She looks up at me with those pulsating green eyes as lush as the forest that surrounds us, and it happens again. This undeniable magnetic pull as if I’m made of steel, and I can’t help but be drawn straight toward her, connecting to her in some deep way I can’t explain.
“I think I’m murdering this thing. Why don’t you play me something?” she says, holding up the instrument.
She plays better than she knows or wants to admit, but since we have time to kill, it seems like a good way to pass it. I take the dulcimer from her and adjust the tuning pegs while thinking of a good ditty. Ah, yeah. I remember a folk song from the area where I’d been told the instrument was originally crafted and start playing.
A jaunty sort of reel, I only recall the main chorus of it, so just repeat the refrain a few times and then strike a major chord to end off. I glance at Savannah to find her gaze flicking from the instrument to my face and back again, her glistening lips open in astonishment. I have to avert my gaze before I start thinking of a good place to put that mouth. For one indulgent moment, I imagine fisting my hands in her thick hair and yanking her head down in my lap.
“That sounds like bluegrass,” she says. “Does it have a title?”
“Whisky Afore Breakfast, I think it is.” I hand the dulcimer back to her. “Heard it at a county ceilidh once.”
“A kay-lee?” she repeats phonetically. “What’s that?”
“Usually just an excuse to party,” I explain. “The word itself means a ‘gatherin’, or a get-together.”
“And you only heard the song once? And then played it that well from memory?” Her brow wrinkles in apparent disbelief. “That’s amazing.”
I shrug, uncomfortable under the weight of the compliment and rise from the chair, the aroma of the warming stew reaching my nostrils. Most women only comment on the size of my cock or the strength of my leadership. This is the first time I’ve ever received feminine approval of my musical talent outside of Caris and my ma, God bless her soul.
“Since yer declined the whiskey, how about a spot of stew to take the chill off? Not good at cookin’ much else, but ‘tis hearty and healthy. Yer must be hungry. Me, I’d eat the arse off a nun through a church fence right now.”
I immediately regret my choice of phrase at the transformation of her expression from fascinated to feck off. “Uh, never mind that last bit. Just a local sayin’. Do yer fancy a bowl?”
Savannah casts a hopeful gaze toward the window. She rubs her arms to ward off the chill. “Doesn’t look good out there, does it?”
“It surely doesn’t,” I say, and set the dulcimer aside before tossing another log on the fire. “I’m sorry about yer predicament. ‘Tis a right mess.”
“You can’t apologize for the weather.” She sighs and turns her eyes back to me. “That stew smells good.”
I smile for what I think is the first time since we met. For the first time in my life, I’m glad my teeth aren’t rotted out of my head like some of our local folk. Vanity’s never proven an issue for me until I met the uppity Savannah Starr.
“Comin’ right up.” I reach over to pull the patterned wool blanket off the back of my chair and drape it over her lap. “There, that’s the ticket.” I fill two bowls and bring them back to our place by the fire. “Here yer go,” I say, handing her a bowl and spoon.
“What’s in it?” she asks, muddling her spoon about.
“Venison mostly.” I wisely opt to keep the other meat ingredients to myself. A townie would sneeze at rabbit, but they’re downright tasty. “Potatoes, carrots. The usual.” I watch her dip her spoon for an experimental taste. She seems to analyze the composition for a moment, then swallows it down.
“Thank you,” she says with a dainty lick of her doll-perfect lips. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I think I would eat this through a fence too. But you can keep the part about a nun’s ass. It’s really good.”
I accept the compliment in silence, my gaze lingering longer on those red lips than necessary. Her swanlike throat takes a swallow, and that makes the lust hit me even worse. To distract myself, I add some kindling to start a fire in the stone hearth, and finish my portion before chancing another look at her. She stares into the flames as though in a trance. I can tell the poor chit is exhausted. I take her empty bowl from her lap and stack it with mine.
“Mel’s probably worried sick about me,” she says quietly. “I’ve never missed a concert. I hope he’s safe.”
“We’ll find him in the mornin’,” I assure her, hoping against hope that we find him alive.
“Morning?” she asks, turning her head slightly. “I can’t stay here until morning.”
I wave at the window. “Aye, yer can. Yer ‘av to. Nothin’ for it now.”
She draws in a massive and tired breath. “Could you play some more?” she asks, drawing the blanket around herself.
I pick up the dulcimer and pluck out a tune of my own I’ve been working on. Still needs polishing, but I try a few variations on the melody as I go. I play everything by ear, never taking a lesson or learning to read or score notes. Not that Ma and Da could have afforded such luxuries as music lessons. We all just came by our musical talent naturally, my family. It always seems to me that nature has its own way of teaching a body whatever it needs to know, and as the years pass by, I choose to follow a natural path in every part of my life, not just my music. Not everyone in these parts agrees with me, but here in Wintervale, I’m surrounded by an inner circle of friends and family who support my decisions and ambitions.
Who don’t ever question my simple way of life. Well…usually.
I jar from my thoughts to realize I’ve been playing for quite some time. I look over at my unusual house guest to find her fast asleep in the wide armchair, bundled in my old blanket. I regret not offering her the loft above the bedroom for the night, but now it looks like I might have to carry her up there. Better I take the loft and put her in my own bed on the main floor. Having her in my arms again is a temptation I don’t need.
For all my good intentions, something tells me that bringing this stranger here is a big mistake. Like a fish in a bog, she just doesn’t fit, and it makes me nervous. She doesn’t belong here, and the sooner she’s on her way, the better.
Chapter Five
Savannah
A maelstrom of snow and ice swirls around us. All I can focus on are the pair of piercing eyes that bore into me, glowing blue jewels that search every corner of my doomed soul and unlock the secret feelings that dwell there. I can no more hide from him than from my own consciousness. I stumble and fall, hitting the snow on all fours.
The layers of fur that cover my stalker’s body make him appear larger than life, overpowering me with his physical presence, condemning me for my sins and false beliefs. I want to apologize, beg for his forgiveness and his acceptance. I cower and hide my face.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
I hear the ripping of my lacy panties as they’re torn from my body. Peeking over my shoulder, my eyes widen. He takes his massive cock in his hand and pumps it once. I shiver with a combination of fear and anticipation, not understanding how I’m possibly going to accept that monster inside my petite body. Looking at it, pointing straight up toward the sky, an unbidden wetness pools in my pussy, preparing me as if my body already knows what my mind refuses to accept.
He bends low, enveloping me in the warmth of his shaggy coat and pressing me down further into the cold depths of the white blanket of snow.
“I canna hurt yer,” his soothing voice says. “For we are one and the same. Two halves of the same world, light and dark. One can’t exist without the other.”
A strangled gasp of pleasure escapes from my mouth as he impales me.
My eyes snap open, banishing the howling wind and rumbling thunder of that voice back into the recesses of my dream. My hair feels coiled around my neck in a sweat-soaked tentacle, and my heart thuds a rapid staccato as I suck in a desperate breath.
; Just a dream.
It’s not real, so get a hold of yourself, Savie.
I blink and rub my eyes, my brain swimming in the aftermath of the frightening dream. Where am I? Pale daylight fills the space, and the scent of wood smoke teases my nostrils. Above me soar rough-hewn wooden rafters that support what looks like thatches of long grass. What the hell?
I sit up in a rush of blankets and panic, a patchwork quilt falling away as I do. I glance around, finding myself in an unfamiliar iron bed frame set beneath a frosty window. A wooden ladder built into one corner leads upward to a platform above. Memory kicks in, and I realize I’m in Ronan’s cottage but have no recollection of how I came to be in this bed—or whether I’ve slept in it alone. My clit throbs with lust and frustration after the strength of my dream. Was it really a dream after all?
I push away the quilt to reveal the same sequined tunic and leggings from yesterday, wrinkled and twisted from having slept in them all night. I feel grubby, disheveled, and completely disoriented. I want a bath in the worst way, but I don’t recall seeing a tub in the dwelling’s small bathroom. If we’d just have made that damn ferry, I’d be surrounded in five-star hotel luxury right now. Instead, I lay tangled up in lumpy, homespun linens wearing two-day old clothes and rubbed-off makeup. I would never be seen in public like this.
I shudder at the realization that I’ve already been seen this way for quite some time, by a shaggy stranger I had no business following into this cottage. I cringe in embarrassment at the events of yesterday. What was I thinking even opening the bus door to this woolly mammoth of a man? I’d been so frightened, I’d taken leave of my senses. And where is my Bigfoot rescuer now? I don’t hear any movement other than my own as I get up and cross the polished floorboards of the modest bedroom, suddenly finding its Spartan tidiness oddly appealing. For a minute, I feel like I’m back at summer camp in the Poconos.
The warm memory fades as I glance out the window. The world has died a white death in this country, everything covered in a thick blanket of snow. At least it’s no longer falling, a fact for which I send up a prayer of gratitude. I can flee the scene of this sexual fantasy before I go and do something crazy, like throw myself at a man I’ve known less than twenty-four hours and beg him to take me.
Rockstar status notwithstanding, I’ve never been one to sleep around in spite of massive opportunity. Now, at least I can head into town and find Mel. My heart rate accelerates wondering what the poor man must be thinking. Probably that I’ve been kidnapped or wandered off and died in a snowbank. But if he read my note…
An eerie scraping sound interrupts my thoughts. I shiver, grab my ruined boots from the front door and make my way toward the great black wood stove and the warmth that emanates from it. The noise comes again, and again, in a slow, slogging rhythm. Someone is shoveling, and I don’t need to guess who it is. An image flitters into my mind of a hulking beast of a man with cord upon cord of chiseled muscle, cutting a path through a solid pile of snow. Another flood of wetness pools between my legs. Dammit.
Next to the chairs by the fireplace lays the intriguing instrument we played the night before. Now that it’s daytime, I notice other things I didn’t see last night—a guitar propped on a homemade stand in the corner, and a violin on top of an old steamer-type trunk. On the mantel are several small woodwind flutes, and in yet another corner sits the most stunning instrument of all. An Irish harp with an exquisite black ebony frame and intricate gold filigree along the head.
That thing must be worth a fortune.
It’s so beautiful I can’t believe I’ve missed it until now. Probably because Ronan seems to infiltrate my head and lungs, stealing my sense and every last ounce of oxygen from the room. My fingers itch to touch it, but I wouldn’t do so without permission. My God, does Ronan play all of these? The man possesses some serious talent. I discover a hot pot of tea on the stove and some cups laid out on the table. I’d murder for a tall caramel macchiato, but since tea is so readily offered, I pour myself a cup.
The hot dark liquid warms me, and the distinctive aroma of bergamot infuses the pleasant steam rising from the mug. I sit down at the table and sip as I look around the small kitchen containing a collection of unfitted period pieces of differing styles and finishes. A rough-hewn sideboard and hutch along with a wrought-iron baker’s rack that holds bundles of what appears to be yesterday’s forage of flora hung up to dry. Who is this guy, some kind of Irish medicine man?
That thought makes me uneasy, and I wonder how long it will take to get to town when the door opens and Ronan’s shaggy bulk steps in along with wisps of snow that blow in over the sill. He looks even larger than I remember, and my eyes travel the imposing stature of his body, starting at his booted feet all the way up to the massive shoulders draped in the long locks of his dark brown hair. I’m reminded of John Snow.
He turns to face me, and all of a sudden, I’m struck dumb by the intense cobalt blue of his eyes. Why hadn’t I noticed their hypnotic allure yesterday instead of just their unique color? I suppose I was so worked up and frustrated and terrified that I’d been oblivious to everything else. Not anymore. Not after last night’s fantasy has come to life. Now, I’m hyper-aware of everything concerning Ronan, and I just want to get the hell away from him before my long neglected hooha wakes up anymore from its long winter’s nap.
“Well. Good mornin’ to yer,” he says, matching my gaze. “Does yer itinerary allow for a spot of breakfast, or are we shovin’ off straight away?”
I set down my cup, unable to wrest my eyes from his. There’s something weirdly hypnotic about that stare. Somehow, I find my voice, and it comes out gritty and raspy, like I’m moaning his name right before the ecstasy of orgasm rips through me.
“I’ve put you to enough trouble. I don’t need any breakfast, thank you, but…I’d really like to have a bath or shower, if there is one?”
“Aye, there is.”
He shrugs off his furry coat and hangs it on a peg by the door. Underneath, I’m stunned to see that he’s dressed in quite normal attire this morning—a plain navy sweatshirt and jeans. I can’t help but notice the bulges of muscle beneath the material. Some impressive pecs fill out the puffy shirt, and the denim of his pants strain against solid, powerful thighs. He must get a lot of exercise living out here in the wilderness. All that wood chopping and animal hunting.
And fucking.
I shake my head, eradicating the image of what’s underneath his simple clothing.
“It’ll take time to get the shower ready.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering what that means.
Does he need to gather up the dirty underwear he left hanging on the shower rod or something? I wonder if he even wears underwear at all. I watch in interest as he strides over to the big black stove and opens a hinged lid on the far end of it. Steam rises from the opening, and he reaches down to grasp a spouted bucket from the floor and dips it inside.
I watch him curiously. “What’s that for?”
He spears me with that cerulean gaze again, as if I’d ask why the sky today is the same color as his eyes.
“Yer not fancy a shower with cold water, would yer now?”
Without waiting for an answer, he lifts the pail and carries it to the back door. Oh, shit. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t asked about a shower. In a minute, he returns for a second bucket.
Curiosity crawls like ants beneath my skin. “What are you doing out there?”
“Listen, in case yer not be noticin’, yer not at the Hilton today, woman.” He lifts the filled bucket and looks at me, waiting. “If ‘tis a shower yer be wantin’, grab a towel and follow me.”
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. The shower is…outside? And no hot running water? How can that possibly work?
I return a haughty glare of disbelief, then stalk—as much as one can stalk with a broken heel—to the indoor bathroom for a towel. You asked for it, kiddo. I follow him out the door and around the side of the cottage, my feet tram
ping awkwardly through the fresh snow. Damn, I didn’t put on my coat, and the frozen air knocks me for a loop. Even though it’s warmer outside and the snow is starting to melt, I can still see my damn breath.
There, wedged between the house and the horse shed is a sort of cabana with wooden sides and a curtained doorway. I gape in horror as Ronan empties his steaming bucket into a tank next to the structure, anchored to the wall of the house at about shoulder height.
“No running water?” I know my voice is flat with disappointment and disbelief. Even though I want to contain my true feelings, I just can’t. He’s been nothing but hospitable, and I’ve been nothing but a pain in his ass. But showering outside? In winter? It’s just not to be born.
He finishes filling the tank and rounds on me, his electric blue eyes narrowed in an expression of something between anger and exasperation. “Out here? Are yer serious? Look ‘round, woman.” With a snort and shake of his head, he parts the curtain to show me the inside. “See there, just pull the chain when yer want the water, but not too much at a time, mind. There’s only so much in the tank.”
I shiver and venture closer, wondering if there’s even soap available. “Why do you live like this?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. I don’t mean to insult his lifestyle, but aren’t we in the twenty-first century?
Ronan releases the curtain and straightens to his full height, looming over me. I stare at his lips, pressed into a thin line. I want them to soften. I want him to soften. More than anything, I want him to scoop me up and—
“’Tis up to yer if yer want the shower or not,” he says calmly. Too calmly. I sense a storm building up, and not the kind that erupts from the sky. “I choose the way I live, just as yer choose yers. My way is real, ‘tis natural. It honors the earth. Yer don’t ‘av to like it. But as long as yer here, I demand yer be respectin’ it.”
Solstice Song (Pagan Passion Book 1) Page 5
