Brighid was not even a Shaman-and a High Shaman? Definitely not. To be gifted with such power was a rare and fantastic thing.

She is the eldest daughter of a High Shaman. Had she not left the herd she would have been expected to one day take her mother’s place… The thought teased him.

“But she’s chosen the life of a Huntress!” He argued aloud with himself. “Centaur Huntresses do not love human men. They rarely even form permanent bonds with centaur males. And they cannot shapeshift.”

Then why had she responded to his touch with a passion so fierce it had seemed to consume him?

What was he thinking? It had consumed him. She had breathed in his soul and then returned it to his body. That’s all there was to it. That had to be all there was to it.

There was only one word for anything else between them-impossible.

He drained the last of the wine, and then set the goblet on his bedside table. Feeling suddenly, thoroughly exhausted, he stretched out on top of the thick, down-filled linens that covered his bed. As sleep pulled him under, he could still taste her on his lips.

Cuchulainn liked waking early. It was a habit that had taken root during his warrior training. He often was up honing his skills before any of his peers had begun to stir. So rising early the next morning had nothing to do with knowing that Brighid often left the castle at dawn. He wasn’t trying to chance a meeting with the Huntress. He was just falling back into a comfortable habit.

He was hurriedly washing his face in his small private bathing chamber when he caught his reflection in the wall mirror. He looked like a gnarled old man. His hair was long and matted and wild. He frowned at his reflection. How long had there been gray in his hair? His beard was rough. He rubbed at his chin. And it itched. Cuchulainn glanced down at his kilt. It was stained and threadbare. He expelled a long breath. Little wonder Brighid had had such a startled look in her eyes last night, and had so rapidly rejected him. Not only was he a human-he was a pathetic-looking human. He sniffed. He even smelled bad.

First, he’d bathe. Then he’d shave and…he shook his head at the mess that was his hair. It needed to be washed and cut. Warriors of Partholon usually wore their hair long, but he’d never liked the mess of it. When he was younger he’d had many an argument with his mother over it. He’d told her over and over that he wasn’t less of a warrior with less hair-and then set about to prove it to her. When his skills had become almost legendary, she’d capitulated, and he’d even managed to coax her into trimming it for him herself from time to time…

He grinned at his rumpled reflection. His mother was currently lodged down the hall from him. After a bath and a shave perhaps he’d be a considerate son and join her for breakfast.

Humming to himself, he began to strip.

The door to the guest suite opened before Cu could knock on it. A striking young blonde dressed in a mostly see-through robe of diaphanous pink material giggled at his raised fist.

“Your mother has been expecting you, warrior,” she said.

“Of course she has,” he said. Then he felt himself returning the maiden’s flirtatious grin. “And it’s nice to see Mother still believes in surrounding herself with beauty.”

The maiden’s cheeks flushed an alluring shade of pink that perfectly matched her gown, and she dropped into a lithe curtsy, which gave the warrior a clear view of her shapely breasts. Automatically Cu looked, with a long, hot gaze that had his body tightening.

He was, after all, still alive.

“Cuchulainn! Come in-come in,” Etain called from within the chamber.

He winked at the handmaid before she moved aside so he could greet his mother. Etain was sitting on a chair which was opulently upholstered in gold velvet. Another attractive young woman brushed the priestess’s mass of red curls sprinkled with silver-gray. Cuchulainn smiled at her, noting that she had covered the walls of the guest suite with tapestries depicting herself, bare breasted, riding the Goddess mare as young maidens frolicked about showering their path with rose petals. Etain had also filled the suite to overflowing with luxurious furnishings and a silk-canopied bed on-of course-a dais.

His mother never failed to travel in a style befitting the Beloved of Epona. The part of his soul that had been absent so long stirred, and Cuchulainn felt a sudden rush of love for the flamboyant, powerful woman who was his mother. Laughing joyously, he strode to her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her soundly. Her musical laughter joined his own as she hugged him.

Then she pulled back and looked into his eyes. Her smile widened and she laid her hand against his newly shaven cheek.

“It is so good to see you whole again, my son.”

“You knew, of course,” he said.

“Yes.” She paused and made a slight, graceful motion with her hand, dismissing the maidens. “I knew the day it happened,” she continued after they were alone. She kissed his cheek and smoothed back his long hair. “I would have helped you if I could have, but some things are beyond even a mother’s reach.”

“I wish you had known Brenna.”

“Epona has spoken to me of her often. Your betrothed was an exceptional young woman. She was-and is-very dear to the Goddess.”

Cuchulainn closed his eyes on the bittersweet pain. “Thank you, Mother.”

She patted his cheek. “Let her go, my darling. Think of her-remember her-but let her go. It is time you moved forward with your life.”

He nodded. “As always, you are right.”

“Of course I am.” She stood on tiptoe and again kissed him softly on the cheek. Then she ruffled his hair. “I had the handmaids fetch my scissors. Shall we get started?”

He grinned at her. “It’s a good thing that I’ve never tried to keep anything from you. It would certainly make life damned difficult.”

She raised her eyebrow at him, reminding Cu of his sister. “You know it’s blasphemy to keep secrets from your mother.”

“Blasphemy?” He laughed, but let her lead him to the golden chair. With the scissors in one hand, and a slim comb in the other, she began to work on his hair, sighing as she combed through the thick mass of it.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you into leaving it long. I could just take a little off here and there…”

His eyes met hers in the vanity mirror and she sighed again and began cutting. Under her familiar touch he relaxed, letting his memory sift back through all the times in his youth that his mother had willingly set aside the business of the Goddess to care for him, as well as for Elphame and their twin siblings, Arianrhod and Finegas. His father, too, High Shaman of Partholon, had never failed to make his children’s needs a priority.

What kind of man would he have become if he had been raised without parents? Poor Brenna-to have had to go through the most difficult part of her life without the love of her mother and father.

Brighid’s father was dead, too, he remembered with a sense of surprise. He’d died years ago. Strange that Cu was just now thinking of that. Brighid had berated him for allowing grief to make him give up on life. She’d spoken as if from experience, but when he’d challenged her she’d only spoken of the loss the New Fomorians had survived. Odd that the Huntress so rarely spoke of her family. Yes, her herd was known for their radical beliefs, but her mother was High Shaman. Surely such a powerful dam had had a profound and lasting effect upon her daughter. Yet Brighid had broken tradition and left her family. He wondered why…

“Have you seen her this morning?” His mother’s soft voice seemed to come directly from his thoughts. He jerked, and she thumped his shoulder. “Be still or you’ll be even more unpresentable than you were when you arrived all wild and shaggy.”