“A very big problem,” she muttered, but not quietly enough that he couldn’t hear. “In that case, the least you could do is to lock the door when you’re using this room.”
“I’ve no need for locks.” He turned to face her as he spoke, careful to ensure that the towel he held draped artfully down the center of his body. “I’ve naught to hide.”
Her cheeks bloomed a mottled red as she quickly snapped her eyes up to meet his gaze. But not quickly enough that he failed to see where they had been focused before.
“This is not going to work,” she said, backing out of the room and slamming the door shut. “And make sure you lock the damn door from now on!”
Another moment passed and he heard a second door slam. Clearly, she had left her bedchamber. Knowing Syrie, she’d likely be headed out to find someone to demand that he be moved to another room. The Fae might have stripped her memories, but they hadn’t been able to take away the fiery spirit that drove the woman.
“Thank the Goddess,” he murmured as he moved back into his own bedchamber.
From the beginning a fear had lurked in his heart that Syrie’s punishment might have somehow changed who she was. The very idea had gnawed at his innards like some starving animal.
Before Syrie, no woman had ever made him regret his lot in life. In his world, the third son of a powerful man such as his father rarely had the same choices as his older brothers. Patrick had long settled for the solitary path the Fates had woven for him. He was right hand to his older brother, the laird, content to spend his days defending and protecting his people. Though he counted himself lucky that his life was as good as it was, he was a realist. He had no home other than that which his brother provided, and no income or means to support a family. A man in his position could hardly expect any woman to cast her lot with his.
Not that he’d met any worth pining over.
Not until Syrie had entered his life.
From the first moment she’d crossed his path, he’d felt a strange attraction to her. In his experience, women were docile creatures, devoid of personality other than the drive to find a suitable husband.
But not Syrie.
Syrie was like fire raging through a dry forest. She had her own set of priorities and ideas as to how things should be done, and she never hesitated to voice her views. No one could hold her own in a duel of words like Syrie. He might not always agree with her, but he always admired her tenacity and fearlessness.
And her temper.
Memories of her face coloring with the heat of a good argument brought a smile to his lips.
It was that temper that kept her from being perfect. That and her stubborn nature, always so positive that she was right in every argument.
Those were the things he loved most in her. He’d loved them in her even before he’d known how beautiful she was. They were what made her Syrie.
Now, being near her, seeing that all he loved in her was unchanged, for the first time, he felt sure he had more than just a chance at success.
There was nothing his Syrie loved more than putting an arrogant male in his place. Without a doubt, there was no man alive who could be more deserving of being put in his place than he. Especially not if that was what it would take to hold Syrie’s attention.
And once he had her attention? The smile on his face broadened. Why, then it was only a matter of time until he could capture her heart.
* * *
“I’m sorry, Syrie, but I can’t move him anywhere else. The room next to yours was the only unoccupied room I had left.”
Ellen might be saying she was sorry, but she didn’t look at all sorry to Syrie. If anything, she looked rather pleased with herself.
“Maybe I could change rooms with one of the new girls on the third floor?”
She had to ask, even though she had a good idea of what the answer would be. The fact that Ellen was shaking her head before Syrie had even finished speaking was clue enough.
“Those girls only moved in here so that they could be next door to each other. They’ve apparently been best friends since kindergarten, so I don’t see that as even a remote possibility. You’ll just have to make do with things as they are for the time being.”
Make do. Syrie gritted her teeth to keep from snorting. How was she supposed to make do with a naked god hanging out in her bathroom?
“Fine,” she said grumpily, flouncing down on the sofa next to Ellen. “But will you at least tell him he has to lock the door when he’s in there?”
Ellen’s smile spread, and Syrie could almost swear her friend was biting her lips together.
“I will,” Ellen said after a moment, reaching across to pat Syrie’s hand, obviously struggling to maintain her composure. “He’s really not all that bad. Maybe you should try to get to know him better. Maybe if you make an effort to see more of him.”
See more of him?
“After our little bathroom encounter, I’m pretty sure there isn’t much of him I haven’t already seen.”
And what she had seen was no doubt going to be enough to keep her dreams filled for days. Weeks. Months. His image was burned into the backside of her eyelids even now. Water droplets glistening on his skin, his long, dark hair plastered to shoulders that appeared to have been sculpted by some master artisan. No, that wasn’t a scene she was likely to forget anytime soon.
“So, what do you think?” Ellen asked, looking at her expectantly.
Uh-oh. She must have missed something during her little sojourn into Patrick-land.
“Think?” she asked, hoping Ellen would repeat whatever she’d said before.
“Come on,” Ellen wheedled. “It will be fun. For both of us. Robert can be so direct sometimes when it’s just the two of us. But if you’re along, he’ll agree to spend some time just hanging out. Say yes. As a special favor for me.”
“Of course,” Syrie agreed. As if she would ever deny her friend any request. “When is this?”
And please, by all that was holy, repeat what it was she’d just agreed to.
“Wonderful!” Ellen said, clapping her hands together. “Robert will be here tomorrow afternoon and then the four of us can head down to Boulder. We can run my errands and then walk around Pearl Street and see all the strange people Danny told me are gathering there. Oh! And we’ll plan on dinner out before coming home, too. We’ll have such a good time. I just know it!”
The four of us?
Oh, great. Syrie should have guessed from the look on Ellen’s face that she was cooking up something like that. A whole afternoon and evening with Patrick. And a long car ride, too. It took everything she had not to groan aloud.
After that encounter in the bathroom, she had no idea how she’d ever be able to look the man in the eyes again, let alone be trapped in a car with him.
“Fine,” Syrie said, standing up to go back to her room. “How long do you think it’ll take us to get there?”
She could handle their being with Patrick in a group of four people. Ellen and Robert would be enough of a buffer. It was only the car ride down that really concerned her.
“About an hour and a half,” Ellen answered. “Robert’s a stickler about obeying the speed limits.”
Syrie leaned down to give her friend a quick hug and then headed back upstairs, praying her neighbor was tucked away in his room for the night. Right now, all she wanted was to escape to the privacy of her own room, where there was no possibility of bumping into Patrick again.
Something told her she’d need all the alone time she could get to prepare herself for being trapped in that small metal box with him only a few feet away from her for over an hour.
It would, without question, be one of the longest, most uncomfortable hours of her life.
Chapter 15
Syrie had expected the drive to Boulder to be emotionally trying. But this? No. She’d never in her wildest worries imagined it would be like this.
She’d come downstairs to find that Clint and Rosella were
joining them on their outing and that they had already taken their places in the backseat of Robert’s car. Patrick waited patiently by the door, offering a hand of assistance as she climbed inside.
The interior was much larger than any she’d ridden in before, and she’d just begun to count herself lucky when Patrick had folded himself into the seat next to her, his body all but wrapped around hers in the suddenly cramped space.
“Sorry about the crowding,” Ellen had said cheerily as she slipped into the front seat. “But once Mrs. Whitman learned we were headed down to Boulder, there was nothing doing but that I should make her honey delivery to save her the trip. One of you can move up here on the way back, if you want.”
That would be wonderful. If Syrie could manage to survive the current trip.
The backseat that had seemed so luxuriously large only moments earlier now closed around her like a cave-in. A cave-in where the big man next to her was sucking up all the available air.
No matter how she tried to reposition herself, his body fit around hers. From his arm casually resting along the back of the seat cushioning her head, to the length of him that pressed against her side, there simply was no escaping him. Even his legs, longer than hers by far, snugged up next to hers.
She shifted in her seat for the hundredth time, doing her best to shrink into herself, but it did no good.
“Sorry,” she mumbled as her elbow bumped against Patrick’s chest.
“It’s no’ a hardship for me, lass,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “Though, if you’d but try to relax, yer journey likely would be more pleasant.”
Try to relax. Seriously? As if she could even conceive of relaxing with his breath puffing down over her each time he leaned close to speak. The low hum of his words washed down over her, coating her nerves with a blanket, every bit as smooth as the honey perched in the front seat.
She pushed the blanket away, rejecting any comfort he offered. Trying to reject him.
How dare he? How dare he sit there, possessively curving his body around her as if she needed his protection from the door on his other side? Speaking to her as if she were the only person in the car.
How dare he behave as if he hadn’t stood in the middle of her bathroom not twenty-four hours earlier, stark naked, sucking all the air out of that room, too?
Just as he did now.
She’d feared this trip would feel long with him in the car. She’d had no idea that scooted up next to him as she was, it could feel like an eternity.
“Look at that,” Patrick whispered, dipping his head closer to hers.
She’d been prepared to rebuff any of his attempts at conversation, but a glance out the window drew an involuntary gasp from her.
The mountains!
Sure, she’d seen the mountains in Ft. Collins, but the view there wasn’t at all the same. Here, in Boulder, they rose up around the city in a way that she couldn’t ignore as just background scenery. It was beautiful and somehow eerily familiar.
“Reminds me of home,” Patrick said. “Does it no’?”
She froze the instant she found herself nodding in agreement. There was obviously something in the man’s voice that lulled her into a suspension of reality and bent her will to his way of thinking. How in the world was she supposed to know what his home looked like?
“This looks like a parking spot I can fit this boat into,” Robert said from the front seat. “We’ve made it, gang! I never know for sure with these old cars out of my dad’s collection.”
“Are you kidding?” Clint shook his head in disbelief and opened the car door to exit, reaching back to help Rosella out of the car. “She’s a Nash, right? Forties era. Nobody ever made them any roomier than this.”
“Forty-six,” Robert said, nodding. “One of my dad’s favorites in the collection. Handles pretty darn good, too, if I’m being honest.”
Patrick had exited the car and leaned in now, holding a hand out to assist Syrie. She hesitated for a moment, realizing it would look peculiar if she didn’t accept his help, since Rosella was sitting on the edge of her side, waiting for Clint and Robert to finish their discussion of the merits of older cars.
When she put her hand in his, that odd feeling returned, the one of familiarity and fit. Once out of the car, she couldn’t quite bring herself to withdraw her hand from his grasp. She’d looked up into his eyes and managed to start drifting in those endless blue pools when she heard her name, snapping her out of whatever daydream she’d fallen into.
“No, babe. I want to give Clint a tour through the Nash workings,” Robert said as he lifted the hood of the big car. “Syrie can help. And Rosella. The store isn’t more than a block or two. Clint and I will meet you there.”
Ellen sighed and handed one boxed layer of honey-filled jars to Rosella. She’d just reached in for her second layer when Patrick dropped Syrie’s hand and strode forward.
“I’ll carry that. Yers as well, Rosella, hand it over. There’s no point in any of you lugging these about when I’ve a perfectly strong back not in use.”
“You’re sure?” Ellen asked, looking more than a little skeptical of his offer. “You don’t want to stay here and pretend you’re a car expert, too?”
“Aye,” he answered. “I’m sure. Now, if the three of you will lead the way.”
He waited, the muscles in his arms straining against the soft blue cotton of the shirt he wore.
Syrie found herself drawn to walk next to him as their little group paraded down the street. Once they’d reached their destination, they were forced to make their way into the store single file, where Syrie’s senses were bombarded by what felt like a million different aromas.
“Like opening the door to the home of Orabilis,” Patrick muttered, looking much like a giant in a child’s room as he threaded his way delicately between stacks of dried flowers and elaborately colored boxes to deposit his burden on the counter at the back of the shop.
“A witch’s shop, indeed,” Syrie agreed, starting at what she’d just said.
Where had such a thought come from?
“Take yer time as you will,” Patrick said, backing away. “I believe I’ll bide my time outside the shop. I’m no’ so comfortable in such a close place with so many delicates just waiting for me to break them.”
Syrie thought a moment about joining him, but the wares in this little shop were far too enticing for her to leave without having a quick look around. Besides, Patrick was the last person in the world she wanted to be stranded on the sidewalk with, forced to make small talk while they waited.
She’d almost convinced herself of that, too, until she glanced out the window to see him talking with a lovely young woman outside. And not just talking. The woman had the nerve to place her fingers on his chest, and he, great brute that he was, didn’t even flinch. Not only did he not flinch, he placed his hand over hers, caressing it, as if having some strange woman touching you on the street was perfectly normal!
Unless she wasn’t a stranger.
Syrie turned toward the door, remembering at the last minute that she carried a scarf and some dried herbs she’d picked up for purchase. With a deep breath in and an equally great one out, she turned back toward the counter to pay for her treasures.
Giving him, and the lowborn wench who laid hands on him, a piece of her mind could surely wait until she’d made her purchase.
* * *
Patrick drew a deep draft of air into his lungs as he stepped from the shop, grateful to be out of the cramped, dark interior. It was certainly no place for a warrior. He moved clear of the door and stationed himself in front of the window so that he might keep an eye on the women he’d left inside. He doubted witches would be so open in this day and age as to harm them in any way. Nevertheless, one never said never when dealing with a witch or a Fae, and one of those, undoubtedly, owned the shop he’d just escaped.
Another deep breath to clean his nose of the myriad herb smells that had assaulted him inside, a
nd he began his survey of his surroundings. Young men and women in all states of dress, and undress, loitered along the sidewalk. Someone played upon small drums and another accompanied him on a pipe of some sort. Women, barefoot and wearing long, flowing skirts that might well have found a home in his own time, danced to the music, their arms upcast, their long hair flowing around them. This century’s incarnation of Tinklers, no doubt.
He watched with only minimal interest until one of the women, made her way toward him, twirling and gyrating until she was mere inches away from him.
“They know you’re here,” she said, the smile on her lips not reaching her eyes. “They’ll not allow you to succeed in your quest.”
He wasn’t foolish enough to waste precious time in denying any knowledge of what she said.
“Where are they?” he asked, his eyes darting to the crowds behind her. “Are they here now?”
The young woman twirled away and back again, still swaying to the rhythm of the music playing behind her.
“They are here, they are there, they are everywhere. They are relentless in their quest for power and their hearts are void of mercy. They will not hesitate to kill her. Or you. Or anyone else who gets in their way.”
At her warning, a verse his mother had often quoted to him flowed through his mind. He could hear her voice in his memory so clearly, it was as if she stood directly next to him. He joined his voice with hers in the words she spoke.
“The Fae can neither commit nor experience violence in the Mortal world.”
“Don’t be fooled by that old saying, warrior. They can be harmed if they are weakened. If their powers are fully engaged elsewhere, they are vulnerable. If all that makes them who they are has been stripped from them, they wouldn’t be strong enough to protect themselves. It would be as if they were Mortal. And though a Fae cannot commit violence in this world, they don’t need to. There are a multitude of Mortals, their minds weakened by greed and their own desire for power. These minds the Fae can easily control, as a child might control the movements of his toys. Through them, the Fae can accomplish whatever they wish.”
Anywhere in Time (Magic of Time Book 2) Page 10
