Enchanted (4 page)

There was such sweetness in her, it pulled at him, even as he struggled to stay away. She thought she was putting him at ease, letting him grow accustomed to her by leaving him food. Speaking to him in that quiet voice that trembled with nerves.

He wondered how many other women, alone in what was essentially wilderness, would have the courage or the desire to talk to a wolf, much less reassure him.

She thought she was a coward—he’d touched her mind gently, but enough to scan her thoughts. She didn’t have any concept of what she had inside her, hadn’t explored it, or been allowed to.

Strong sense of family, great loyalty and pitifully low self-esteem.

He shook his head as he sipped coffee and watched the storm build. What in Finn’s name was he supposed to do about her?

If it had just been a matter of giving her subtle little pushes to discover herself and her own powers, that
would have been … interesting, he supposed. He might have enjoyed the task. But he knew it was a great deal more.

He’d been shown just enough to worry him.

If she’d been sent to him and he accepted her, took her, the decision he’d left home and family to make would be made for him.

She was not one of his kind.

Yet already there were needs stirring. She was a lovely woman, after all, vulnerable, a little lost. Those needs would have been natural enough, particularly after his long, self-imposed solitude.

Male required female.

But the needs were deeper, stronger and more demanding than he’d experienced before, or that he’d cared to experience. When you felt too much, control slipped. Without control, there was no choice. He’d taken this year to himself to make choices.

Yet he couldn’t stay away from her. He’d been wise enough, he considered, to keep his distance in this form—at least when she was awake and aware. Still, he was drawn through the forest to watch her, to listen to her mind. Or to sit alone here in this room, cast the fire and study her in the flames.

Love waits.

He set his teeth, set his cup down with a snap of china on wood as the whisper floated over him. “Damn it. I’ll deal with it, with her. In my own time. In my own way. Leave me be.”

In the dark window glass, his own reflection faded, replaced by a woman with tumbling gold hair and eyes of the same rich color, who smiled softly. “Liam,” she said. “Stubborn you are, and always were.”

He cocked a brow. “Mother, ’tis easy when you learn from the best.”

She laughed, eyes sparkling against the night. “That’s true enough—if you’re speaking of your Da. The storm breaks, and she’s alone. Will you leave her that way?”

“It’s best for both of us if I do just that. She’s not one of us.”

“Liam, when you’re ready, you’ll look into her heart, and into your own. Trust what you find.” Then she
sighed, knowing her son would follow his own path as always. “I’ll give your father your best.”

“Do. I love you.”

“I know it. Come home soon, Liam of Donovan. We’re missing you.”

As her image faded, lightning slashed out of the sky, driving down like a lance to stab the ground. It left no mark, no burn, even as thunder roared behind it; Liam understood it was his father’s way of echoing his wife’s words.

“All right, then. Bloody hell. I’ll have a look and see how well she’s riding out the storm.”

He turned, focused, then flicked a wrist, jabbing a finger at the cold hearth. The fire leaped, though there was no log, no kindling to burn.

“Lightning flares and thunder moans. How does the woman fare alone? Chill the fire to let me see. As I will, so mote it be.”

He dipped his hands into his pockets as the flames settled, steadied. In the cool gold light, shadows shifted, parted, then opened to him.

He saw her carrying a candle through the dark, her face pale in its flickering light, her eyes wide. She fumbled through drawers in her kitchen, talking to herself, as she was prone to. And jolted like a frightened deer when the next flash of lightning broke the night.

Well, he hadn’t thought of that, Liam admitted, and in a rare show of frustration dragged a hand through his hair. Her power was out, and she was alone in the dark, and scared half to death. Hadn’t Belinda told her how to work the little generator, or where the flashlight was? The emergency lanterns?

Apparently not.

He could hardly leave her there, could he? Shivering and stumbling around. Which, he supposed with a sour smile, was exactly what his clever, meddling cousin had known.

He’d make sure she had light and heat, but that would be the end of it. He wouldn’t linger.

While he was a witch, he was also a man. And both parts of him wanted her entirely too much for comfort.

*  *  *

“Just a storm, it’s just a storm. No big deal.” Rowan all but chanted the words as she lit more candles.

She wasn’t afraid of the dark, not really. But it was so
damn
dark, and the lightning had struck so close to the cabin. The thunder rattled the windows until she was certain they would just explode.

And if she hadn’t been sitting outside, daydreaming while the storm blew in, she’d have had a fire built. She’d have the warmth and light from that
and
the candlelight, and it would be sort of … cozy. If she really worked on believing it.

And now the power was out, the phones were out and the storm appeared to be at its peak directly over her pretty little cabin.

There were candles, she reminded herself. Dozens and dozens of candles. White ones, blue ones, red ones, green ones. She could only think that Belinda had bought out some candle store. Some were so lovely, with odd and beautiful symbols carved into them, that she held back from lighting them. And after all, she must have fifty flaring away by now, giving adequate light and offering marvelous scents to settle the nerves.

“Okay. All right.” She set yet one more candle on the table in front of the sofa and rubbed her chilled hands. “I ought to be able to see enough to get a fire going. Then I’ll just curl up right here on the couch and wait it out. It’ll be fine.”

But even as she crouched in front of the hearth and began to arrange the kindling, the wind howled. Her door banged open like a bullet out of a gun, and half the cheery candles behind her were blown out.

She leaped up, whirled around. And screamed.

Liam stood a few paces away, the wind swirling through his hair, the candlelight gleaming in his eyes. She dropped kindling on her stockinged feet, yelped and fell backward into a chair.

“I seem to have startled you again,” he said in that mild and beautiful voice. “Sorry.”

“I— You. God! The door …”

“It’s open.” He turned, crossed to it and closed out the wind and rain.

She’d been certain she’d locked it when she’d rushed in out of the storm. Obviously not, she thought now, and did her best to swallow her heart and get it back in its proper place.

“I thought you might have been having some trouble with the storm.” He stepped toward her, each movement graceful as a dancer’s. Or a stalking wolf. “It seems I was right.”

“Power’s out,” she managed.

“So I see. You’re cold.” He picked up the scattered kindling and crouched to build a fire with wood and a match. He thought she’d had enough surprises for one night, even if it did take quite a bit longer that way.

“I wanted to get some light before I built a fire. Belinda has a lot of candles.”

“Naturally.” The kindling caught with a quick crackle, and flames licked obligingly at the logs he arranged. “This’ll warm the room soon. There’s a small generator out back. I can start it for you if you like, but this will pass before long.”

He stayed where he was, with the firelight dancing over his face. And looking at him, she forgot about the storm and fears of the dark. She wondered if all that gorgeous hair that fell nearly to his shoulders was as soft as it looked, wondered why it seemed she knew exactly how it would feel under her fingers.

Why she had an image of him leaning over her, leaning close, with his mouth a breath away from hers. Only a breath away.

“You’re daydreaming again, Rowan.”

“Oh.” She blinked, flushed, shook herself clear. “Sorry. The storm’s made me jumpy. Would you like some wine?” She pushed herself up, began backing quickly toward the kitchen. “I have a very nice Italian white I tried last night. I’ll just … pour some. Won’t be a minute.”

For Lord’s sake, for Lord’s sake, she berated herself as she dashed into the kitchen, where a half dozen candles glowed on the counter. Why did being around him make her so skittish and stupid? She’d been alone with attractive men before. She was a grown woman, wasn’t she?

She got the bottle out of the refrigerator by the light of the candles, found glasses and filled them. When she turned, a glass in each hand, he was there just behind her, and she jolted.

Wine sloshed over the rim and onto the back of her hand.

“
Must
you do that?” She snapped it out before she could stop herself, then watched that fast, fabulous grin flash over his face, bright and blinding as the lightning in the storm.

“I suppose not.” Ah, the hell with it, he decided. He was entitled to some small pleasures. With his eyes on hers, he lifted her damp hand, bent his head and slowly licked.

The best she could manage was a small, quiet moan.

“You’re right. It’s very nice wine.” He took the glass, and when her freed hand fell limply to her side, he smiled. Sipped. “You’ve a lovely face, Rowan Murray. I’ve thought of it since last I saw you.”

“You have?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” She was so obviously befuddled, it was tempting to press his advantage, to go with the urge grinding in him to take before she knew all he wanted, and what he refused to want. One step closer, he mused, the slow slide of his fingers around the base of her neck, where the flesh was warm and smooth. Fragile. His mouth to hers while the taste of her was still mixed with the wine on his tongue.

And he wouldn’t be in the mood to leave it at something quite so simple, or quite so innocent.

“Come in by the fire.” He stepped back to give her room to pass. “Where it’s warmer.”

She recognized the ache spreading inside her. The same ache, she thought, she woke with whenever she dreamed of him. She moved past him, into the living room, praying she could think of something to say that wouldn’t sound idiotic.

“If you came here to relax,” he began with just a hint of impatience in his voice, “you’re doing a preciously poor job of it. Sit down and stop fretting. The storm won’t stay long, and neither will I.”

“I like the company. I’m not used to being alone for such long stretches of time.”

She sat, managing a smile. But he stood by the fire, leaned against the mantel. He watched her. Watched her in a way that reminded her of—

“Isn’t that why you came here?” He said it to interrupt her thoughts before they inched too close to what she wasn’t prepared to know. “To have time alone?”

“Yes. And I like it. But it’s odd just the same. I was a teacher for a long time. I’m used to having a lot of people around.”

“Do you like them?”

“Them? Students?”

“No, people.” He made a vague and oddly dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. “In general.”

“Why … yes.” She laughed a little, leaning back in her chair without being aware her shoulders had lost their knots of tension. “Don’t you?”

“Not particularly—as a rule.” He took a sip of wine, reflecting. “So many of them are demanding, selfish, self-absorbed. And while that’s not so much of a problem, they often hurt each other quite consciously, quite carelessly. There’s no point, and there should be no pride in causing harm.”

“Most people don’t mean to.” She saw the light in his eye and shook her head. “Oh, you’re cynical. I can’t understand cynics.”

“That’s because you’re a romantic, and a naive one at that. But it’s charming on you.”

“Now, should I be flattered or insulted?” she wondered aloud, smiling with more ease than she’d ever felt with him, even when he moved to sit at the ottoman in front of her chair.

“Truth can be accepted without either. What do you teach?”

“Literature—or I used to.”

“That would explain the books.” They were stacked on the coffee table and in a box beside the couch. He’d seen others piled on the kitchen table and knew there were still more in her bedroom upstairs.

“Reading’s one of my greatest pleasures. I love sliding into a story.”

“But this …” He leaned back, reached over and plucked up the top book on the table. “
The Study of Wolves, Their History and Habits.
That wouldn’t be a story, would it?”

“No. I bought that on impulse one day, and didn’t even realize I’d packed it. But I’m glad I did.” In a habitual gesture, she brushed at the hair that had come loose from her braid. “You must have seen him.” She eased forward, the delight in her large, dark eyes nearly irresistible. “The black wolf that comes around.”

He continued to look into her eyes, straight in, as he enjoyed his wine. “I can’t say I have.”

“Oh, but I’ve seen him nearly every day since I came. He’s gorgeous, and doesn’t seem as wary of people as you’d expect. He came into the clearing right before the storm tonight. And sometimes I hear him calling, or it seems I do. Haven’t you?”

“I’m closer to the sea,” he told her. “That’s what I listen to. A wolf is a wild thing, Rowan, as I’m sure your book has told you. And a rogue, one who runs alone, the wildest of all.”

“I wouldn’t want to tame him. I’d say we’re just curious about each other at this point.” She glanced toward the window, wondered if the wolf had found a warm, dry place for the night. “They don’t hunt for sport,” she added, absently tossing her braid behind her back. “Or out of viciousness. They hunt to feed. Most often they live in packs, families. Protect their young, and—” She broke off, jumping a little when lightning flashed bright and close.

“Nature’s a violent thing. It only tolerates the rest of us. Nature can be generous or ruthless.” He put the book aside. “You have to have care in how you deal with it, and you’ll never understand it.”