He closed his eyes a moment and willed the strength to understand. “What do you mean, the anti-Dymynsh?”
Her hand lay on his arm, insistent, disturbing, too warm.
“Just that. Everything I touch grows.” The worry in her eyes deepened. “The day I came here, Mara commented on the ill health of her plants. I said something, I don’t know, about how I wished they’d grow for her. When we returned from the market, the plants were in perfect health.”
He didn’t want to hear this. He did not want to know she was changing the planet.
“Perhaps it was something else,” he ventured.
“No. I tried an experiment to see if it was me or not. I took two plants and told one to grow and one to die.”
“And?” He dreaded the answer.
“The second died.”
Shades! Couldn’t the woman be like other females? He pinched the bridge of his nose where an ache spread upward.
“Does anyone know of this?” he asked in despair.
“How many secrets do you think I can keep? Without tearing Mara’s garden apart, it’s obvious something is happening here that isn’t in the rest of the village. So far, I’ve used the others’ ignorance of Earth to say I have special growing methods.” Jane leaned closer to him, her face distraught. “But I’m starting to get requests for help. How can I say no?”
She couldn’t, and he wouldn’t want her to. Not with the way the Dymynsh reduced the food supplies.
“Can you control it?” he asked.
Jane shook her head. “I’ve tried. The plants act like puppies, overeager to please me. I can’t turn them off.”
She sagged against him, dispirited and exhausted. Somehow his arm slipped around her waist to support her. She felt incredible, right, fitting to his side like she belonged. Charlie’s heart raced and his breathing came hard. A low vibration started in his wings, tingling and evocative.
He held her for long moments, wondering how to remove himself gracefully from the situation. It wasn’t worth getting involved with her. She would be out of his life one way or another in a few days. Never mind that her breath warmed the side of his neck and stirred his senses. Forget the clean, apple scent of her hair, and her breasts almost exposed to his view. And her hand against the flat of his stomach, creeping upward. It wasn’t going to happen. Not tonight. He thrust himself away from her and stood.
“We should talk about this in the morning,” he said, pushing his fingers through his hair in agitation. “We’ll ask Hugh and Mara’s advice.”
Jane looked disheartened. He hoped it was because he didn’t have an answer for her, not because of her failed seduction.
She stood, brushing specks off her body-hugging shift. Charlie glanced away and thought of cold streams and winter nights and ugly women.
“Are you coming up to the loft?” she asked.
“No,” he said quickly, his throat dry. The shirt on his back rippled from the movement of his wings. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
To his great relief, she nodded and moved away, disappearing into the cottage.
Charlie watched the light from her window come on, then fade. He waited until he felt sure she’d fallen asleep. He waited some more, until Slumber reached its zenith. Then, with the stealth of the best thief, he followed her.
At his bedside, he hesitated, listening. Hearing nothing, he took off his shoes and stockings. Then, in a nightly ritual he both dreaded and anticipated, he removed his shirt and spread his wings.
Oh, to not have the appendages. To be a normal elf, with the sameness of others. No one else he knew had both elven and fairy features. Countless times since his adolescence he’d wished his wings gone. But how good it felt to stretch them, to free them from concealment and release them from constraint.
A slight shuffling noise froze his movements.
“Charlie?”
He spun to see Jane standing by the curtain separating their rooms.
“Jane? Did I disturb you?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said softly.
Charlie flexed his back muscles. His wings started to fold.
“No, don’t.” She took a step into the room, releasing the curtain.
He feigned ignorance. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t hide your wings. They’re nothing to be ashamed of.”
He hesitated. It was rare to remain exposed like this. Only at night did he allow himself freedom.
“You say that only to make me feel more at ease,” he said angrily, reaching for his shirt. Twice now she’d caught him off guard. He didn’t like the loss of control he experienced around her. “And ease is—”
“No, don’t,” she cried, stepping farther into the room. She grabbed the bunched fabric from his hands. “I say it to make you feel uneasy.” She inched closer. He felt the heat from her body. “Charlie, your wings turn me on.”
Her phrasing might have been foreign, but not her intent. He couldn’t look at her without his gaze straying to the fabric pulled tight against her breasts, outlining her nipples. The moons’ light washed over her and illuminated her lithe figure, glinted on her lips, wet and dewy and ripe.
Charlie backed away.
“I don’t know that expression.” Safety in retreat, he decided.
“How do you feel at this moment?” she asked. “Hot? Bothered? Uncomfortable?” She closed in on him with the intensity of a predator.
“Insane,” he admitted. He took another step back. “You shouldn’t be here.” It was insane what she was doing, the surge of emotions she caused in him.
“ ‘Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain’? Nope. Sorry. I don’t think so. Can you deny your attraction to me?”
She’d backed him against the wall. He had no place to go.
“You said something once about interspecies breeding. Want to give it a try, Charlie?”
She bumped her hip against his. All the breath rushed from him in a whoosh. He’d never felt so many temperatures racing around in his body.
“I think at the time you mentioned a choke hold—”
“Klingon. They have some interesting mating rituals of their own.” She bumped him again and laughed as he jumped out of the way.
“Shhh,” he said. “The others will hear you.” All he needed was an audience to intensify his humiliation.
“I have it on good authority that they’re sound sleepers.” She tossed her head, exposing a long line of flesh from her jaw to the tips of her breasts.
“Jane,” he warned. “This isn’t a good idea.”
Her fingers glided up the wall of his bare chest. He caught her hand, his grip stronger than his crumbling resolve.
“Jane, I mean it.”
“So do I.” She tilted her face upward, her lips open and inviting. “Kiss me, Charlie.”
He laid a finger against her mouth, intending only to stop the next flow of words. As it rested against her firm, luscious lower lip, her hand snaked behind him. He felt the sensation a moment before she touched his wings, caressing the delicate, sensitive band that joined them to his back.
Explosions shook him, convulsing from the spot in divergent waves. His body trembled in her arms.
“Cool,” she whispered, her tongue at the corner of his mouth, seeking entrance.
Cool? No, hot. Melting. Sizzling.
She moved her hand and rolled it across the rim of his left wing. His knees buckled at the force of his response.
It didn’t matter what she’d done or where she’d come from, he decided. He wanted release—to hold her, to breathe her scent and watch her animated face while he made love to her.
He had only so much willpower. She’d shredded his restraint bit by bit over the past two hours. I’ll regret this, I know I will.
With a groan of surrender, he lowered his mouth to hers.
Chapter Eleven
“Oh, Charlie,” Jane sighed. “You are a live wire, aren’t you?” She moved against him, grateful his natural r
eserve wasn’t from inexperience. She’d practically had to hit him, caveman style, to implement phase one of his seduction.
A tough nut to crack. She threw her head back and chuckled at the double entendre.
“What?” He looked up from the newly exposed distraction of her throat.
“Nothing. Don’t let me stop you.” Placing both hands on the sides of his head, she guided his kisses lower and lower. She gasped when he used his teeth to nudge aside her chemise and capture a nipple in his mouth.
“Don’t tear the fabric,” she warned, not caring whether he did or not. White spots danced in front of her, and her lungs must have collapsed because there wasn’t room in them for air.
“I’ll get you another,” he growled.
Riiight, like there’s a Victoria’s Secret around the—
Jane stifled a cry of surprise as he swung her into his arms. He strode to his bed and sank into it with her. It gave a traitorous squeak at their combined weight.
“We’re going to have to take care of that in the morning,” she observed. “A little WD-40—”
“Be quiet,” he said and kissed her, his mouth hard and demanding, his hands moving across her.
“I can be very quiet,” she whispered, assuring him that their lovemaking wouldn’t be loud.
He grinned. “I wondered.”
“Brat.” She tugged gently on a lock of his hair.
In response, he flipped her onto her back and stretched himself on top of her. All the right body parts aligned with precision. She gasped as he ground his hardness against her. Two layers of fabric separated them, but she felt his heat and wanted to quench it with her moistness.
His wings haloed behind him in the moonlight, spread full in their grandeur, a host of contradictions. Transparent, but blue-green in color. Whole, yet segmented. Clear, but with whorls of watercolor design. Like liquid stained glass or a window made of seawater.
Remembering his earlier reaction, Jane stretched her hand toward their beauty. Charlie, intent on freeing her other breast, shuddered at her touch.
“Shades!” He labored for breath. “You don’t know what that does to me.”
Oh, she had a good idea. A new and unexplored erogenous zone. She smiled at the challenge and power she controlled.
“Do they get in the way when you sleep?” she asked, curious as to the logistics of making love to a man with wings.
“Does your leg get in the way? Or your breast?” He cupped the latter in his hand, a perfect fit. She moaned as his fingers played with her nipple.
“Make love to me, Charlie,” she whispered, anxious, heated and needy.
His eyes darkened with full-blown elven lust. “With pleasure.” He kissed her, a long, slow invasion. His fingers stopped tinkering with the fabric around her breast and descended to more explosive uses.
“Sweet heaven,” she breathed against his mouth. “You are a wonder.” Damn, she might not need the edible lotion she’d retrieved from her cartons. On the other hand—
Be ye aware. Danger.
What the hell? “Muttle, your timing is way off,” Jane growled, angry with the Belwaith. For the past week, she’d seen little of him but was aware he patrolled the perimeter of the cottage. Now was not the time to renew acquaintances. Three’s a crowd, she added emphatically. Take care of it yourself. You’re always flashing those knives of yours around.
Charlie lifted his head from her breast. “What’s wrong?” he murmured.
“Nothing.” She pushed him back to his interrupted task. “Don’t stop.”
I come. Danger. Now. Flee.
Charlie stilled. “I heard that.” He dragged her with him into a sitting position. In a split second, his manner had changed, become alert and intent.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Get dressed.”
Dressed? Not by a long shot. She hadn’t spent all this time seducing him to let some demented Jiminy Cricket stop her.
Then she heard it. A shout from outside, angry and loud. Muttle’s cry of pain. A whooshing sound.
“Get down,” Charlie yelled.
Glass shattered. An explosion hurled Jane through the air. The roar of fire obliterated other noises. Charlie slammed into her as they hit the far wall. Intense heat spiked into the room. Screams filled the air.
“Charlie!” she cried.
What in the hell had happened? She reached for him, confused, afraid he’d been hurt. Orange flames licked across the ceiling, originating from her side of the loft. Acrid smoke burned her lungs and stung her eyes.
“Charlie!” she shouted again. “Are you okay?”
“Here.” She felt his hand on her leg. They lay in a heap, but not the type of tangled limbs she’d planned earlier.
“What happened?” she asked, her throat raw.
“I don’t know.” He coughed. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You’ve got my vote, elf-man.” She freed herself, rolling away, keeping low.
His hand at her back, he guided her toward the ladder. Smoke rolled over them, hot and reeking. Fire spurted from her room, the curtain aflame.
She found the ladder and blindly edged down, feeling Charlie’s presence a step above. Six rungs from the top, strong hands grasped her waist and swung her to the floor.
She screeched and lashed out, connecting solidly with bone and muscle. The bomber—she was convinced it was a bomb thrown through her bedroom window—must have entered the house to finish them off. But why? And who?
“Hold, hold,” Hugh said in her ear, his arms tight around her to keep her from flailing at him. “ ’Tis Hugh. Follow me.”
“Hugh.” She relaxed. “Charlie’s behind me.” She felt disoriented. Smoke billowed from above, choking, burning her eyes and throat, her lungs tight, spastic. The corner of the house—her room—crackled in fiery anger.
“Come then.” He released her.
Charlie dropped down. They fought through the smoke to the front door. Jane stumbled to the grass outside, overcome with the potency of the clear night air.
“Jane, are you well?” Charlie stood over her, his hand on her elbow, righting her.
Dazed, she nodded weakly.
“Stay well,” he commanded. Cupping her face, he kissed her hard on the mouth, then stepped back.
Before she could say a word, he spun around, shouting orders to the emerging villagers, organizing a detail of men to put out the fire. His wings, not burnt from what she could see in the moonlight, did not fold tightly to his back. Neither did he have them fully extended. Instead, in a half-mast position, they proclaimed to her, and she hoped to others, that he was Fairy. Pride caught in her throat.
Standing in the darkness, watching Charlie work to save the house he shared with Hugh, tiny details sank into Jane’s mind like coins into a slot machine. The crackle of flame as it pushed through the roof from the inside. The thatch catching as dry tinder, the fire racing across the top of the house. Villagers were pulled from their beds, reacting to the terror that this could spread to their own dwellings. Night air, warm and light, slid across her body, some of which shouldn’t have been exposed to its touch. She’d forgotten her state of dress, or undress. She hastened to rearrange her clothes.
“Jane!”
She turned to see Mara rushing toward her, pulling a light blanket off her shoulders when she saw Jane’s semi-nakedness.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked.
Jane dismissed the question. Time and a long bath would restore her to normal, but the cottage . . .
“Oh, your poor house,” she said, laying a hand on Mara’s arm. “What happened?”
Mara shook her head. “I don’t know. I woke at the sound of the explosion. Hugh pushed me out the door and went back to help you and Charlie.” Near tears, she watched the flames eat at her home.
Jane stood next to her, helpless. The men brought water from neighboring cottages, passing it bucket brigade-style to others perched dangerously on ladder
s near the fire. To her eyes, it looked like a losing battle. The cottage would be ruined, and there wouldn’t be any State Farm agent writing a check for its replacement.
A snuffling sound tore her attention from the destruction. Mara twisted away, her body shaking with tears.
“I can’t look anymore,” she sobbed.
Several of the women moved to comfort her.
Jane cursed under her breath. It wasn’t fair. The whole planet, or world, or whatever one called Lowth, was not fair.
She scanned the night sky for a wisp of cloud. “If only it would rain,” she said, hoping for a miracle.
“Tis the wrong season,” Mara sniffed. “Hugh says it won’t rain for days—”
A flash of lightning cut off her words, followed immediately by a crack of thunder. The women around them looked at Jane. Two stepped back. In the next instant, a deluge poured from the sky.
God in heaven, what is happening? Jane stared in astonishment at the sudden change in the elements. A cold fear replaced her anger as she acknowledged that her remark had triggered the storm.
A storm without wind. Rain drove straight down without variance. Jane flexed her hand and tried to bend it with a flick of her fingers. No response. Mind control came next as she attempted to harness whatever force created the downpour. Again, no response.
Was she wrong in her assumption? She felt no different. Nothing magical coursed through her body. Her eyes didn’t glow and sparks didn’t shoot from her fingertips. She didn’t own a mystical amulet that pulsed around her neck. None of the talismans common in the fantasy fiction she’d read applied. Yet she knew she’d caused the storm.
What was she supposed to do with this information? How could she control it? Worse yet, what affect would the knowledge have on her trial?
The flames sizzled and disappeared, replaced briefly by puffs of smoke. Still the rain came down, drenching the blanket she held around her, seeping through its thickness to the thin cotton of her chemise.
Jane lifted her face to the sky.
“Enough already,” she said, at this point not caring who heard her. The damage had been done.
What Do You Say to a Naked Elf? Page 9
