that she had missed on that red-stained morning. She declared her destiny to be at Ravensmuir, seeing in her dream how the notion displeased Padraig.
    How could she have missed such an offering?
    How could she have overlooked the affection of one who knew her better than she knew herself? She had been a fool and lost her life because of it. If only she had another chance, she would seize the opportunity Padraig presented to her.
    “Farewel , Padraig,” she heard herself say. “May the wind always fil your sails when you have need of it.”
    And Padraig embraced her, catching her close. She could feel the muscled strength of him, the resolve of him, the power he oft held in check. In her dream, she closed her eyes and savoured what she had lost through her own fol y.
    His voice was husky when he spoke. “We have fought back to back a hundred times, Rosamunde, and always I wil consider you to be my friend.” His blue eyes fil ed with heat as he regarded her. “You have been my only friend, but a friend of such merit that I had need of no other.”
    “No soul ever had a friend more loyal than I found in you,” she said, her heart aching at her own fol y.
    “I did,” Padraig said, his words fierce. His gaze bored into hers, then he turned away, staring at the cliffs of Ravensmuir. “I did,” he added softly.
    And in her dream, Rosamunde did what she should have done on that day. She reached out.
    She touched Padraig’s shoulder. She saw his surprise when he turned towards her. Then she caught him close, hearing the thunder of her pulse in her own ears, and kissed him.
    It was a sweet, hot kiss, a kiss that sent a torrent of longing through her. It was a kiss tinged with regret, fil ed with love, a kiss of yearning and potency. It left her dizzy. It left her hot.
    It left Rosamunde wide awake and blinking at a ceiling she could not place.
    Was she not dead?
    It appeared not. She was simply alone. She touched her lips, caught her breath, and dared to wish.
    Padraig awoke abruptly, his heart racing and his breath coming in quick spurts. He was hot and tight, the taste of Rosamunde upon his lips.
    He had also slept, apparently, in the field.
    The sun was rising in the east, gilding the hil s and setting the dewdrops ablaze. He stared around himself. He was alone. He was cold and his clothing was damp with dew. The stone circle was a dozen steps away, silent in its secrets. The women were gone, if indeed they had ever existed, and there was no music echoing in his ears. No lyre, no smal faeries, no footsteps in the grass.
    Padraig heard a man shout at a cow as he drove her along the road to town.
    He ran his fingers through his hair and his tongue across his lips. He tasted the kiss of Rosamunde again, closing his eyes at the rush of pleasure he’d felt beneath her touch.
    Rosamunde