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the door before she could ask when. Harrison’s delusional system might fascinate her on an intellectual level, but somehow she doubted intellectual interest alone was bumping up her heart rate.  
    Which meant trouble. Because on a personal level, Harrison Chevalier was definitely not the type of man a comfortable, predictable woman should be interested in.
     
    M arguerite Deschamps moaned and kicked aside the bedcovers as she twisted her body, trying to wake. Grand-mère Belle was sobbing again, begging Marguerite to save her. With a quick, sharp move, Marguerite threw her body into an upright position and broke free of the dream.  
    She pulled in deep breaths, trembling in the aftermath of the tormenting vision. “I promise, Grand-mère.” She repeated the words she’d spoken since the first dream when she’d been a mere eleven years old. “I promise I’ll save you.”  
    Now, after years of helplessly listening to her grandmother’s pleas, she’d finally found the key to free her. Marguerite automatically felt for the tie with Harrison.  
    Blank nothingness.  
    Her muscles tensed and panic iced her body as she desperately searched for the presence that had been with her since she’d cast the first words to bind him. There, he was there. Her heart slowed. For a moment she had lost the powerful, angry hum that should have scared her but instead had become oddly comforting.
    Marguerite put a hand against her head, as if doing so would keep him there. She shuddered as she mentally touched the edges of a bitter essence she couldn’t identify, a sour presence that had laced her psyche ever since she’d cast the curse. No matter. She knew freeing Grand-mère would not be without price.
    She glanced out the window at the sun still high in the sky. She never woke until dark. Only her dreams had roused her now. Unlike the flower she’d been named for, the ox-eye daisy, which grew like a weed across the grassy hills and was called moonflower because it bloomed both day and night, Marguerite preferred to stay in the shadows.  
    She dressed quickly in beige linen trousers and a loose silk shirt of the same shade. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled sandals and walked down the long marble halls of the family wing to the library. No windows marred the rose-colored walls, built centuries ago from the very stone that formed the rolling French countryside. The shadows soothed her and she slowed her frantic pace as she traveled the long, cool corridor. She reached out and let her fingers slide against the walls, feeling the strength and support of her ancestors in the very foundations of the castle.  
    The library doors stood ajar. As expected, her brother, Luc, sat in one of the burgundy leather chairs, reading by the light of the large mullioned windows. He looked up, surprised, when she entered the room.
    “Marguerite. What’s wrong? Why are you awake?” He set his book on a small wooden table, concern marking his expression.
    She glanced at the windows and the outside shutters banged shut, cutting out the natural light along with a view of the wooded slopes of Montagne Noire. Two lamps flicked on, emitting a soft glow. She wouldn’t tell him of the dream. She never did. “We have a problem. The link wavered.”
    Luc tapped the cover of his book. “I’m not surprised.”
    “You’re not surprised? What does that mean? I performed the first tie to perfection.” Marguerite paced the room. Her pale hair whipped against her face with the force of her movement. “Harrison is always in the corner of my mind, but suddenly, for the space of several heartbeats, he was gone. That’s impossible, Luc!”
    “Magic is nothing more than the manipulation of energy. As such it can be transformed or re-routed by anyone who has knowledge and skill.”  
    “Not a bonding curse.” Marguerite argued with certainty.
    “A curse is just the name given when power manipulation is used for evil. The mechanics stay the same.