by Anthology
Curse his black head! She’d felt the power of the man’s gaze so strongly, the force ripping into her soul, as if he could strip her mind of every thought. No secret would be safe from him. The strength of her reaction made her vulnerable, reminded she’d always loved this man too deeply, always would. While he was married he was safely out of reach, no possibility for her dreams to ever come true. Now he was divorced, it was harder to remind her Cinderella heart of the realities that Rhys would never want her. Fear, fear of pain, fear of opening herself to a heartache that wouldn’t die, pushed her to run from him, to get as far away from him as possible.
Rhys was trouble with a capital T. Even so, she couldn’t do anything but stand flatfooted and want him with every fiber of her being. Then the warlock eyes moved away, and with a flick of those long black lashes dismissed her as not worthy of his note. She’d blushed, ashamed of her reaction to this arrogant man. Hurt seared through her.
Rhys hadn’t remembered her.
Why did that pain so much? That he’d forgotten her was a lance to her heart. He hadn’t recalled the dance under the moonlight on Halloween fifteen years ago. Hadn’t remembered the kiss. That magical kiss.
The pain was a familiar one. By eighteen her love had matured from that of hero worship to that of a woman’s. She couldn’t sleep or eat and found the old expression living on love had been rather accurate. Despite that, Rhys and everyone else had thought it nothing more than puppy love. They refused to see she was nearly nineteen and no longer a child.
In her first blush of womanhood, she believed all things were possible. A future shimmered in her mind of Rhys continuing to live at the castle with his grandfather and over time come to see her there, waiting, and so much in love with him that it hurt to breathe.
At night, her heart spun castles in the air, so vivid, she was convinced they’d one day come true, that their love was fated. Instead, she’d watched him move away, marry. Thought she’d die from the agony of knowing her dreams were shattered forever. Rhys belonged to another. Not for one day had that pain lessened or gone away. Eventually, she’d learned to get on with her life. Even so, she still loved Rhys. Never stopped loving Rhys.
“Why did he have to come back, start the ache all over again?” She hated him all the more for carelessly dismissing from his memory something so special to her. A night when those dreams took on reality, if only for a moment.
“Meeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooow!”
Dara closed her eyes and counted to ten. “I’m not hearing a cat. It’s bad enough I talk to a cat who’s not here anymore. If he’s answering, I’m in trouble. Next, I’ll start talking to a head in a box like Al Swearengen. Geesh, that’s what I get for opening and watching the Deadwood DVDs Leslie sent me for a Christmas present.”
“Meeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooow!”
“Bugger. I refuse to converse with a Jacob Marley cat.”
“Meeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooow!”
The last one sounded so insistent, so poignant, she gave up and believed. However unlikely, there had to be a cat outside in the snowstorm. Going to the door, she opened it a crack, braced herself against the gusting wind that nearly jerked the door out of her grip. She finally looked down to the stoop.
Sitting, nearly white from the snow, was a British Blue cat, the blue-grey so dark it was almost blackish. The poor, pudgy thing was hunched, shivering. “You pitiful darling. Would you like to come inside?”
She glanced toward Kitty Heaven and mouthed, “Thank you.” to Angel Dexter.
This kitty looked at her with amber eyes. Odd, for some reason they reminded her of Rhys St. John’s. Since the man wasn’t welcome in her mind, she tried to blink away the illusion, thinking it a trick of light. The peculiar impression lingered, stayed to the point where she half-expected to see the cat shake off the snow and suddenly morph into the sexy, conceited man.
“A werekitty!” Dara giggled. “Cat, I’ve spent too many weeks in this isolated cottage with no one to talk to but my characters now Dexter’s gone. Come on through―but no shapeshifting.” She wagged her finger at him. “Rhys St. John is the last person I want to see tonight. Life is simply too sucky to put up with his arrogance on Christmas Eve.”
As if he understood the instructions, he shook off the heavy snow and dashed inside and straight to the fireplace. Sitting next to the metal-mesh spark guard, he proceeded to tongue bathe his wet fur.
Figuring kitty would be hungry, she went to the kitchen cabinet and took out a tin of cat food left from Dexter. As she started to set the saucer on the bricks before the preening cat, she noticed he wasn’t solid British Blue after all. He had a little white ‘moustache’ rather like he’d been drinking milk. Strange, this cat was dark where Dexter had been white and white where Dexter had been dark grey. They could be the positive-negative of each other. Noticing he wore a collar, she looked at it, spotting a nameplate.
“Elvis the Cat.” Dara laughed. “Move over, Alice, I’m late for a very important date.”
~*~
“It’s getting late.”
Frustrated that night put in an appearance in early afternoon in Scotland this time of year, Rhys St. John glanced at his watch and muttered about 101 uses for a dead cat, thinking of the black humor paperback out a few years ago. At the time of its release nearly all cat owners were outraged by the premise.
“Given the circumstances of the moment, I could easily pen suggestions 102 and 103. Maybe even a 104. Damn creature. Why pick Christmas Eve to go walkabout―as Paul Hogan would say? My mood’s crappy enough without having to chase down a cat that shouldn’t be outside. That fat puss couldn’t outrun a snail if his life depended upon it.”
After following the tracks across Castle MacNeill’s grounds, he stopped and glanced back. It was weird. The cat wasn’t wandering about. He seemed intent on heading somewhere. Silly feline didn’t know the terrain, so it was almost as if someone guided him. The heavy snow coming down had already half-filled in the path of his paw prints. Fearful they’d soon be covered entirely and he’d be unable to track Elvis, he broke into a jog.
In the distance he spotted a faint orange glow. As he paused to get his bearing, the corner of his mouth tugged up. He was nearing the cottage where Dara Seaforth stayed, a small hunting box on the edge of the Seaforth estate, which bordered Castle MacNeill. A romance writer, the villagers said. Somehow, it didn’t surprise him Dara wrote romances. His mind cast back to fifteen years ago to a night under the autumn full moon and to a lass with stars in her eyes.
Too bad you couldn’t hit the Restore option like on your computer and turn back your life to a time where it carried the sheen of hope. All futures were possible. If he had the choice to make all over again, he’d go back to that night, fix in his mind he had a couple years before he could claim Miz Dara Seaforth. He was a patient man. He would’ve waited. The instant she’d turned twenty-one, he would’ve married her so fast it’d make her pretty head spin. Instead, he’d allowed his mother and grandfather to push him into a loveless marriage just to save the family’s fortune.
He swallowed regret. Had he chosen another path on that Halloween night, they’d have children by now and would be spending this Christmas Eve preparing to play St. Nick and watch their eager faces come alive.
“Well, I was stupid once. No more.”
His mind conjured the image of Dara, her soft brown hair, long and about her shoulders.
The penetrating grey eyes are what he carried with him the most. Forever burned into his soul. Long into the night, those eyes haunted his dreams. Being a fool, it’d taken him several years to admit he was in love with Dara, never stopped loving her. Then it had been too late.
Since his return, he’d seen her here and there, watched her. Stalked her, if truth be told. He couldn’t seem to stay away from her, though she was unaware of his new diversion. She’d grown into a sexy woman. One he wanted. One who could hold the key to the future―if she chose to give him a second chance.
Puzzling. Maybe not the initial reaction he’d hoped to see from her, but it gave him room to work. For the first time in years, he felt alive again, determined.
He’d returned to Dunnagal trying to find a new direction in life. Strange, the direction he now took in following the errant cat was straight to Dara’s cottage.
“Maybe that cat isn’t so stupid, after all.” He smiled, blood of the predator rising within him. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty. Ah, Fate moves in wonderful and mysterious ways.”
~*~
Elvis finished his meal and stretched out as close as he could get to the screen guard, then proceeded to purr.
Dara wasn’t sure where Elvis the Cat had come from, but she was glad for his presence.
“I don’t have to spend Christmas Eve alone now, Elvis. Thank you.”
He yawned a ‘you’re welcome’ and then stared at the undecorated tree, a curious expression on his intelligent face. He almost seemed to ask the question of why? It was a bit unnerving, this cat being the negative to Dexter’s positive. Only he didn’t have Dexter’s eyes. He had human eyes. Rhys St. John’s eyes. It was spooky.
“Remember, you promised―no shapeshifting. I haven’t bothered decorating, Elvis. It’s just me. It didn’t seem worth the effort.”
The cat snapped his tail angrily. That’s no excuse, was in the eerie eyes.
A rap on the door startled her. “By the pricking of my thumbs…something wicked this way comes. I don’t know anyone with sense who would be out on a night light this.”
She opened the door and her heart stopped. Looking so sexy he should be outlawed, Rhys St. John hunched his shoulders against the snow. Stupid man was in a lightweight coat not suitable for this wet snow. No cap on the black hair that was damp and mostly covered with white stuff.
She stiffened as if she received a blow to her chest, nearly reeling. Oh, Rhys. Why the bloody hell turn up on her doorstep tonight? On Christmas Eve when she was alone except for a cat named Elvis, when she was so low, she wanted to curl up and cry. She had no defenses against a man she’d loved for over fifteen years.
She drew upon her last ounce of pride and asked frostily, “May I help you?”
~*~
Rhys smiled, but it was a mask. So that was how she planned to play it―as if they were strangers. Fine. He’d give her plenty of rope before he gave a good swift yank on it.
“I’m looking for a cat. A British Blue, yellow eyes with a white mustache, answers to the name of Elvis.”
She tried to block his view into the room. “A cat? You’re out on a night like this in search of a cat? Sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“You were never a good liar when you were growing up, Dara.” He arched a brow at her audacity.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She huffed and stiffened her spine.
Rhys glanced past her shoulder at the cat on the fireplace, and pointed. “That cat―Elvis. Or did you fail to notice him?”
“Oh, him.”
“Oh, him?” He echoed softly. “Going to jail for catnapping?”
“Actually, I did forget about him. I was busy writing. I don’t take notice of things sometimes.”
A chuckle vibrated through him. “Good thing Elvis can open cabinets and use a can opener then, eh? He might’ve starved waiting for you to pay attention.”
She had the grace to blush and shrug. “Well, cats are intelligent creatures.”
“Dara, while I’d love to stand here and natter, I’m bloody wet and cold and you’re letting all the heat out of the house.” Not waiting for her to graciously step back and ask him in, he pushed past her, moving to the fire to warm up.
She turned, her mouth hanging open, though finally closed the door after another gust of wind blasted the side of the house. “I’m not sure I should let you in. How do I know you aren’t a deranged killer?”
“Deranged? Not yet, lass.” He unbuttoned his coat, but didn’t stop there. He tugged off the pullover sweater, tossed it down by his coat and started to undo the buttons on the flannel shirt.
Dara backed up a step. “Maybe I should call Hamish Macduff...”
Rhys laughed. “Oh aye, do that. By the time the snow stops and he pumps up the tire on his bicycle, it’ll be New Years.”
When the shirt came off, she was momentarily distracted by the expanse of his naked chest. He liked her wide-eyed expression. Only it changed to shock as he reached for his belt and began to unbuckle it.
“Rhys St. John, what are you doing?”
“Ah, you remember me now. You’re a writer, Dara lass―of sexy romances―you figure it out. I just walked miles in the snow, am soaking wet from trying to catch that stupid cat before he fell into the burn and drowned or got lost and died in the storm. Now I’m doing what any intelligent man would do―getting out of the wet clothes before I take pneumonia.”
“But...ah...”
“It’s dark out. I’m not walking home in this storm, Dara. Once you get over drooling at my chest, you’ll come to grips with you have Elvis and me as Christmas guests now. Get me a blanket to wrap up in, lass. Next stop is what waits below―and I’m so cold I can’t recall if I bothered with underwear today. Or is it your wish to drool over more than just my braw chest?”
“Rhys St. John, you’re a candidate for Bedlam!”
Rhys smiled as he noticed she kept the couch between them as if that was any sort of protection. Ah, thanks to Elvis, Christmas Eve suddenly was looking up. He made a mental note to get Elvis a truckload of Armitage Good Girl Catnip Drops, enough to last through the coming year. This silly beastie had played matchmaker! Here was the opening he wanted and he planned to press every advantage. He was staying today, tomorrow…and beyond.
“Determination is my middle name,” he said under his breath.
“Damn you, Rhys, you’ve been back to Dunnagal for weeks and not even said hello. Now you think you can barge in here, strip to your skivvies without a by-your-leave―”
“I’m not stopping at my skivvies, lass. I warned you. I’m wet. I need to get dry and warmed up. So stop standing there ogling me and fetch a blanket and a dram of Whisky.”
When he acted as if he was unzipping his pants, she let out with a squawk and rushed from the room. He laughed at her skittishness. Well, she’d just have to get over that. Sitting down on the footstool, he undid the Wellies and tugged them off, then the socks.
He leaned over and patted Elvis. “Thanks, lad. I appreciate it. You got me in and I’m not leaving.”
He stood as she came back carrying a fluffy blanket and unfolding it. Winking at the cat, he started to unzip his fly. She gasped and held up the blanket like a screen to the middle of his chest.
“Ah, Dara lass, don’t tell me you’re modest.”
She blinked, trying to keep her eyes off his chest and on his face. “Don’t try to call me a prude, St. John. You come shoving your way in here, accusing me of stealing your cat and now play at being a candidate for Chippendales―”
“Playing at?” He leaned close to her, inhaling her soft perfume with a hint of tuberose and the woman underneath. His body went from frozen popsicle to a slow burn faster than he could count one, two, three. “Lass, hang onto that blanket because that’s all that is separating us right now.”
Her fist tightened on the soft covers, just as he intended. Dara was so focused on preserving his modesty that she was an easy target. His hands seized her waist and yanked her hard against him, his mouth closing over hers. This was no gentle wooing, this was picking up that kiss where it was left off fifteen years ago. This was him silently sta
king his claim.
A kiss with a promise of endless tomorrows.
Their lives had come full circle.
For the first time since that night fifteen years ago, he actually felt in control of his life again. Dara and he could be so happy, if only he could convince her of his love, of the future they could build. Her shock translated in her remaining stiff as he plundered that sweet mouth, took the heat from her and let it warm his body, his soul.
She leaned back, trying to break his hold on her. Though he didn’t want to let her go.
She started to step back, then recalled her hold on the blanket. Trembling, she said, “Here,” tossed it at him and fled.
“Oh, Dara lass, it’s a night to believe in magic,” he said to her retreating back.
~*~
“Way to go, St. John.” Rhys’ tone was chiding. “You’re twelve kinds of a bloody fool.”
Disgusted, he tossed another peat brick on the fire and closed the glass spark-guard.
Poor Dara was hiding in her room, door locked against the madman stalking back and forth in the hallway. A grimace etched his mouth when he conjured the image of her in there, crying. At one point, his impatience had driven him to pound on the door, even considered breaking it down. His last shard of common sense warned she wouldn’t appreciate his caveman routine. It severely taxed him to wait. He was anxious to see Dara, kiss away the tears staining her cheeks, then explain why he’d been such an eegit.
Hold her through the night.
He lay on the comfortable sofa, staring into the flickering blue flames while he made up his mind how to put things right. By coming on too strongly he feared he’d botched everything.
The peat in the fireplace was warm, heady, the scent making him crave a cigarette. Last year he’d given up smoking because it caused Elvis to sneeze. Rarely did he miss the habit, but right now he really could use a nicotine buzz.
Over the past couple of weeks, he’d watched Dara puttering around the village. The small notions store on the village green had Dara’s Romance novels prominently displayed in the front window―proud of the local lass now a bestselling author. He’d bought them all. Outside of fetching supplies or taking his stallion out for exercise, he’d been holed up reading her books―all thirteen of them. She had range, with the mix being half Historicals and half zany Contemporary Romances. After the first three, he got over the shock of seeing himself portrayed as the hero in each of them. Oh, there were variances in her characters, slightly taller, maybe just a bit prettier, but it was clear to him he’d been the seed for her inspiration.
