Enchanted (15 page)

He stroked a hand over her hair, soothing her, struggling to soothe himself. “Magic has responsibilities. Tonight, the shortest night, it dances in the forest, sings in the hills of my home, it rides the seas and soars in the air. Tonight it celebrates. But tomorrow, always tomorrow it must remember its purpose. Feel the joy of it.”

He kissed her brow, both of her cheeks. “Tonight, Rowan Murray of the O’Mearas, you’ll remember what you will. And tomorrow, the choice is yours.”

He stepped back, spreading his arms so that the robe whipped around him.

“The night passes, quick and bright, and dawn will break with the softest light. If blood calls to blood, come then to me.” He paused so that their eyes locked and held. “As you will, so mote it be.”

He reached down, took a spray of moonflowers and gave it to her. “Sleep well, Rowan.”

The sleeves of his robe fell back, revealing hard muscle. With one flash of power, he sent her from him.

The sunlight beamed bright through the windows. With a murmur of complaint, Rowan turned from it, pressed her face into the pillow.

Sleep was what she wanted. Sleep where those wonderful and vivid dreams would come, where she could wrap herself in them. There were tatters of them still waving through her mind.

Fog and flowers. Moonbeams and candle glow. The silver flash of an owl, the quiet roar of the sea. And Liam in a white robe that shimmered with jewels, holding her in the center of a circle of stones.

She could taste that hot male flavor of him on her tongue, feel the ripple of muscle held ruthlessly in check, feel the not-quite-steady thud of his heart against hers.

She had only to slide back into sleep to experience it all again.

But she turned restlessly, unable to find it, or him, again.

It was so real, she thought, rubbing her cheek against the pillow to watch the sunbeams shoot in through the windows. So real and so … wonderful. She’d often had very odd and textured dreams, particularly during her childhood.

Her mother had said it was imagination, and that she had a good one. But she needed to learn the difference between what was real and what was make-believe.

Much too often, Rowan supposed, she’d preferred the make-believe. Because she’d known that had worried her parents a little, she’d buried it. She decided it was because she’d chosen to take her own road now that the dreams were coming back so often.

And it didn’t take an expert to understand why her dreams were so often of Liam—and so romantic and erotic. She supposed the wisest course was to simply enjoy them—and not to forget what was real and what
wasn’t.

She stretched, lifting her arms high, linking her hands. And, smiling to herself, replayed what she could remember.

A dream riff on the game they were working on, she thought. With Liam as hero, she as heroine. Magic and mist, romance and denial. A circle of stones that whispered, a ring of candles where the flames rose straight despite the wind. Columns of fire, blue as lake water. Fog that parted as she walked.

Lovely, she mused, then closed her eyes and tried to go back and remember what he’d said to her. She could remember very well the way he’d kissed her. Gently, then with heat and hunger. But what had he said? Something about choices and knowledge and responsibilities.

If she could put it in order she might be able to give him an idea for a story line for another game. But all that was really clear was the way his hands had moved over her—and the needs that had pumped inside her.

They were working together now, she reminded herself. Thinking of him the way she did was both inappropriate and foolish. The last thing she wanted to do was delude herself into thinking he could fall in love with her—the way she was very much aware she could fall in love with him.

So she’d think of the work instead, of the pleasure it gave her. She’d think of the house she meant to buy. It was time to do something about that. But for now, she’d get up, make her coffee, take her morning walk.

She tossed the sheets aside. And there on the bed beside her was a spray of moonflowers.

Her heart took a hard leap into her throat and snapped it shut. Her breath clogged behind it, hot and thick. Impossible, impossible, her mind insisted. But even when she squeezed her eyes tight, she could smell the delicate fragrance.

She must have picked them and forgotten. But she knew there were no such flowers around her cottage or in the woods. Flowers such as she now remembered seeing in her dream, spread like white wishes between the spears of candles.

But it couldn’t be. It had been a dream, just another of the dreams that had visited her sleep since she’d come to this place. She hadn’t walked through the forest in the night, through the mists. She hadn’t gone to that
clearing, to Liam, or stepped into the stone dance.

Unless …

Sleepwalking, she thought with a quick lick of panic. Had she been sleepwalking? She scrambled out of bed, her gaze glued to the flowers as she grabbed her robe.

And the hem was damp, as if she’d walked through dew.

She clutched the robe against her, as details of the dream raced much too clearly through her mind.

“It can’t be real.” But the words echoed hollowly. With a sudden flurry of motion, she began to dress.

She ran all the way, not questioning when temper raced with her fear. He’d caused it; that was all she knew. Maybe there was something in that tea he brewed every day. A hallucinogen of some kind.

It was the only rational explanation. There had to be a rational explanation.

Her breath was short, her eyes huge when she ran up the steps to pound on his door. She gripped the flowers in one white-knuckled hand.

“What did you do to me?” she demanded the moment he opened the door.

He watched her steadily as he stepped back. “Come in, Rowan.”

“I want to know what you did to me. I want to know what this means.” She thrust the flowers at him.

“You gave me flowers once,” he said, almost brutally calm. “I know you’ve a fondness for them.”

“Did you drug the tea?”

Now that calm snapped off into insult. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s the only explanation.” She whirled away from him to pace the room. “Something in the tea to make me imagine things, to do things. I’d never walk into the woods at night in my right mind.”

“I don’t deal in potions of that kind.” He added a dismissive shrug that had her trembling with fury.

“Oh, really.” She spun back to face him. Her hair tumbling over her shoulders, her eyes snapping vivid blue. “What kind, then?”

“Some that ease small hurts of body and soul. But it’s not my … specialty.”

“And what is your specialty, then?”

He shot her a look of impatience. “If you’d open your mind, you’d see you already know the answer to that.”

She stared into his eyes. As the image of the wolf flashed into her mind, she shook her head and stepped back. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am. And damn it, I’ve given you plenty of time to deal with it.”

“With what? Deal with
what
?” she repeated, and stabbed a finger into his chest. “I don’t understand anything about you.” This time she shoved him and had his own temper peaking. “I don’t understand anything about what you expect me to know. I want answers, Liam. I want them now or I want you to leave me alone. I won’t be played with this way, or tricked or made a fool of. So you tell me exactly what this means”—she ripped the flowers back out of his hand—“or I’m finished.”

“Finished, are you? Want answers, do you?” Anger and insult overpowered reason and he nodded. “Oh aye, then, here’s an answer for you.”

He threw out his hands. Light, brought on by temper rather than need, flashed cold blue from his fingertips. A thin white mist swirled around his body, leaving only those gold eyes bright and clear.

Then it was the eyes of the wolf, glinting at her as he bared his teeth in what might have been a sneer, his pelt gleaming midnight black.

The blood drained out of her head, left it light and giddy as the mists faded. She could hear in some dim distance the harsh, ragged sound of her own breath and the trembling scream that sounded only in her mind.

She stepped back, staggered. Her vision grayed at the edges. Tiny lights danced in front of her eyes.

When her knees buckled, he cursed ripely, and his hands caught her before she could fall.

“Damned if you’ll faint and make me feel like a monster.” He eased her into a chair and shoved her head between her knees. “Catch your breath, and next time have a care with what you wish for.”

There was a hive of bees buzzing in her head, a hundred icy fingers skimming over her skin. She babbled something when he lifted her head. She would have pulled back, but he had his hands firm on her face. “Just look,” he murmured, gently now. “Just look at me. Be calm.”

Awake and aware this time, she felt his mind touch her. Instinct had her struggling, had her hands lifting to push at him.

“No, don’t fight me on this. I won’t harm you.”

“No … I know you won’t.” She knew that, was inexplicably certain of it. “Could I—could I have some water?”

She blinked at the glass she hadn’t known was in his hand, hesitated and saw that flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “It’s only water. You’ve my word on it.”

“Your word.” She sipped, let out a shaky breath. “You’re a …” It was too ridiculous, but she’d seen. For Lord’s sake, she’d seen. “You’re a werewolf.”

His eyes rounded in what could only be shock, then he shoved himself to his feet to stare at her in baffled fury. “A werewolf? For the love of Finn, where do you come up with these things? A werewolf.” He muttered it now as he prowled the room. “You’re not stupid—you’re just stubborn. It’s the broad light of day, isn’t it? Do you see a full moon out there? Did I come snapping at your throat?”

He muttered curses in Gaelic as he whirled back around to glare at her. “I’m Liam of Donovan,” he said with pride ringing in his voice. “And I’m a witch.”

“Oh, well, then.” Her laugh was quick and lightly hysterical. “That’s all right, then.”

“Don’t cringe from me.” He snapped it out, cut to the core when she hugged her arms over her chest. “I’ve given you time to see, to prepare. I’d not have shown you so abruptly if you hadn’t pushed me.”

“Time to see? To prepare? For
this
?” She ran an unsteady hand through her hair. “Who could? Maybe I’m dreaming again,” she murmured, then bolted straight in the chair. “Dreaming. Oh, my God.”

He saw her thoughts, jammed his hands into his pockets. “I took nothing you weren’t willing to give.”

“You made love to me—you came to my bed while I slept and—”

“My mind to your mind,” he interrupted. “I kept my hands off you—for the most part.”

The blood had come back into her face and flamed there now. “They weren’t dreams.”

“They were dreams right enough. You’d have given me more than that, Rowan. We both know the truth of
it. I won’t apologize for dreaming with you.”

“Dreaming with me.” She ordered herself to her feet, but had to brace a hand on the chair to stay on them. “Am I supposed to believe this?”

“Aye.” A smile ghosted around his mouth. “That you are.”

“Believe you’re a witch. That you can change into a wolf and come into my dreams whenever you like.”

“Whenever you like as well.” A different tack, he mused, might be in order. One that would please them both. “You sighed for me, Rowan. Trembled for me.” He moved forward to skim his hands up her arms. “And smiled in your sleep when I left you.”

“What you’re talking about happens in books, in the games you write.”

“And in the world as well. You’ve been in that world. I’ve taken you there. You remember last night. I can see it in your mind.”

“Don’t look in my mind.” She jerked back, mortified because she believed he could. “Thoughts are private things.”

“And yours are often so clear on your face that I don’t have to look any further. I won’t look further if it upsets you.”

“It does.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’re a psychic?”

He blew out a huff of breath. “I’ve the power to see, if that’s your meaning. To brew a spell, to call the thunder.” He shrugged negligently, elegantly. “To shift shapes at my will.”

Shape-shifter. Good God. She’d read of such things, of course she had. In novels, in books on myths and legends. It couldn’t be real. And yet … could she deny what she’d seen with her own eyes? What she knew in her own heart?

“You came to me as the wolf.” If she was mad, she thought, she might as well have mad answers.

“You weren’t afraid of me then. Others would have been, but not you. You welcomed me in, put your arms around me, wept on my neck.”

“I didn’t know it was you. If I’d known—” She broke off as other memories crept back. “You watched me
undress! You sat there while I was in the tub.”

“It’s a lovely body you have. Why should you be shamed that I’ve seen it? Only hours ago you asked me to touch you.”

“That’s entirely different.”

Something that might have been reluctant amusement flickered in his eyes. “Ask me to touch you now, knowing, and it will be even more different.”

She swallowed hard. “Why haven’t you … touched me already?”

“You needed time to know me, and yourself. I’ve no right to take innocence, even when it’s offered, when no knowledge goes with it.”

“I’m not innocent. I’ve been with men before.”

Now there was something dark shimmering in his eyes, something not quite tame. But his voice was even when he spoke. “They didn’t touch your innocence, didn’t change it. I will. If you lie with me, Rowan, it’ll be as the first time. I’ll give you pleasure that will make you burn …”

His voice had lowered. When he traced a finger down her throat, she shivered but didn’t step back. Whoever— whatever—he was, he moved her. He called to her. “What will you feel?”

“Delight,” he murmured, easing closer to brush his mouth over her cheek. “Demand. Desire. It’s the passion you wanted that you didn’t find in others. Urgency, you said. And desperation. I feel that for you, whether I will or no. That much power you have over me. Is it enough for you?”