Charmed

by Nora Roberts

  “I linked. I told you—I’m an empath.”

  “It hurt you. I saw.” He took her arm, turning her to face him. “Once you cried out, as if it was unbearable. Afterward, you fainted, then slept like the dead for more than a day.”

  “That’s part of it.” She tried to push his hand away. It hurt too much to be touched when her defenses were shattered. “When the injuries are so serious, there’s a price.”

  “Yes, I understand. I asked Morgana. She said you could have died. She said the risk was very great because Jessie …” He could hardly say it. “She was gone, or nearly. And you weren’t just fixing some broken bones, but bringing her back from the edge. That the line is very fine, and it’s very easy for the healer to become the victim.”

  “What would you have had me do? Let her die?”

  “A coward would have. I think your definition and mine are different. Being afraid doesn’t make you a coward. You could have saved yourself and let her go.”

  “I love her.”

  “So do I. And you gave her back to me. I didn’t even thank you.”

  “Do you think I want your gratitude?” It was too much, she thought. Next he would offer her pity. “I don’t. I don’t want it. What I did I did freely, because I couldn’t bear to lose her, either. And I couldn’t bear for you—”

  “For me?” he said gently.

  “For you to lose someone else you loved. I don’t want to be thanked for it. It’s what I am.”

  “You’ve done it before? What you did with Jessie?”

  “I’m a healer. I heal. She was …” It still hurt to think of it. “She was slipping away. I used what I have to bring her back.”

  “It’s not that simple.” His hands were gentle on her arms now, stroking. “Not even for you. You feel more than others. Morgana told me that, too. When you let your defenses down, you’re more vulnerable to emotion, to pain, to everything. That’s why you don’t cry.” With his fingertip, he lifted a teardrop from her cheek. “But you’re crying now.”

  “You know everything there is to know. What’s the point of this?”

  “The point is to take a step back to the night you explained it all to me. The point is for you to take another chance and open yourself up. For me.”

  “You ask too much.” She sobbed the words out, then covered her face. “Oh, leave me alone. Give me some peace. Can’t you see how you hurt me?”

  “Yes, I can see.” He wrapped his arms around her, fighting to soothe while she struggled for release. “You’ve lost weight, you’re pale. When I look into your eyes, I see every ounce of pain I caused you. I don’t know how to take it back. I don’t know how your father kept himself from cursing me with whatever was in his arsenal.”

  “We can’t use power to harm. It’s against everything we are. Please let me go.”

  “I can’t. I almost thought I could. She lied to me, I told myself. She betrayed my trust. She isn’t real.” He kept a firm grip on her arms as she pulled away. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. If it’s magic, I don’t want to lose it. I can’t lose you. I love you, Ana. All that you are. Please.” He touched his lips to hers, tasting tears. “Please come back to me.

  The shaft of hope was almost painful. She clung to it, to him. “I want to believe.”

  “So do I.” He cupped her face, kissing her again. “And I do. I believe in you. In us. If this is my fairy tale, I want to play it out.”

  She stared up at him. “You can accept all of this? All of us?”

  “I figure I’m pretty well suited to do just that. Of course, it might take a while for me to convince your father not to do something drastic to my anatomy.” He traced his fingers over her lips as they curved. “I didn’t know if you’d ever smile for me again. Tell me you still love me. Give me that, too.”

  “Yes, I love you.” Her lips trembled under his. “Always.”

  “I won’t hurt you again.” He brushed away tears with his thumbs. “I’ll make up for everything.”

  “It’s done.” She caught his hands. “That’s done. We have tomorrow.”

  “Don’t cry any more.”

  She smiled, rubbing her fists across her cheeks. “No, I won’t. I never cry.”

  He took those damp fists and kissed them. “You said to ask you again. It’s been longer than a week, but I’m hoping you haven’t forgotten what you said your answer would be.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Put your hand here.” He pressed her palm to his heart. “I want you to feel what I feel.” He linked his free hand with hers. “The moon’s almost full. The first time I kissed you was in the moonlight. I was charmed, enchanted, spellbound. I always will be. I need you, Ana.”

  She could feel the strength of that love pouring into her. “You have me.”

  “I want you to marry me. Share the child you gave back to me. She’s yours as much as mine now. Let me make more children with you. I’ll take you as you are, Anastasia. I swear I’ll cherish you as long as I live.”

  She lifted her arms to him. Hair like sunlight. Eyes like smoke. Shafts of moonglow shimmered around her like torchlight.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Epilogue

  Alone on a wild crag facing a stormy sea stood Donovan Castle. This dark night, lightning flashed and shuddered in the black sky, and the wind set the leaded glass to shaking in the diamond panes.

  Inside, fires leaped and glowed in the hearths. Those who were witches, and those who were not, gathered close, waiting for the indignant wail that would signal a new life.

  “Are you cheating, Grandda?” Jessie asked Padrick as he perused his cards.

  “Cheating!” He gave a merry laugh and wiggled his brows. “Certainly, I am. Go fish.”

  She giggled and drew from the pile. “Granny Maureen says you always cheat.” She tilted her head. “Were you really a frog?”

  “That I was, darling. A fine green one.”

  She accepted this, just as she accepted the other wonders of her life with the Donovans. She petted the snoring Daisy, who rested her big golden head in Jessie’s lap. “Will you be a frog again sometime, so I can see?”

  “I might surprise you.” He winked and changed her hand of cards into a rainbow of lollipops.

  “Oh, Grandda,” she said indulgently.

  “Sebastian?” Mel hustled down the main stairs and shouted into the parlor, where her husband was sipping brandy and watching the card game. “Shawn and Keely are awake and fussing. I have my hands full helping with Ana.”

  “Be right there.” The proud papa of three months set down his snifter and headed up to change diapers.

  Nash bounced one-year-old Allysia on his knee while Donovan sat in Matthew’s lap, playing with his pocket watch. “Be careful he doesn’t eat it,” Nash commented. “Or make it disappear. We’re having a little trouble keeping him in line.”

  “The lad needs to spread his wings a bit.”

  “If you say so. But when I went to get him out of his crib the other day, it was full of rabbits. Real ones.”

  “Takes after his mother,” Matthew said proudly. “She ran us ragged.”

  Allysia leaned back against her father and smiled. Instantly Daisy woke and trotted over. Within seconds, every dog and cat in the house was swarming through the room.

  “Ally,” Nash said with a sigh. “Remember how we said one at a time?”

  “Doggies.” Squealing, Ally tugged gently on the ears of Matthew’s big silver wolf. “Kittycats.”

  “Next time just one, okay?” Nash plucked a cat off his shoulder, nudged another off the arm of the chair. “A couple of weeks ago she had every hound within ten miles howling in the yard. Come on, monsters.” He rose, tucking Allysia, then Donovan, under his arms like footballs. They kicked and giggled. “I think it’s time for bed.”

  “Story,” Donovan demanded. “Uncle Boone.”

  “He’s busy. You’ll have to settle for one from your old man.”

/>   * * *

  He was indeed busy, watching a miracle. The room was scented with candles and herbs, warmed by the fire glowing in the hearth. He held tight to Ana as she brought their son into the world.

  Then their daughter.

  Then their second son.

  “Three.” He kept saying it over and over, even as Bryna settled an infant in his arms. “Three.” They’d told him there would be triplets, but he hadn’t really believed it.

  “Runs in the family.” Exhausted, elated, Ana took another bundle from Morgana. She pressed her lips gently to the silky cheek. “Now we have two of each.”

  He grinned down at his wife as Mel settled the third baby in the crook of Ana’s arm. “I think we need a bigger house.”

  “We’ll add on.”

  “Would you like the others to come up?” Bryna asked gently. “Or would you rather rest awhile?”

  “No, please.” Ana tilted her head so that it rested against Boone’s arm. “Ask them to come up.”

  They crowded in, making too much noise. Ana made room in the big bed for Jessie to sit beside her, then placed a baby in her arms.

  “This is your brother Trevor. Your sister, Maeve. And your other brother, Kyle.”

  “I’m going to take good care of them. Always. Look, Grandda—we have a big family now.”

  “You do indeed, my little lamb.” He blew heartily into his checked kerchief. He wiped his runny eyes and looked mistily at Boone. “Just as well I didn’t flatten you when I had the chance.”

  “Here.” Boone held out a squealing infant. “Hold your grandson.”

  “Ah, Maureen, my cheesecake, look at this. He has my eyes.”

  “No, my frog prince, he has mine.”

  They argued, with the rest of the Donovans throwing their weight to one side or the other. Boone slipped his arm around his wife, held his family close as his son suckled greedily at his first taste of mother’s milk. Lightning flashed against the windows, the wind howled, and the fire leapt high in the grate.

  Somewhere deep in the forest, high in the hills, the fairies danced.

  And they lived happily ever after.

  If you liked Charmed, look for the other novels in the Donovan Legacy series: Captivated, Entranced, and Enchanted, available as eBooks from InterMix.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  the newest novel by Nora Roberts

  The Witness

  Available April 2012 in hardcover from G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  June 2000

  Elizabeth Fitch’s short-lived teenage rebellion began with L’Oreal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

  For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.

  Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as Chief of Surgery at Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.

  Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she’d return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother; a surgeon, like her mother.

  Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She’d traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human body and play Chopin’s Piano Concerto—both One and Two—by rote.

  She’d never been on a date or kissed a boy. She’d never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.

  She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mother’s meticulous and detailed agenda.

  That was about to change.

  She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week’s medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal scheduled with the selected outfit, shoes, bag and accessories.

  Designer suits and Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cut, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.

  After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she’d begun—maybe—to develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans and a hoodie and some chunky heeled boots in Cambridge.

  She’d paid in cash, so the purchase wouldn’t show up on her credit card bill in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.

  She’d felt like a different person wearing them, so different that she’d walked straight into a McDonald’s and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.

  The pleasure had been so huge she’d had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.

  The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe they’d always been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.

  But she could feel them, actually feel them sprouting in her belly now.

  “Your plans changed, Mother. It doesn’t follow that mine have to change with them.”

  Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeon’s hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as always—no color there either.

  “Elizabeth.” Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. “It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You’ll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule.”

  Even the thought made Elizabeth’s stomach hurt. “I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York.”

  “And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn’t had this coming week off, I couldn’t fill in for Dr. Dusecki at the conference.”

  “You could have said no.”

  “That would have been selfish and shortsighted.” Susan brushed at the jacket she’d hung, stepped back to check her list. “You’re certainly mature enough to understand the demands of work overtake pleasure and leisure.”

  “If I’m mature enough to understand that, why aren’t I mature enough to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need it.”

  Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. “A girl of your age, physical condition and mental acumen hardly needs a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week cruise, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. There’s no one to fix your meals or tend to the house.”

  “I can fix my own meals and tend to the house.”

  “Elizabeth.” The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. “It’s settled.”

  “And I have no say in it? What about developing my independence, being responsible?”

  “Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibility and freedom of choice. You still require guidance and direction. Now, I’ve e-mailed you an updated schedule for the coming week and your packet with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summer term.”

  As she spoke, Susan closed the garment bag, then her small pullman. She stepped to her bureau to check her hair, her lipstick.

  “You don’t listen to anything I say.”

 
In the mirror, Susan’s gaze shifted to her daughter. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to actually look at her since she’d come into the bedroom. “Of course I do. I heard everything you said, very clearly.”

  “Listening’s different than hearing.”

  “That may be true, Elizabeth, but we’ve already had this discussion.”

  “It’s not a discussion, it’s a decree.”

  Susan’s mouth tightened briefly, the only sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were a cool, calm blue. “I’m sorry you feel that way. As your mother, I must do what I believe is best for you.”

  “What’s best for me, in your opinion, is for me to do, be, say, think, act, want, become exactly what you decided for me before you inseminated yourself with precisely selected sperm.”

  She heard the rise of her own voice but couldn’t control it, felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes but couldn’t stop them. “I’m tired of being your experiment. I’m tired of having every minute of every day organized, orchestrated and choreographed to meet your expectations. I want to make my own choices, buy my own clothes, read books I want to read. I want to live my own life instead of yours.”

  Susan’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of mild interest. “Well. Your attitude isn’t surprising given your age, but you’ve picked a very inconvenient time to be defiant and argumentative.”

  “Sorry. It wasn’t on the schedule.”

  “Sarcasm’s also typical, but it’s unbecoming.” Susan opened her briefcase, checked the contents. “We’ll talk about all this when I get back. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Bristoe.”

  “I don’t need therapy! I need a mother who listens, who gives a shit about how I feel.”

  “That kind of language only shows a lack of maturity and intellect.”

  Enraged, Elizabeth threw up her hands, spun in circles. If she couldn’t be calm and rational like her mother, she’d be wild. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  “And repetition hardly enhances. You have the rest of the weekend to consider your behavior. Your meals are in the refrigerator or freezer, labeled. Your pack list is on your desk. Report to Ms. Vee at the university at eight on Monday morning. Your participation in this program will ensure your place in HMS next fall. Now, take my garment bag downstairs, please. My car will be here any minute.”

  Oh, those seeds were sprouting, cracking that fallow ground and pushing painfully through. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth looked straight into her mother’s eyes and said, “No.”

  She spun around, stomped away, and slammed the door of her bedroom. She threw herself down on the bed, stared at the ceiling with tear-blurred eyes. And waited.

  Any second, any second, she told herself. Her mother would come in, demand an apology, demand obedience. And she wouldn’t give either.

  They’d have a fight, an actual fight, with threats of punishment and consequences. Maybe they’d yell at each other. Maybe if they yelled, her mother would finally hear her.

  And maybe, if they yelled, she could say all the things that had crept up inside her this past year. Things she thought now had been inside her forever.