Enchanted (10 page)

Of course she looked. And he was still there, a few paces away, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, his face turned toward the water. It was just bad luck, she supposed, that he was so attractive, that he could stand there with the wind in all that glorious hair, his profile sharp and clean, and remind her of Heathcliff or Byron or some other poetic hero.

A knight before battle, a prince surveying his realm.

Oh, yes, he could be any and all of them—as romantic in jeans and a sweatshirt as any warrior glinting in polished armor.

“I don’t mean to do battle with you, Rowan.”

She thought she heard him say it, but that was nonsense. He was too far away for those soft words to carry. She’d just imagined that’s what he
would
say in response if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. So she sniffed, glanced back down at her book and, to her disgust, noted that she’d begun to sketch him without realizing it.

With an irritated flick, she turned to a blank page.

“There’s no point in being angry with me—or yourself.”

This time she knew he’d spoken, and looked up to see that he’d strolled over to her. She had to squint, to shade her eyes with the flat of her hand as the sun streamed behind him and shimmered its light like a nimbus around his head and shoulders.

“There’s no point in discussing it.”

She huffed out a breath as he sat companionably beside her. When he lapsed into silence, appeared to be settling in for a nice long visit, she tapped her pencil on her pad.

“It’s a long coast. Would you mind plopping down on another part of it?”

“I like it here.” When she hissed and started to rise, he simply tugged her back down. “Don’t be foolish.”

“Don’t tell me I’m foolish. I’m really, really tired of being told I’m foolish.” She jerked her arm free. “And you don’t even know me.”

He shifted so they were face-to-face. “That could be part of it. What are you drawing there in your book?”

“Nothing apparently.” Miffed, she stuffed the book back into her bag. Once again she started to rise. Once again he tugged her easily back.

“All right,” she snapped. “We’ll discuss it. I admit I stumbled my way through the woods because I wanted to see you. I was attracted—I’m sure you’re used to women being attracted to you. I did want to thank you for your help, but that was only part of it. I intruded, no question, but you were the one who kissed me.”

“I did indeed,” he murmured. He wanted to do so again, right now, when her mouth was in a stubborn pout and there was both distress and temper in her eyes.

“And I overreacted to it.” The memory of that still made her blood heat. “You had a perfect right to tell me to go, but you didn’t have the right to be so unkind about it. No one has the right to be unkind. Now, obviously, you didn’t have the same … response I did and you want to keep your distance.”

She pushed at the hair that was coming loose from her ponytail to fly in her face. “So why are you here?”

“Let’s take this in order,” he decided. “Yes, I’m used to women being attracted to me. As I’ve a fondness for women, I appreciate that.” A smile tugged at his lips as she made a quiet sound of disgust. “You’d think more of me if I lied about that, but I find false modesty inane and deceitful. And though I most often prefer to be
alone, your visit wasn’t intrusive. I kissed you because I wanted to, because you have a pretty mouth.”

He watched it register surprise before it thinned and she angled her face away. No one had told her that before, he realized, and shook his head over the idiocy of the male gender.

“Because you have eyes that remind me of the elves that dance in the hills of my country. Hair like oak that’s aged and polished to a gleam. And skin so soft it seems my hand should pass through it as it would with water.”

“Don’t do that.” Her voice shook as she lifted her arms, wrapped them tight to hug her elbows. “Don’t. It’s not fair.”

Perhaps it wasn’t, to use words on a woman who so obviously wasn’t used to hearing them. But he shrugged. “It’s just truth. And my response to you was more … acute than I’d bargained for. So I was unkind. I apologize for that, Rowan, but only for that.”

She was over her head with him, and wished the terror of that wasn’t quite so enjoyable. “You’re sorry for being unkind, or for having a response to me?”

Clever woman, he mused, and gave her the simple truth. “For both, if it comes to it. I said I wasn’t ready for you, Rowan. I meant it.”

It was hearing simple truth that softened her heart—and made it tremble just a little. She didn’t speak for a moment, but stared down at the fingers she’d locked together in her lap while waves crashed below and gulls soared overhead.

“Maybe I understand that, a little. I’m at an odd place in my life,” she said slowly. “A kind of crossroads, I suppose. I think people are most vulnerable when they come to the end of something and have to decide which beginning they’re going to take. I don’t know you, Liam.” She made herself shift back to face him again. “And I don’t know what to say to you, or what to do.”

Was there a man alive who could resist that kind of unstudied honesty? he wondered. “Offer me tea.”

“What?”

He smiled, took her hand. “Offer me tea. Rain’s coming and we should go in.”

“Rain? But the sun’s—” Even as she said it, the light changed. Dark clouds slipped through the sky without a sound and the first drops, soft as a wish, fell.

His father wasn’t the only one who could use the weather for his own purposes.

“Oh, it was supposed to be clear all day.” She stuffed the bottle of water back into her bag, then let out a quick gasp when he pulled her to her feet with casual, effortless strength that left her limbs oddly weak.

“It’s just a shower, and a warm one at that.” He began to guide her through the rocks, down the path. “Soft weather, we call it at home. Do you mind the rain?”

“No, I like it. It always makes me dreamy.” She lifted her face, let a few drops kiss it. “The sun’s still shining.”

“You’ll have a rainbow,” he promised, and tugged her into the sheltering trees, where the air was warm and wet and shadows lay in deep green pools. “Will I have tea?”

She slanted him a look, and a smile. “I suppose.”

“There, I told you.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. “You don’t know how to hold a grudge.”

“I just need practice,” she said, and made him laugh.

“I’m likely to give you plenty of cause for practice before we’re done.”

“Do you make a habit of annoying people?”

“Oh, aye. I’m a difficult man.” They strolled by the stream, where damp ferns and rich moss spread and foxglove waited to bloom. “My mother says I’m a brooder, and my father that I’ve a head like a rock. They should know.”

“Are they in Ireland?”

“Mmm.” He couldn’t be sure unless he looked—and he damn well didn’t want to know if they were lingering nearby, watching him.

“Do you miss them?”

“I do, yes. But we … keep in touch.” It was the wistfulness in her voice that had him glancing down as they walked into her clearing. “You’re missing your family?”

“I’m feeling guilty because I don’t miss them as much as I probably should. I’ve never been away alone before, and I’ m—”

“Enjoying it,” he finished.

“Enormously.” She laughed a little and fished her keys out of her pocket.

“No shame in that.” He cocked his head as she unlocked the door. “Who are you locking out?”

Her smile was a little sheepish as she stepped inside. “Habit. I’ll put the tea on. I baked some cinnamon rolls earlier, but they’re burned on the bottom. One of my misses.”

“I’ll take one off your hands.” He wandered into the kitchen behind her.

She kept the room neat, he noted, and had added a few touches—the sort he recognized as a kind of nesting. Female making a home. Some pretty twigs speared out of one of Belinda’s colorful bottles and stood in the center of the kitchen table beside a white bowl filled with bright green apples.

He remembered when she’d scouted out the twigs. The wolf had walked with her—and had regally ignored her attempts to teach him to fetch.

He sat comfortably at her table, enjoying the quiet patter of rain. And thought of his mother’s words. No, he wouldn’t look that deeply. He didn’t mind a skim through the thoughts, but that deliberate search was something he considered an abuse of power.

A man who demanded privacy had to respect that of others.

But he would pry without a qualm.

“Your family lives in San Francisco.”

“Hmm. Yes.” She had the kettle on and was choosing from one of Belinda’s delightful collection of teapots. “They’re both college professors. My father chairs the English department at the university.”

“And your mother?” Idly, he slipped the sketch pad out of the bag she had tossed on the table.

“She teaches history.” After a mild debate, she selected a pot shaped like a fairy, with wings for the handle. “They’re brilliant,” she continued, carefully measuring out tea. “And really marvelous instructors. My mother was made assistant dean last year and …”

She trailed off, stunned and just a little horrified when she saw Liam studying her sketch of the wolf.

“These are wonderful.” He didn’t bother to look up, but turned another page and narrowed his eyes in concentration at her drawing of a stand of trees and lacy ferns. Peeking through those airy shapes were the suggestion of wings, of laughing eyes.

She saw the fairies, he thought, and smiled.

“They’re just doodles.” Her fingers itched to snatch the book, close it away, but manners held her back. “It’s just a hobby.”

And when his eyes shot to hers, she nearly shivered.

“Why would you say that, and try to believe it, when you have a talent and a love for it?”

“It’s only something I do in my spare time—now and again.”

He turned the next page. She’d done a study of the cottage, made it look like something out of an old and charming legend with its ring of trees and welcoming porch. “And you’re insulted when someone calls you foolish?” he muttered. “It’s foolish you are if you don’t do what you love instead of wringing your hands about it.”

“That’s a ridiculous thing to say. I do not wring my hands.” She turned back to take the kettle off the bowl and prevent herself from doing exactly that. “It’s a hobby. Most people have one.”

“It’s your gift,” he corrected, “and you’ve been neglecting it.”

“You can’t make a living off of doodles.”

“What does making a living have to do with it?”

His tone was so arrogantly royal, she had to laugh. “Oh, nothing other than food, shelter, responsibility.” She came back to set the pot on the table, turned to fetch cups. “Little things like that from the real world.”

“Then sell your art if you’ve a need to make a living.”

“Nobody’s going to buy pencil sketches from an English teacher.”

“I’ll buy this one.” He rose and held the book open to one of her studies of the wolf. In it, the wolf stood, facing the onlooker with a challenging glint in his eyes exactly like the one in Liam’s. “Name your price.”

“I’m not selling it, and you’re not buying it to make some point.” Refusing to take him seriously, she waved him back. “Sit down and have your tea.”

“Then give me the sketch.” He angled his head as he looked at it again. “I like it. And this one.” He flipped the page to the trees and fern fairies. “I could use something like this in the game I’m doing. I’ve no talent for drawing.”

“Then who does the drawings for your graphics?” she asked, hoping to change the subject, and as a last resort, got out the burned buns.

“Mmm. Different people for different moods.” He sat again, absently took one of the rolls. It was hard and undeniably burned, but if you got past that, it was wonderfully sweet and generously filled with currants.

“So how do you—”

“Do either of your parents draw?” he interrupted.

“No.” Even the thought of it made her chuckle. The idea of either of her smart and busy parents settling down to dream with pencil and paper. “They gave me lessons when I was a child and showed an interest. And my mother actually keeps a sketch I made of the bay, from when I was a teenager, framed and in her office at the university.”

“So she appreciates your talent.”

“She loves her daughter,” Rowan corrected, and poured the tea.

“Then she should expect the daughter she loves to pursue her own gifts, explore her own talents,” he said casually, but continued down the path of her family. “Perhaps one of your grandparents was an artist.”

“No, my paternal grandfather was a teacher. It seems to come naturally through the family. My grandmother on that side was what I suppose you’d call a typical wife and mother of her time. She still keeps a lovely home.”

He struggled against impatience—and against a wince as Rowan added three spoons of sugar to her cup. “And on your mother’s side?”

“Oh, my grandfather’s retired now. They live in San Diego. My grandmother does beautiful needlework, so
I suppose that’s a kind of art.” Her lips pursed for a moment as she stirred her tea. “Now that I think of it, her mother—my great-grandmother—painted. We have a couple of her oils. I think my grandmother and her brother have the rest. She was … eccentric,” Rowan said with a grin.

“Was she, now? And how was she eccentric?”

“I never knew her, but children pick up bits and pieces when adults gossip. She read palms and talked to animals—all decidedly against her husband’s wishes. He was, as I recall, a very pragmatic Englishman, and she was a dreamy Irishwoman.”

“So, she was Irish, was she?” Liam felt a low vibration along his spine. A warning, a frisson of power. “And her family name?”

“Ah …” Rowan searched back through her memory. “O’Meara. I’m named for her,” she continued, contentedly drinking tea while everything inside Liam went on alert. “My mother named me for her in what she calls an irresistible flash of sentiment. I suppose that’s why she—my great-grandmother—left me her pendant. It’s a lovely old piece. An oval moonstone in a hammered silver setting.”

In a slow and deliberate move, Liam set aside the tea he could no longer taste. “She was Rowan O’Meara.”