by Nora Roberts
And was only more infuriated when even his powers didn’t calm all the tension.
“The day hasn’t come when I can’t handle a physical reaction to some pretty half witch,” he muttered, and walked back inside his cabin.
Damned if he was going to stand on the porch like some starry-eyed lover and watch for her.
So instead he paced and uttered vile Gaelic curses until he heard the knock on his door.
Mood inexplicably foul, Liam flung open the door. And there she stood, with the sun streaming behind her, a delighted smile on her face, her hair coming loose from her braid and a clutch of tiny purple flowers in her hand.
“Good morning. I think they’re wood violets, but I’m not completely sure. I need to buy a book.”
She offered them, and Liam felt the heart he was so determined to defend tremble in his breast. Innocence shined in her eyes, lovely color glowed in her cheeks. And there were wildflowers in her hand.
All he could do was stare. And want.
When he didn’t respond, she lowered her hand. “Don’t you like flowers?”
“I do, yes. Sorry, I was distracted.” For the goddess’s sake, get a hold of yourself, Donovan. But even with the order, his scowl was in direct contrast to his words. “Come in, Rowan Murray. You’re welcome here, as are your flowers.”
“If I’ve come at a bad time …” she began, but he was already stepping back, widening the opening of the door in invitation. “I thought I would come by before I drove into town.”
“For more books?” He left the door open, as if to give her a route of escape.
“For those, and to talk to someone about property. I’m thinking of buying some in the area.”
“Are you, now?” His brow winged up. “Is this the place for you?”
“It seems to be. It could be.” She moved her shoulders. “Someplace must be.”
“And have you decided—how did you put it?—what you’ll do to make your living?”
“Not exactly.” The light in her eyes dimmed a little with worry. “But I will.”
He was sorry to have put that doubt on her face. “I have an idea about that. Come back to the kitchen, and we’ll find something to put your little flowers in.”
“Have you been in the woods? Everything’s starting to pop and bloom. It’s wonderful. And all these marvelous flowers around Belinda’s cottage. I don’t recognize half of them, or the ones around yours.”
“Most are simple, and useful for one thing or another.” He rooted out a tiny blue vase for the violets as she craned up to peer out his kitchen window.
“Oh, you’ve more back here. Are they herbs?”
“Aye, herbs they are.”
“For cooking.”
“For that.” A smile tugged at his lips as he slipped the delicate stems into the glass. “And all manner of things. Will you hunt up a book on herbs now?”
“Probably.” She laughed and dropped back to the flats of her feet. “There’s so much I’ve never paid attention to. Now I can’t seem to find out enough.”
“And that includes yourself.”
She blinked. “I suppose it does.”
“So …” He couldn’t resist and pleased himself by toying with the ends of her braid. “What have you found out about Rowan?”
“That she’s not as inept as she thought.”
His gaze swept back up to hers, sharpened. “And why would you have thought that?”
“Oh, I don’t mean about everything. I know how to learn, and how to apply what I learn. I’m organized and practical and I have a good mind. It was the little things and the really big ones I never seemed to know what to do about. Anything in between I handled just fine. But the little things I let go, and the big ones … I always felt I should do what others thought I should do about them.”
“I’m about to give you a suggestion on what you’d call a big thing. I expect you to do as you like about it.”
“What is it?”
“In a bit,” he said with a vague wave of his hand. “Come in here and have a look at what I’m doing.”
Baffled, she walked into the adjoining office with him. His computer was up and running, the screen saver swimming with moons and stars and symbols she didn’t recognize. He tapped a key and had text popping up.
“What do you think?” he asked her, and she bent forward to read. A moment later she was laughing. “I think I can’t read what appears to be computer signals and some foreign language.”
He glanced down, let out an impatient huff of breath. He’d gotten so involved in the story line, he hadn’t considered. Well, that could be fixed. He nearly flicked his wrist to have the straight story line brought up, caught himself not a moment too soon, then made a show of tapping keys while the basic spell ran through his mind.
“There.” The screen jiggled, then blipped and brought up new text. “Sit down and read it.”
Since nothing would have delighted her more, she did as he asked. It took only a few lines for her to understand. “It’s a sequel to Myor.” Thrilled, she turned her face up to his. “That’s wonderful. You’ve written another. Have you finished it?”
“If you’d read it, you’d see for yourself.”
“Yes, yes.” This time it was she who waved him away as she settled down to be entertained. “Oh! Kidnapped. She’s been kidnapped and the evil warlock’s put a spell on her to strip her of her powers.”
“Witch,” he muttered, wincing a little. “A male witch is still a witch.”
“Really? Well … He’s locked all her gifts up in a magic box. It’s because he’s in love with her, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“It has to be,” Rowan insisted. “Brinda’s so beautiful and strong and full of light. He’d want her, and this is his way of forcing her to belong to him.”
Considering, Liam slipped his hands into his pockets. “Is it, now?”
“It must be. Yes, here’s the handsome warlock—I mean witch—who’ll do battle with the evil one to get the box of power. It’s wonderful.”
She all but put her nose to the screen, annoyed she hadn’t thought to put on her reading glasses. “Just look at all the traps and spells he’ll have to fight just to get to her. Then when he frees her, she won’t have any magic to help. Just her wits,” Rowan murmured, delighted with the story. “They’ll face all this together, risk destruction. Wow, the Valley of Storms. Sounds ominous, passionate. This is what was missing from the first one.”
More stunned than insulted, he gaped at her. “Excuse me?”
“It had such wonderful magic and adventure, but no romance. I’m so glad you’ve added it this time. Rilan will fall madly in love with Brinda, and she with him as they work together, face all these dangers.”
Her eyes gleamed as she leaned back and refocused them on Liam. “Then when they defeat the evil witch, find the box, it should be their love that breaks the spell, opens it and gives Brinda back her powers. So they’ll live happily ever after.” She smiled a bit hesitantly at the shuttered look in his eyes. “Won’t they?”
“Aye, they will.” With a few adjustments to the story line, he decided. But that was his task, and for later. By Finn, the woman had it right. “What do you think of the magic dragons in the Land of Mirrors?”
“Magic dragons?”
“Here.” He bent down, leaning close and manually scrolling to the segment. “Read this,” he said, and his breath feathered warm across her cheek. “And tell me your thoughts.”
She had to adjust her thoughts to block out the quick jump of her pulse, but dutifully focused on the words and read. “Fabulous. Just fabulous. I can just see them flying away on the back of a dragon, over the red waters of the sea, and the mist-covered hills.”
“Can you? Show me how you see it—just that. Draw it for me.” He pulled her sketchbook out of her bag. “I haven’t got a clear image of it.”
“No? I don’t know how you could write this without it.” She picked up a pen
cil and began to draw. “The dragon should be magnificent. Fierce and beautiful, with wonderful gold wings and eyes like rubies. Long and sleek and powerful,” she murmured as she sketched. “Wild and dangerous.”
It was precisely what he’d wanted, Liam noted as the drawing came to life under her hand. No tame pet, no captured oddity. She had it exactly: the proud, fierce head, the long powerful body with its wide sweep of wings, the slashing tail, the feel of great movement.
“Do another now.” Impatient, he tore off the first sketch, set it aside. “Of the sea and hills.”
“All right.” She supposed a rough drawing might help him get a more solid visual for his story. Closing her eyes a moment, she brought the image into her mind, that wide, shimmering sea with cresting waves, the jagged rocks that speared silver out of thick, swirling mists, the glint of sunlight gilding the edges, and the dark shadow of mountains beyond.
When she was done with it, he ripped that page away as well, demanded she do another. This time of Yilard, the evil witch.
She had great fun with that, grinning to herself as she worked. He should be handsome, she decided. Cruelly so. No wart-faced gnome with a hunched back, but a tall, dashing man with flowing hair and hard, dark eyes. She dressed him in robes, imagined they would be red, like a prince.
“Why didn’t you make him ugly?” Liam asked her.
“Because he wouldn’t be. And if he were, it might seem as if Brinda refused him just because of his looks. She didn’t—it was his heart she rejected. The darkness of it that you’d see in the eyes.”
“But the hero, he’d be more handsome.”
“Of course. We’d expect, even demand that. But he won’t be one of those girlishly pretty men with curly gold hair.” Lost in the story, she tore off the page herself to begin another. “He’ll be dark—dangerous, too. Brave, certainly, but not without flaws. I like my heroes human. Still, he risked his life for Brinda, first for honor. And then for love.”
She laughed a little as she leaned back from the sketch. “He looks a bit like you,” she commented. “But why not? It’s your story. Everyone wants to be the hero of their own story, after all.” She smiled at him. “And it’s a wonderful story, Liam. Can I read the rest?”
“Not yet.” There were changes to be made now, he thought, and switched off the screen.
“Oh.” Disappointment rang in her voice, and fed his ego. “I just want to see what happens after they fly out of the Land of Mirrors.”
“If you do, you’ll have to accept my proposition.”
“Proposition?”
“A business one. Do the drawings for me. All of them. It’s a great deal of work, as most of the levels will be complex. I’ll need an exacting amount of detail for the graphics, and I’m not easily satisfied.”
She held up a hand. She wanted to stop him, to give herself time to find her voice. “You want me to draw the story?”
“It’s not a simple matter. I’ll require hundreds of sketches, all manner of scenes and angles.”
“I don’t have any experience.”
“No?” He lifted her sketch of the dragon.
“I just tossed those off,” she insisted, pushing to her feet with a sense of panic. “I didn’t think.”
“Is that the way of it?” Interesting. “Fine, then. Don’t think; just draw.”
She couldn’t keep up, couldn’t quite catch her breath. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m very serious,” he corrected, and laid the sketch down again. “Were you when you said you wanted to do what made you happy?”
“Yes.” She was rubbing a hand over her heart, unaware of the movement.
“Then work with me on this, if it pleases you. You’ll make the living you need. The Donovan Legacy will see to that part well enough. It’s up to you, Rowan.”
“Wait, just wait.” She kept her hand up, turned away to walk to the window. The sky was still blue, she noted, the forest still green. And the wind blew with the same steady breath.
It was only her life that was changing. If she let it.
To do something she loved for a living? To use it freely and with pleasure and have it give back everything she needed? Could that be possible? Could it be real?
And it was then she realized it wasn’t panic that was hot in her throat, pounding in her blood. It was excitement.
“Do you mean this? Do you think my sketches would suit your story?”
“I wouldn’t have said so otherwise. The choice is yours.”
“Mine,” she said quietly, like a breath. “Then, yes, it would please me very much.” Her voice was slow, thoughtful. But when the full scope of his offer struck, she whirled around, her eyes brilliant. He saw those tiny silver lights in her eyes. “I’d love to work with you on it. When do we start?”
He took the hand she held out, clasped it firmly in his. “We just did.”
* * *
Later, when Rowan was back in her kitchen celebrating with a glass of wine and a grilled cheese sandwich, she tried to remember if she’d ever been happier.
She didn’t think so.
She’d never gotten into town for her books and her house hunting, but that would come. Instead, she mused, she’d found an opening to a new career. One that thrilled her.
She had a chance now, a true and tangible chance for a new direction.
Not that Liam Donovan was going to make it easy. On the contrary, she decided, licking cheese from her thumb. He was demanding, occasionally overbearing and very, very much the perfectionist.
She’d done a full dozen sketches of the gnomes of Firth before he’d approved a single one.
And his approval, as she recalled, had been a grunt and a nod.
Well, that was fine. She didn’t need to be patted on the head, didn’t require effusive praise. She appreciated the fact that he expected her to be good, that he already assumed they’d make a successful team.
A team. She all but hugged the word to her. That made her part of something. After all these years of quiet wishing, she was telling stories. Not with words; she never had the right words. But with her drawings. The thing she loved most and had convinced herself over the years was an acceptable hobby and no more.
Now it was hers.
Still, she was in many ways a practical woman. She’d cut through her delight to the basics and discussed terms with him. A pity she wasn’t clever enough to have masked her sheer astonishment at the amount he’d told her she’d be paid for the work.
She’d have her house now, she thought, and, giggling with glee, poured herself a second glass of wine. She’d buy more art supplies, more books. Plants. She’d scout out wonderful antiques to furnish her new home.
And live happily ever after, she thought, toasting herself.
Alone.
She shook off the little pang. She was getting used to alone. Enjoying alone. Maybe she still felt quick pulls and tugs of attraction for Liam, but she understood there would be no acting on them now that they were working together.
He’d certainly demonstrated no sign of wanting a more personal relationship now. If that stung the pride a bit, well, she was used to that, too.
She’d had a terrifying crush on the captain of the debate team her senior year in high school. She could clearly remember those heartbreaking flutters and thrills every time she caught sight of him. And how she’d wished, miserably, she could have been more outgoing, more brightly pretty, more confident, like the girl he’d gone steady with.
Then in college it had been an English major, a poet with soulful eyes and a dark view of life. She’d been sure she could inspire him, lift his soul. When, after nearly a full semester he’d finally turned those tragic eyes her way, she’d fallen like a ripe plum from a branch.
She didn’t regret it, even though after two short weeks he’d turned those same tragic eyes to another woman. After all, she’d had two weeks of storybook romance, and had given up her virginity to a man with some sensitivity, if no sense of
monogamy.
It hadn’t taken her long to realize that she hadn’t loved him. She’d loved the idea of him. After that, his careless rejection hadn’t stung quite so deeply.
Men simply didn’t find her … compelling, she decided. Mysterious or sexy. And unfortunately, the ones she was most attracted to always seemed to be all of that.
With Liam, he was all of that and more.
Of course, there had been Alan, she remembered. Sweet, steady, sensible Alan. Though she loved him, she’d known as soon as they’d become lovers that she’d never feel that wild thrill with him, that grinding need or that rush of longing.
She’d tried. Her parents had settled on him and it seemed logical that she would gradually fall in love, all the way in love, and make a comfortable life with him.
Hadn’t it been the thought of that, a comfortable life, that had finally frightened her enough to make her run?
She could say now she’d been right to do so. It would have been wrong to settle for less than … anything, she supposed. For less than what she was finding now. Her place, her wants, her flaws and her talents.
They wouldn’t understand—not yet. But in time they would. She was sure of it. After she was established in a home of her own, with a career of her own, they would see. Maybe, just maybe, they’d even be proud of her.
She glanced at the phone, considered, then shook her head. No, not yet. She wouldn’t call her parents and tell them what she was doing. Not quite yet. She didn’t want to hear the doubt, the concern, the carefully masked impatience in their voices, and spoil the moment.
It was such a lovely moment.
So when she heard the knock on the front door, she sprang up. It was Liam, had to be Liam. And, oh, that was perfect. He’d brought more work, and they could sit in the kitchen and discuss it, toy with it.
She’d make tea, she thought as she hurried through the cabin. A glass and a half of wine was enough if she wanted her mind perfectly clear. She’d had another idea about the Land of Mirrors and how that red sea should reflect when she’d walked home.
Eager to tell him, she opened the door. Her delighted smile of welcome shifted to blank shock.
“Rowan, you shouldn’t open the door without seeing who it is first. You’re much too trusting for your own good.”
With the spring breeze blowing behind him, Alan stepped inside.
Chapter 7
“Alan, what are you doing here?”
She knew immediately her tone had been short and unwelcoming—and very close to accusatory. She could see it in the surprised hurt on his face.
“It’s been over three weeks, Rowan. We thought you might appreciate a little face-to-face. And frankly”—he shoved at the heavy sand-colored hair that fell over his forehead—“the tenor of your last phone call worried your parents.”
“‘The tenor?’” She bristled, and struggled to fix on a pleasant smile. “I don’t see why. I told them I was fine and well settled in.”
“Maybe that’s what concerns them.”
The worry in his earnest brown eyes brought her the first trickle of guilt. Then he took off his coat, laid it neatly over the banister and made a pocket of resentment open under the guilt.
“Why would that be a concern?”
“None of us really knows what you’re doing up here—or what you hope to accomplish by cutting yourself off from everyone.”
“I’ve explained all of that.” Now there was weariness along with the guilt. It was her cottage, damn it, her life. They were being invaded and questioned. But manners had her gesturing to a chair. “Sit down, please. Do you want anything? Tea, coffee?”
“No, I’m fine, but thanks.” He did sit, looking stiffly out of place in his trim gray suit and starched white oxford shirt. He still wore his conservatively striped, neatly Windsor-knotted tie. It hadn’t occurred to him to so much as loosen it for the trip.
He scanned the room now as he settled in a chair by the quiet fire. From his viewpoint the cabin was rustic and entirely too isolated. Where was the culture—the museums, the libraries, the theaters? How could Rowan stand burying herself in the middle of the woods for weeks on end?
All she needed, he was certain, was a subtle nudge and she’d pack up and come
