by Nora Roberts
“I’ve done this before … in my dreams.”
“With much the same results.” He’d intended his tone to be dry, but there was an edge to it that stunned him. Gently, he ordered himself, she should be treated gently. “Will you move beyond dreams now, Rowan, and lie with me?”
For an answer she stepped to him, rising onto her toes so that her mouth met his. The beauty of that, just that, had his arms coming hard around her. “Hold tight,” he murmured.
She felt the air shudder, heard a rustle of wind. There was a sensation of rising, spinning, then tumbling, all in the space of a single heartbeat. Before fear could fully form, before the gasp of it could shudder from her mouth to his, she was lying beneath him, dipped deep into a bed soft as clouds.
Her eyes flew open. She could see the polished beams of a wood ceiling, the stream of sunlight. “But how—”
“I’ve magic for you, Rowan.” His mouth moved to the vulnerable flesh of her throat. “All manner of magic.”
They were in his bed, she realized. In the blink of an eye they’d moved from one room to another. And now his hands … oh, sweet Lord, how could the simple touch of flesh to flesh cause such feeling?
“Give me your thoughts.” His voice was rough, his hands light as air. “Let me touch them, and show you.”
She opened her mind to him, gasping when she not only felt the heat of his body, the skim of his hands, but saw the images forming out of the mists in her mind, the two of them tangled together on a huge, yielding bed in a path of early-summer sunlight.
Every sensation now, every shimmering layer, was reflected back, as if a thousand silver mirrors shone out of her heart. And so, with a kiss only, one long, drugging kiss, he brought her softly to peak.
She moaned out the pleasure of it, the sheer wonder of having her body slide over a velvet edge. Her thoughts scattered, dimmed, re-formed in a mixed maze of colors, only to fly apart again as his teeth grazed her shoulder.
She was beyond price. An unexpected treasure in her openness, her utter surrender to him and to her own pleasures. Now, at last now, his hands could take, his mouth could feast. Soft, silky flesh, pale as the moon, delicate curves and subtle scents.
The animal that beat in his blood wanted to ravage, to grasp and plunge. She would not deny him. Knowing that, he wrapped the chain tighter around his own pounding throat and offered only tenderness.
She moved beneath him, all quiet sighs and luxurious stretches. Her hands roamed over him freely, building and banking small fires. Dark and heavy, her eyes met his when he lifted his head.
And her lips curved slowly.
“I’ve waited so long to feel like this.” She lifted a hand to slide her fingers through his hair. “I never knew I was waiting.”
Love waits.
The words came back to him like a drumbeat, a warning, a whisper. Ignoring it, he lowered again to take her breast with his mouth. She arched, gave a little cry, as the movement had been sudden and just a bit rough.
Then she groaned, and the hand that had combed lazily through his hair fisted tight, pressing him urgently against her. Heat flashed, a quick bolt to the center. His tongue tormented, his teeth hinted of pain. She gave herself over to it, to him, trembling again as both mind and body steeped in pleasure.
No one had ever touched her this way, so deep it seemed he knew her needs and secrets better than she herself. Her heart quaked, then soared under his quietly ruthless mouth. And opened wide as love flooded it.
She clung to him now, murmuring mindlessly as they rolled over the bed, as flesh grew damp with desire and minds misted with delight.
She was … glory, he thought dimly while he tumbled to a depth he’d never explored with a woman. His keen senses were barraged with her. Scent like spice on the wind, taste like honeyed wine, texture like heated silk. Whatever he asked for she gave, a rose opening petal by petal.
She rose up when he reached for her, her body impossibly fluid, her lips like a flame on his shoulder, across his chest, against his greedy mouth.
Against his hand she was warm and wet, and her body arched back like a drawn bow when his fingers found her. Eyes sharp on her face, he watched that fresh rush of shock and pleasure and fear flicker over hers as he took her up, urged her over.
Her breath sobbed out, her body shook as that new arrow of sensation pinned her, left her quivering helplessly. Even as her head dropped limply on the shoulder her nails had just bitten into, he sent her spinning up again.
When they tumbled back, he gripped her hands, waited for his vision to clear, waited for her eyes to open and meet his. The air dragged in and out of his lungs. “Now.”
The word was nearly an oath as he drove into her.
Held there, held quivering to watch her eyes go wide and blind. Held there, held gasping while the thrill of filling her burned in his blood.
Then she began to move.
A lift of the hips, a falling away that drew him down. Slow, achingly slow, with a low moan for each long, deep thrust.
It was his eyes, only his eyes, she saw now, brilliantly gold, stunningly intense as they took each other to a secret space where the air fluttered like velvet on the skin. Her fingers clung to his, her eyes stayed open and aware. Every pulse that beat in her body gathered into one steady throb that filled the heart to bursting.
When it burst, and her mind and body with it, she arched high and hard against him, called out his name with a kind of wonder. Saying hers, he buried his face in her hair and dived with her.
* * *
He stretched over her, his head between her breasts, his long body lax. She kept her eyes closed, the better to hold on to that sensation of flying, of falling. Never before had she been so aware, so in tune with her own desires or with a man’s.
And never, she realized, had she been so willing, even eager, to surrender to both.
A small smile curved her lips as she lazily stroked his hair. In her mind she could see them together there. Wantonly sprawled, naked, damp and tangled.
She wondered how long it would be before he’d want to touch her again.
“I already do.” Liam’s voice was thick and low. His tongue skimmed carelessly over the side of her breast and made her shiver.
“Thoughts are private.”
She was so soft and warm in the afterglow of love, and that lazy sip of her flesh so delightful. He slid a hand up, molded her gently and shifted to nibble. “I’ve been inside your thoughts.” Her nipple hardened against a flick of his tongue and needs stirred again. “I’ve been inside you, a ghra. What’s the point of secrets now?”
“Thoughts are private,” she repeated, but the last word ended on a moan.
“As you wish.” He slipped out of her mind even as he slipped into her.
* * *
She must have slept. Though she remembered nothing but curling around him after that second, surprising slide into heaven. She stirred in bed, and found herself alone.
Sunny morning had become rainy afternoon. The sound of its steady patter, the golden haze that seemed to linger inside her body—both urged her to simply snuggle back and sleep again.
But curiosity was stronger. This was his bed, she thought, smiling foolishly. His room. Shoving at her tangled hair, she sat up and looked.
The bed was amazing. A lake of feathers covered in smooth, silky sheets, backed by a headboard of dark polished wood carved with stars and symbols and lettering she couldn’t make out. Idly she traced her fingers in the grooves.
He, too, had a fireplace facing the bed. It was fashioned of some kind of rich green stone and topped by a mantel of the same material. Gracing that were colorful crystals. She imagined their facets would catch the sun brilliantly. Fat white candles stood at one end in a triad.
There was a tall chair with its back carved in much the same way as the headboard. A deep blue throw woven with crescent moons was tossed over one of its arms.
The tables by the bed held lamps with bases of bro
nze mermaids. Charmed, she ran a finger along the curving tails.
He kept the furnishings spare, she noted, but he chose what he kept around him with care.
She rose, stretched, shook back her hair. The rain made her feel beautifully lazy. Instead of looking for her clothes, she walked to his closet hoping she would find a robe to bundle into.
She found a robe, and it made her fingers jerk on the door. A long white robe with wide sleeves.
He’d worn it the night before. In the stone dance. Under the moonlight. A witch’s robe.
Closing the door quickly, she spun around, looked around wildly for her clothes. Downstairs, she remembered with a jolt. He’d undressed her downstairs, and then …
What was she doing? What was she thinking of? Was this real or had she gone mad?
Had she just spent hours in bed with him?
And if it was real, if what she’d always thought was fantasy was suddenly truth, had he used it to lure her here?
For lack of anything else, she snatched up the throw, wrapped it around herself. She grasped the ends tight as the door of the bedroom opened.
He lifted a brow when he saw her, draped in the cloth his mother had woven for him when he’d turned twenty-one. She looked tumbled and lovely and outrageously desirable. He took a step toward her before he caught the glint of suspicion in her eyes.
Annoyed, he moved past her to set the tea tray he’d carried up on the bedside table. “What have you thought of that I haven’t explained?”
“How can you explain what should be impossible?”
“What is, is,” he said simply. “I am a hereditary witch, descended from Finn of the Celts. What powers I have are my birthright.”
She had to accept that. She had seen, she had felt. She kept her shoulders straight and her voice even. “Did you use those powers on me, Liam?”
“You ask me not to touch your thoughts. Since I respect your wishes, try to be more specific in your questions.” Obviously irritated, he sat on the side of the bed and picked up a cup of tea.
“I was attracted to you, strongly and physically attracted to you, from the first minute. I behaved with you as I’ve never behaved with a man. I’ve just gone to bed with you and felt things …” She took a long, steadying breath as he watched her, as she saw a little gleam that had to be triumph light his eyes. “Did you put a spell on me to get me into bed?”
The gleam went dark, and triumph became fury so swiftly she stumbled back a step in instinctive defense. China cracked on wood as he slammed the cup down. From somewhere not so far away came the irritable grumble of thunder.
But he got to his feet slowly, like a wolf, she thought, stalking prey.
“Love spells, love potions?” He came toward her. She backed away. “I’m a witch, not a charlatan. I’m a man, not a cheat. Do you think I would abuse my gifts, shame my name, for sex?”
He made a dismissive gesture; the window shuddered and cracked, giving her a clue just how dangerous was his temper. “I didn’t ask for you, woman. Whatever part fate played in it, you came to this place, and to me, of your own will. And you’re free to go in the same manner.”
“How can you expect me not to wonder?” she shot back. “I’m just supposed to shrug and accept. Oh, Liam’s a witch. He can turn into a wolf and read my mind and blink us from one room to the next whenever he likes. Isn’t that handy?”
She whirled away from him, the throw flicking out around her bare legs. “I’m an educated woman who’s just been dropped headfirst into some kind of fairy tale. I’ll ask whatever questions I damn well please.”
“You appeal to me when you’re angry,” he murmured. “Why is that? I wonder.”
“I have no idea.” She spun back. “I don’t get angry, by the way. And I never shout, but I’m shouting at you. I don’t fall naked into bed with men or have arguments wearing nothing but a blanket, so if I ask if you’ve done something to make me behave this way, I think it’s a perfectly logical question.”
“Perhaps it is. Insulting, but logical. The answer is no.” He said it almost wearily as he went back to sit on the bed and sip his tea. “I cast no spell, wove no magic. I’m wiccan, Rowan. There is one law we live by, one rule that cannot be broken. ‘An it harm none.’ I will do nothing to harm you. And my pride alone would prevent me from influencing your response to me. What you feel, you feel.”
When she said nothing, he moved his shoulder in a careless jerk, as if there weren’t a sharp-clawed fist around his heart. “You’ll want your clothes.” With no more than those words, her jeans and shirt appeared on the chair.
She let out a short laugh, shook her head. “And you don’t think I should be dazzled by something like that. You expect a great deal, Liam.”
He looked at her again, thought of what ran in her blood. Not nearly ready to know, he decided, annoyed with his own impatience. “Aye, I suppose I do. You have a great deal, Rowan, if you’d only trust yourself.”
“No one’s ever really believed in me.” Steady now, she walked to him. “That’s a kind of magic you offer me that means more than all the flash and wonder. I’ll start with trusting this much—I’ll believe that what I feel for you is real. Is that enough for now?”
He lifted a hand to lay it over the one that held the ends of the throw. The tenderness that filled him was new, unexplained and too sweet to question. “It’s enough. Sit, have some tea.”
“I don’t want tea.” It thrilled her to be so bold, to loosen her grip and let the throw fall away. “And I don’t want my clothes. But I do want you.”
Chapter 9
She was under a spell. Not one that required incantations, Rowan thought dreamily. Not one that called on mystical powers and forces. She was in love, and that, she supposed, was the oldest and the most natural of magics.
She’d never been as comfortable nor as uneasy with any other man. Never been quite so shy, nor ever so bold as she was with Liam. Looking back, gauging her actions, her reactions, her words and her wishes, she realized she’d fallen under that spell the moment she’d turned and seen him behind her on the cliffs.
The wind in his hair, annoyance in his eyes, Ireland in his voice. That graceful, muscular body with its power held ruthlessly in check.
Love at first sight, she thought. Just one more page of her own personal fairy tale.
And after love, her love, they’d found their way to a friendship she treasured every bit as much. Companionship, an ease of being. She knew he enjoyed having her with him, for work, for talk, for sitting quietly and watching the sky change with evening.
She could tell by the way he smiled at her, or laughed, or absently brushed a hand through her hair.
At times like that she could sense that restlessness that prowled in him shifting into a kind of contentment. The way it had, she remembered, when he’d come to her as a wolf and lain down beside her to listen to her read.
Wasn’t it odd, she mused, that in searching for her own peace of mind, she’d given him some?
Life, she decided as she settled down to sketch a line of foxglove on the banks of the stream, was a wonderful thing. And now, finally, she was beginning to live it.
It was lovely to do something she enjoyed, to sit in a place that made her happy and spend time exploring her own talents, to study the way the sun filtered through the treetops, the way the narrow ribbon of water curved and sparkled.
All these shades of green to explore, the shapes of things, the marvelously complicated bark of a Douglas fir, the charming fancy of a lush fern.
There was time for them now, time for herself.
No longer was she required to get up in the morning and put on a neat, conservative suit, to wade through morning traffic, drive through the rain with a briefcase full of papers and plans and projects in the seat beside her. And to stand at the front of the classroom, knowing that she wasn’t quite good enough, certainly not dedicated enough an instructor, as each one of her students deserved.
She wo
uld never again have to come home every evening to an apartment that had never really felt like home, to eat her solitary dinner, grade her papers, go to bed. Except for every Wednesday and Sunday, when she would be expected for dinner by her parents. They would discuss their respective weeks, and she would listen to their advice on the direction of her career.
Week after week, month after month, year after year. It was hardly any wonder they’d been so shocked and hurt when she’d broken that sacred routine. What would they say if she told them she’d gone way beyond the scope of any imaginings and fallen headlong in love with a witch? A shape-shifter, a magician. A wonder.
The idea made her laugh, shake her head in delighted amusement. No, she thought, it was best to keep certain areas of her new life all to herself.
Her much-loved and decidedly earthbound parents would never believe, much less understand it.
She couldn’t understand it herself. It was real, it was true—there was no way to deny it. Yet how could he be what he claimed to be? How could he do what she had seen him do?
Her pencil faltered, and she reached up to toy nervously with the end of her braid. She had seen it, less than a week ago. And since then there had been a dozen small, baffling moments.
She’d seen him light candles with a thought, pluck a white rose out of the air, and once—in one of his rare foolish moods—he’d whisked her clothes away with no more than a grin.
It amazed and delighted her. Thrilled her. But she could admit here, alone, in her deepest thoughts, that part of her feared it as well.
He had such powers. Over the elements, and over her.
He’ll never use them to harm you.
The voice in her head made her jolt so that her sketch pad slapped facedown on the forest floor. Even as she pressed a hand to her jumping heart she saw the silver owl swoop down. He watched her from the low branch of a tree out of unblinking eyes of sharp green. Gold glinted against the silver of his breast.
Another page from the fairy tale, she thought giddily, and managed to get to her feet. “Hello.” It came out as a croak, forcing her to clear her throat. “I’m Rowan.”
She bit back a shriek as the owl spread his regal wings, soared down from the tree and with a ripple of silver light became a man.
“I know well enough who you are, girl.” There was music and magic in his voice, and the echo of green hills and misty valleys.
Her nerves were forgotten in sheer pleasure. “You’re Liam’s father.”
“So I am.” The stern expression on his face softened into a smile. He moved toward her, footsteps silent in soft brown boots. And, taking her hand, lifted it gallantly to kiss. “It is a pleasure to be meeting you, young Rowan. Why do you sit here alone, worrying?”
“I like to sit alone sometimes. And worrying’s one of my best things.”
He shook his head, gave a quick snap of his fingers and had her sketch pad fluttering up into his hand. “No, this is.” He sat comfortably on the fallen tree, cocking his head so that his hair flowed like liquid silver to his shoulders. “You’ve a gift here, and a charming one.” He gave the space beside him an absent pat. “Sit yourself,” he said when she didn’t move. “I’ll not eat you.”
“It’s all so … dumbfounding.”
His gaze shifted to hers with honest puzzlement lighting the green. “Why?”
“Why?” She was sitting on a tree in the woods beside a witch, the second she’d met so far. “You’d be used to it, but it’s just a little surprising to a mere mortal.”
His eyes narrowed, and if Rowan had been able to read his mind she’d have been stunned to read his quick and annoyed thoughts aimed at his son. The stubborn whelp hasn’t told her yet. What is he waiting for?
Finn had to remind himself it was Liam’s place and not his own, and smiled at Rowan again.
“You’ve read stories, haven’t you? Heard legends and songs that speak of us?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“And where, young Rowan, do you think stories and legends and songs come from if not from grains of truth?” He gave her hand a fatherly pat. “Not that truth doesn’t all too often become stretched and twisted. There you have witches tormenting innocent young children, popping them into ovens for dinner. Do you think we’re after baking you up for a feast?”
The amusement in his voice was contagious. “No, of course not.”
“Well then, stop your fretting.” Dismissing her concerns, he paged through her sketches. “You’ll do well here. You do well here.” His grin flashed as he came to one with fairy eyes peeking through a thick flood of flowers. “Well and fine here, girl. Why is it you don’t use colors?”
“I’m no good with paints,” she began. “But I thought I might get some chalks. I haven’t done much with pastels and thought it might be fun.”
He made a sound of approval and continued to flip pages. When he came to one of Liam standing spread-legged and arrogant on the cliffs, he grinned like a boy.
