Enchanted (17 page)

“Perhaps it is. Insulting, but logical. The answer is no.” He said it almost wearily as he went back to sit on
the bed and sip his tea. “I cast no spell, wove no magic. I’m wiccan, Rowan. There is one law we live by, one rule that cannot be broken. ‘An it harm none.’ I will do nothing to harm you. And my pride alone would prevent me from influencing your response to me. What you feel, you feel.”

When she said nothing, he moved his shoulder in a careless jerk, as if there weren’t a sharp-clawed fist around his heart. “You’ll want your clothes.” With no more than those words, her jeans and shirt appeared on the chair.

She let out a short laugh, shook her head. “And you don’t think I should be dazzled by something like that. You expect a great deal, Liam.”

He looked at her again, thought of what ran in her blood. Not nearly ready to know, he decided, annoyed with his own impatience. “Aye, I suppose I do. You have a great deal, Rowan, if you’d only trust yourself.”

“No one’s ever really believed in me.” Steady now, she walked to him. “That’s a kind of magic you offer me that means more than all the flash and wonder. I’ll start with trusting this much—I’ll believe that what I feel for you is real. Is that enough for now?”

He lifted a hand to lay it over the one that held the ends of the throw. The tenderness that filled him was new, unexplained and too sweet to question. “It’s enough. Sit, have some tea.”

“I don’t want tea.” It thrilled her to be so bold, to loosen her grip and let the throw fall away. “And I don’t want my clothes. But I do want you.”

She was under a spell. Not one that required incantations, Rowan thought dreamily. Not one that called on mystical powers and forces. She was in love, and that, she supposed, was the oldest and the most natural of magics.

She’d never been as comfortable nor as uneasy with any other man. Never been quite so shy, nor ever so bold as she was with Liam. Looking back, gauging her actions, her reactions, her words and her wishes, she realized she’d fallen under that spell the moment she’d turned and seen him behind her on the cliffs.

The wind in his hair, annoyance in his eyes, Ireland in his voice. That graceful, muscular body with its power held ruthlessly in check.

Love at first sight, she thought. Just one more page of her own personal fairy tale.

And after love, her love, they’d found their way to a friendship she treasured every bit as much. Companionship, an ease of being. She knew he enjoyed having her with him, for work, for talk, for sitting quietly and watching the sky change with evening.

She could tell by the way he smiled at her, or laughed, or absently brushed a hand through her hair.

At times like that she could sense that restlessness that prowled in him shifting into a kind of contentment. The way it had, she remembered, when he’d come to her as a wolf and lain down beside her to listen to her read.

Wasn’t it odd, she mused, that in searching for her own peace of mind, she’d given him some?

Life, she decided as she settled down to sketch a line of foxglove on the banks of the stream, was a wonderful thing. And now, finally, she was beginning to live it.

It was lovely to do something she enjoyed, to sit in a place that made her happy and spend time exploring her own talents, to study the way the sun filtered through the treetops, the way the narrow ribbon of water
curved and sparkled.

All these shades of green to explore, the shapes of things, the marvelously complicated bark of a Douglas fir, the charming fancy of a lush fern.

There was time for them now, time for herself.

No longer was she required to get up in the morning and put on a neat, conservative suit, to wade through morning traffic, drive through the rain with a briefcase full of papers and plans and projects in the seat beside her. And to stand at the front of the classroom, knowing that she wasn’t quite good enough, certainly not dedicated enough an instructor, as each one of her students deserved.

She would never again have to come home every evening to an apartment that had never really felt like home, to eat her solitary dinner, grade her papers, go to bed. Except for every Wednesday and Sunday, when she would be expected for dinner by her parents. They would discuss their respective weeks, and she would listen to their advice on the direction of her career.

Week after week, month after month, year after year. It was hardly any wonder they’d been so shocked and hurt when she’d broken that sacred routine. What would they say if she told them she’d gone way beyond the scope of any imaginings and fallen headlong in love with a witch? A shape-shifter, a magician. A wonder.

The idea made her laugh, shake her head in delighted amusement. No, she thought, it was best to keep certain areas of her new life all to herself.

Her much-loved and decidedly earthbound parents would never believe, much less understand it.

She couldn’t understand it herself. It was real, it was true—there was no way to deny it. Yet how could he be what he claimed to be? How could he do what she had seen him do?

Her pencil faltered, and she reached up to toy nervously with the end of her braid. She
had
seen it, less than a week ago. And since then there had been a dozen small, baffling moments.

She’d seen him light candles with a thought, pluck a white rose out of the air, and once—in one of his rare foolish moods—he’d whisked her clothes away with no more than a grin.

It amazed and delighted her. Thrilled her. But she could admit here, alone, in her deepest thoughts, that part
of her feared it as well.

He had such powers. Over the elements, and over her.

He’ll never use them to harm you.

The voice in her head made her jolt so that her sketch pad slapped facedown on the forest floor. Even as she pressed a hand to her jumping heart she saw the silver owl swoop down. He watched her from the low branch of a tree out of unblinking eyes of sharp green. Gold glinted against the silver of his breast.

Another page from the fairy tale, she thought giddily, and managed to get to her feet. “Hello.” It came out as a croak, forcing her to clear her throat. “I’m Rowan.”

She bit back a shriek as the owl spread his regal wings, soared down from the tree and with a ripple of silver light became a man.

“I know well enough who you are, girl.” There was music and magic in his voice, and the echo of green hills and misty valleys.

Her nerves were forgotten in sheer pleasure. “You’re Liam’s father.”

“So I am.” The stern expression on his face softened into a smile. He moved toward her, footsteps silent in soft brown boots. And, taking her hand, lifted it gallantly to kiss. “It is a pleasure to be meeting you, young Rowan. Why do you sit here alone, worrying?”

“I like to sit alone sometimes. And worrying’s one of my best things.”

He shook his head, gave a quick snap of his fingers and had her sketch pad fluttering up into his hand. “No, this is.” He sat comfortably on the fallen tree, cocking his head so that his hair flowed like liquid silver to his shoulders. “You’ve a gift here, and a charming one.” He gave the space beside him an absent pat. “Sit yourself,” he said when she didn’t move. “I’ll not eat you.”

“It’s all so … dumbfounding.”

His gaze shifted to hers with honest puzzlement lighting the green. “Why?”

“Why?” She was sitting on a tree in the woods beside a witch, the second she’d met so far. “You’d be used to it, but it’s just a little surprising to a mere mortal.”

His eyes narrowed, and if Rowan had been able to read his mind she’d have been stunned to read his quick and annoyed thoughts aimed at his son.
The stubborn whelp hasn’t told her yet. What is he waiting for?

Finn had to remind himself it was Liam’s place and not his own, and smiled at Rowan again.

“You’ve read stories, haven’t you? Heard legends and songs that speak of us?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“And where, young Rowan, do you think stories and legends and songs come from if not from grains of truth?” He gave her hand a fatherly pat. “Not that truth doesn’t all too often become stretched and twisted. There you have witches tormenting innocent young children, popping them into ovens for dinner. Do you think we’re after baking you up for a feast?”

The amusement in his voice was contagious. “No, of course not.”

“Well then, stop your fretting.” Dismissing her concerns, he paged through her sketches. “You’ll do well here. You do well here.” His grin flashed as he came to one with fairy eyes peeking through a thick flood of flowers. “Well and fine here, girl. Why is it you don’t use colors?”

“I’m no good with paints,” she began. “But I thought I might get some chalks. I haven’t done much with pastels and thought it might be fun.”

He made a sound of approval and continued to flip pages. When he came to one of Liam standing spread-legged and arrogant on the cliffs, he grinned like a boy. And there was pride in his eyes, in his voice. “Oh, this is like him, isn’t it? You’ve got him.”

“Have I?” she murmured, then flushed when that green gaze rested on her face again.

“Every woman has power, Rowan. She’s only to learn to use it. Ask him for something.”

“For what?”

“What pleases you.” Then he tapped a finger on the page. “Will you give me this? For his mother.”

“Yes, of course.” But when she started to tear the page out, it vanished.

“She misses him,” Finn said simply. “Good day to you, Rowan of the O’Mearas.”

“Oh, but won’t you—” He was gone before she could ask him to walk to Liam’s with her. “‘There are more
things on heaven and earth, Horatio,’” she murmured, and, rising, walked to Liam’s alone.

*  *  *

He wasn’t waiting for her. That’s what he told himself. He had a great deal to occupy his mind and fill his time. He certainly wasn’t roaming aimlessly around the house waiting for a woman. Wishing for her.

Hadn’t he told her he didn’t intend to work that day? Hadn’t he said that specifically, so they’d each have a little time apart? They both required their little pieces of solitude, didn’t they?

So where the devil was she? he wondered as he roamed aimlessly around the house.

He could have looked, but it would be too undeniable an admission that he wanted her there. And she had been very clear about her expectations of privacy. No one knew or respected the need for privacy more.

And he was giving it to her, wasn’t he? He didn’t follow the urge just to take a quick glance into the glass and see, or skim lightly into her thoughts.

Damn it.

He could call her. He stopped his restless pacing and considered. A quiet murmur of her name on the air. It was hardly an intrusion, and she was free to ignore it if she wished. Tempted, sorely tempted, he moved to the door, opened it to step out into the balmy air.

But she wouldn’t ignore it, he thought. She was too generous, too giving. If he asked, she’d come. And if he asked, it would be like an admission of weakness for her.

It was only a physical need yet, he assured himself. Just a longing for the taste of her, the shape, the scent. If it was sharper than was comfortable, it was likely due to his own restraint.

He’d been gentle with her, always. No matter how his blood burned, he’d treated her carefully. When every instinct clawed at him to take more, he’d held back.

She was tender, he reminded himself. It was his responsibility to control the tone of their lovemaking, to yank back the fury of it lest he frighten her.

But he wanted more, craved it.

Why shouldn’t he have it? Liam jammed his hands into his pockets and strode up and down the porch. Why the devil shouldn’t he do as he pleased with her? If he decided—and it was still his decision to make—to accept her as a mate, she would have to accept him as well. All aspects of him.

He’d had enough of waiting around while she was off somewhere ignoring him. As he paced, his temper and the passion stirring to life beneath grew more fierce and more restless. And he’d had enough of minding his step with her.

It was time she knew what she was dealing with—in him and in herself.

“Rowan Murray,” he muttered, and his eyes seared the air. “You’d best be ready for the likes of me.”

He flung up his arms. The flash of light that snapped out simmered to a glow as he re-formed on her porch.

And knew immediately she wasn’t there.

He snarled, cursed, furious with himself, not only for the act that had demonstrated his need for her, but with her for not being exactly where he expected her to be.

By the goddess, he could fix that, couldn’t he?

*  *  *

Rowan smiled as she stepped out of the trees. She could hardly wait to tell Liam she’d met his father. She imagined they would settle down in the kitchen, where he would tell her stories about his family. He had such a marvelous way of telling stories. She could listen to that musical rise and fall of his voice for hours.

And now that she’d met his father, there might be a way to ask him if she could meet other members of his family. He’d mentioned cousins from time to time, so …

She stopped, staggered by the sudden realization. Belinda. For heaven’s sake, he’d told her that first day that he and Belinda were related. Didn’t that mean Belinda was …

“Oh!” With a laugh, Rowan turned in a circle. “Life is just astonishing.”

As she said it, as her laughter rose up, the air shook. The pad fell out of her hands for the second time that day as she raised her hands to her throat. Earthquake? she thought with a dim, dizzy panic.

She felt herself spin, the wind gallop. Light, bright and blinding, flashed in front of her eyes. She tried to call out for Liam, but the words stuck in her throat.

Then she was crushed against him, lights still whirling, wind still rushing, as his mouth ravaged hers.

She couldn’t get her breath, couldn’t find a single coherent thought. Her heart boomed in her chest, in her head, as she struggled for both. Suddenly her feet were dangling in the air as he yanked her off them with a strength that was both casual and terrifying.