She wanted to move closer, to study the face, but it seemed rude. Instead she walked toward the back and found Liam in a small, tidy kitchen with a kettle already on the boil and lovely china cups of sunny yellow set out.
"I wasn't sure I'd find you," she began, then lost the rest of her thought as he turned from the stove, as those intense eyes locked on hers.
"Weren't you?"
"No, I hoped I would, but- I wasn't sure." Nerves reared up and grabbed her by the throat. "I made some cookies. I brought you some to thank you for helping me out last night."
He smiled a little and poured boiling water into a yellow pot. "What kind?" he asked. Though he knew. He'd smelled them, and her before she'd stepped out of the woods.
"Chocolate chip." She managed a smile of her own. "Is there another kind?" She busied her hands by opening the container. "They're pretty good. I've eaten two dozen at least already."
"Then sit. You can wash them back with tea. You'll have gotten chilled wandering about. The wind's brisk today."
"I suppose." She sat at the little kitchen table, just big enough for two. "I don't even know how long I've been out," she began, shoving at her tangled hair as he brought the pot to the table. "I was distracted by-" She broke off as he skimmed his thumb over her cheek.
"You've scratched your face." He said it softly as the tiny drop of blood lay warm and intimate on his thumb.
"Oh, I- got tangled up. Some thorns." She was lost in his eyes, could have drown in them. Wanted to. "Liam."
He touched her face again, took away the sting she was too befuddled to notice. "You were distracted," he said, shifting back, then sitting across from her. "When you were in the forest."
"Ah- yes. By the white doe."
He lifted a brow as he poured out the tea. "A white deer? Were you on a quest, Rowan?"
She smiled self-consciously. "The white deer, or bird, or horse. The traditional symbol of quest in literature. I suppose I was on a mild sort of quest, to find you. But I did see her."
"I don't doubt it," he said mildly. His mother enjoyed traditional symbols.
"Have you?"
"Yes." He lifted his tea. "Though it's been some time."
"She's beautiful, isn't she?"
"Aye, that she is. Warm yourself, Rowan. You've bird bones and you'll take a chill."
"I grew up in San Francisco. I'm used to chills.
Anyway, I saw her, and couldn't stop myself from following her. I ended up in this clearing, with a stone circle."
His eyes sharpened, glinted. "She led you there?"
"I suppose you could put it that way. You know the place? I never expected to find something like it here. You think of Ireland or Britain, Wales or Cornwall-not Oregon-when you think of stone dances."
"You find them where they're wanted. Or needed. Did you go in?"
"No. It's silly, but it spooked me a little, so I went around. And got completely lost."
He knew he should have felt relieved, but instead there was a vague sense of disappointment. But of course, he reminded himself, he'd have known if she'd stepped inside. Instantly. "Hardly lost since you're here."
"It seemed like I was lost. The path disappeared and I couldn't get my sense of direction. I probably have a poor one anyway. The tea's wonderful," she commented. It was warm and strong and smooth, with something lovely and sweet just under it.
"An old family blend," he said with a hint of a smile, then sampled one of her cookies. "They're good. So you cook, do you, Rowan?"
"I do, but the results are hit and miss." All of her early-morning cheer was back and bubbling in her voice. "This morning, I hit. I like your house. It's like something out of a book, standing here with its back to the cliffs and sea and the stones glittering in the sunlight."
"It does for me. For now."
"And the views-" She rose to go to the window over the sink, and caught her breath at the sight of the cliffs. "Spectacular. It must be spellbinding during a storm like the one we had last night."
Spellbinding, he thought, knowing his father's habit of manipulating the weather for his needs, was exactly what the storm had been. "And did you sleep well?"
She felt the heat rise up her throat. She could hardly tell him she'd dreamed he'd made love to her. "I don't remember ever sleeping better."
He laughed, rose. "It's flattering." He watched her shoulders draw in. "To know my company relaxed you."
"Hmm." Struggling to shake off the feeling that he knew exactly where her mind had wandered, she started to turn. She noticed the open door and the little room beyond where he'd left a light burning on a desk, and a sleek black computer running.
"Is that your office?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"I've interrupted your work, then."
"It's not pressing." He shook his head. "Why don't you ask if you want to see?"
"I do," she admitted. "If it's all right."
In answer he simply gestured and waited for her to step into the room ahead of him.
The room was small, but the window was wide enough to let in that stunning view of the cliffs. She wondered how anyone could concentrate on work with that to dream on. Then laughed when she saw what was on the monitor screen.
"So you were playing games? I know this one. My students were wild for it. 'The Secrets Of Myor.'"
"Don't you play games?"
"I'm terrible at them. Especially this kind because I tend to get wrapped up in them, and then every step is so vital. I can't take the pressure." Laughing again, she leaned closer, studying the screen with its lightning-stalked castle and glowing faeries. "I've only gotten to the third level where Brinda the witch queen promises to open the Door Of Enchantment if you can find the three stones. I usually find one, then fall into The Pit Of Forever."
"There are always traps on the way to enchantment. Or there wouldn't be pleasure in finding it. Do you want to try again?"
"No, my palms get damp and my fingers fumble. It's humiliating."
"Some games you take seriously, some you don't."
"They're all serious to me." She glanced at the CD jacket, admiring the illustration, then blinked at the small lettering: Copyright By The Donovan Legacy. "It's your game?" Delighted, she straightened, turned. "You create computer games? That's so clever."
"It's entertaining."
"To someone who's barely stumbled their way onto the internet, it's genius. Myor's a wonderful story. The graphics are gorgeous, but I really admire the story itself. It's just magical. A challenging fairy tale with rewards and consequences."
Her eyes took on tiny silver flecks of light when she was happy, he noted. And the scent of her warmed with her mood. He knew how to make it warm still more, and how to cause those silver flecks to drown in deep, dark blue.
"All fairy tales have both. I like your hair this way." He stepped closer, skimmed his fingers through it, testing weight and texture. "Tumbled and tangled."
Her throat snapped closed. "I forgot to braid it this morning."
"The wind's had it," he murmured, lifting a handful to his face. "I can smell the wind on it, and the sea." It was reckless, he knew, but he had dreamed as well. And he remembered every rise and fall. "I'd taste both on your skin."
Her knees had jellied. The blood was swimming so fast in her veins that she could hear the roar of it in her head. She couldn't move, could barely breathe. So only stood, staring into his eyes, waiting.
"Rowan Murray with the faerie eyes. Do you want me to touch you." He laid a hand on her heart, felt each separate hammer blow pound between the gentle curves of her breasts. "Like this." Then spread his fingers, circled them over one slope, under.
Her bones dissolved, her eyes clouded, and the breath shuddered between her lips in a yielding sigh. His fingers lay lightly on her, but the heat from them seemed to scorch through to flesh. Still she moved neither toward him nor away.
"You've only to say no," he murmured. "When I ask if you want me to taste you."
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But her head fell back, those clouded eyes closed when he lowered his head to graze his teeth along her jawline. "The sea and the wind, and innocence as well." His own needs thickened his voice, but there was an edge on it. "Will you give me that as well, do nothing to stop me taking it?" He eased back, waiting, willing her eyes to open and look into his. "If I kissed you now, Rowan, what might happen?"
Her lips trembled apart as memory of a question once asked in dreams and never answered struggled to surface. Then his mouth was on hers, and every thought willingly died. Lights, a wild swirl of them behind the eyes. Heat, a hot gush of it in the belly. The first sound she made was a whimper that might have been fear, but the next was a moan that was unmistakably pleasure.
He was more gentle than she'd expected, perhaps more than he'd intended. His lips skimmed, sipped, nipped and nuzzled until hers went pillow soft and warm under them. She swayed against him in surrender, and request.
Oh, yes, I want this. Just this.
A shiver coursed through her as his hand circled the back of her neck, as he urged her head back, took the kiss deeper with a tangle of tongues and tastes, a mingle of breath that grew unsteady and quick. She gripped his shoulders, first for balance, then for the sheer joy of feeling that hard, dangerous strength, the bunch of muscles.
Her hands slid over and into his hair.
She had a flash of the wolf, the rich black pelt and sinewy strength, then of the man, sitting on her bed, gripping her hand as her body shuddered.
The memory of what could be in dreams, the barrage of sensations of what was, battered each other.
And she erupted.
Her mouth went wild under his, tore at his control. Her surrender had been sweet, but her demands were staggering. As his blood leaped he dragged her closer, let the kiss fly from warm, to hungry to something almost savage.
Still she urged him on, pulling him with her until he buried his face in her throat and had to fight not to use his teeth.
"You're not ready for me." He managed to pant it out, then yanked her back, shook her lightly. "By Finn, I'm not ready for you. There might come a time when that won't matter, and we'll take our chances. But it matters now." His grip lightened, his tone gentled. "It matters today. Go home, Rowan, where you'll be safe."
Her head was still spinning, her pulse still roaring. "No one's ever made me feel like that. I never knew anyone could."
Something flashed into his eyes that made her shiver in anticipation. But then he muttered in a language she didn't understand and lowered his brow to hers. "Honesty can be dangerous. I'm not always civilized, Rowan, but I work to be fair. Have a care how much you offer, for I'm likely to take more."
"I'm terrible at lying."
It made him laugh, and his eyes were calm again when he straightened. "Then be quiet, for God's sake. Go home now. Not the way you came. You'll see the path when you head out the front. Follow it and you'll get home right enough."
"Liam, I want-"
"I know what you want." Firmly now he took her by the arm and led her out. "If it were as simple as going upstairs and rolling around on the bed for an afternoon, we'd already be there." While she sputtered, he continued to pull her to the front door. "But you're not as simple as you've been taught to think. God knows I'm not. Go on home with you, Rowan."
He all but shoved her out the door. Her rare and occasionally awesome temper shot to the surface as the wind slapped her face. "All right, Liam, because I don't want it to be simple." Her eyes flared at nun as she dragged her hair back. "I'm tired of settling for simple. So don't put your hands on me again unless you mean to complicate things."
Riding on anger, she spun around, and didn't question the fact that the path was there, wide and clear. She just marched to it and strode into the trees.
From the porch he watched; long after she was out of sight, he continued to watch her, smiling a bit when she finally reached her own home and slammed the door behind her.
"Good for you, Rowan Murray."
CHAPTER 4
The man had thrown her out of his house, Rowan thought as she stormed into her own. One minute he'd been kissing her brainless, holding her against that marvelously male body-and the next he'd marched her to the door. Given her the boot as if she'd been some pesky saleswoman hawking an inferior product.
Oh, it was mortifying.
With temper still ringing in her ears like bells she strode around the living room, circled it twice. He'd put his hands on her, he'd made the moves. He'd kissed her, damn it. She hadn't done anything.
Except stand there like a dolt, she realized as temper sagged miserably into embarrassment. She'd just stood there, she thought as she wandered into the kitchen. And let him put his hands on her, let him kiss her. She'd have let him do anything, that was how dazzled she'd been.
"Oh, you're such a fool, Rowan." She dropped into a chair, and leaning over, lightly beat her head against the kitchen table. "Such a jerk, such a wimp."
She'd gone to him, hadn't she? Stumbling around in the woods like Gretel with a bunch of cookies instead of bread crumbs. Looking for magic, she thought and rested her cheek on the smooth wood. Always looking for something wonderful, she acknowledged with a sigh. And this time, for just a moment, she'd found it.
It was worse, she realized, when you had that staggering glimpse, then had the door slammed in your face.
God, was she so needy that she'd fall at the feet of a man she'd only met twice before, knew next to nothing about? Was she so weak and wobbly that she'd built fantasies around him because he had a beautiful face?
Not just his face, she admitted. It was the- essence of him, she supposed. The mystery, the romance of him that had very simply bewitched her. There was no other word that fit what he made her feel.
Obviously, quite obviously, it showed.
And when he had touched her because he'd seen through her pitiful ploy of seeking him out to thank him, she'd climbed all over him.
No wonder he'd shown her the door.
But he hadn't had to be so cruel about it, she thought, shoving up again. He'd humiliated her.
"You're not ready for me," she muttered, remembering what he'd said. "How the hell does he know what I'm ready for when I don't know myself? He's not a damn mind reader."
Sulking now, she ripped the top off the container of cookies and snatched one. She ate it with a scowl on her face as she replayed that last scene, and gave herself wonderful, pithy lines to put Liam Donovan in his place.
"So, he didn't want me," she muttered. "Who expected him to? I'll just stay out of his way. Completely. Totally." She shoved another cookie into her mouth. "I came here to figure out myself, not to try to understand some Irish recluse."
Slightly ill from the cookies, she snapped the lid back on. The first thing she was going to do was drive into town and find a bookstore. She was going to buy some how-to books. Basic home maintenance, she decided, stalking back into the living room for her purse.
She wasn't going to go fumbling around the next time something happened. She'd figure out how to fix it herself. And, she thought darkly as she marched out of the house, if Liam came to her door offering to fix it for her, she'd coolly tell him she could take care of herself.
She slammed the door of the Rover, gunned the engine. An errant thought about flat tires made her think she'd better find a book on car repair while she was at it.
She bumped along the dirt road, clamping down on the urge to work off some of her frustration by stomping on the gas. Just where Belinda's little lane met the main road, she saw the silver bird.
He was huge, magnificent. An eagle, she thought automatically stepping on the brake to stop and study him. Though she didn't know if any type of eagle was that regal silvery-gray or if they tended to perch on road signs to stare-balefully, she decided-at passing cars.
What wonderfully odd fauna they had in Oregon, she mused and reminded herself to read the books on local wildlife she'd brought with her more
carefully. Unable to resist, she rolled down the window and leaned out.
"You're so handsome." She smiled as the bird ruffled his feathers and seemed to preen. "So regal. I bet you look magnificent in the air. I wonder what it feels like to fly. To just- own the sky. You'd know."
His eyes were green, she realized. A silver-gray eagle with eyes green as a cat's. For an instant, she thought she saw a glint of gold resting in his breast feathers, as if he wore a pendant. Just a trick of the light, she decided and with some regret leaned back in the window.
"Wolves and deer and eagles. Why would anybody live in the city? Bye, your highness."
When the Rover was out of sight, the eagle spread its wings, rose majestically into the sky with a triumphant call that echoed over hill and forest and sea. He soared over the trees, circled, then dived. White smoke swirled, the light shimmered, blue as a lightning flash.
And he touched down on the forest floor softly, on two booted feet.
He stood just over six feet, with a mane of silver hair, eyes of glass green and a face so sharply defined it might have been carved from the marble found in the dark Irish hills. A burnished gold chain hung around his neck, and dangling from it was the amulet of his rank.
"Runs like a rabbit," he muttered. "Then blames herself for the fox."
"She's young, Finn." The woman who stepped out of the green shadows was lovely, with gilded hair flowing down her back, soft tawny eyes, skin white and smooth as alabaster. "And she doesn't know what's inside her, or understand what's inside of Liam."
"A backbone's what she's needing, a bit more of that spirit she showed when she spat in his eye not long ago." His fierce face gentled with a smile. "Never was a lack of spine or spirit a problem of yours, Arianna."
She laughed and cupped her husband's face in her hands. The gold ring of their marriage gleamed on one hand, and the fire of a ruby sparked on the other. "I've needed both with the likes of you, a stor. They're on their path, Finn. Now we must let them follow it in their own way."
"And who was it who led the girl to the dance, then to the lad?" he asked with an arrogantly raised eyebrow.
Books by Nora Roberts Page 295
