Enchanted (6 page)

What had put that there? She lifted her hand, running her fingers curiously along the ridge of her cheekbones just under her eyes.

Dreams. And her fingers trembled lightly as she dropped them. Hot and shivering dreams. Colors and shapes pulsing through her mind, through her body. So stunning, so … erotic. Hands on her breasts, but not. A mouth crushing down on hers but never really touching.

Closing her eyes, she let the towel fall, skimmed her hands over her breasts, down, up again, trying to focus on where she had journeyed in sleep.

The taste of male skin, the hot slide of it over her own. Needs rocketing through the mind to be met and met again until the beauty of it brought tears.

She’d never experienced anything like that, not even in life. How could she find it in dreams?

And why should she go to sleep with a wolf and dream of a man?

Of Liam.

She knew it had been Liam. She could all but feel the shape of his mouth on hers. But how could that be? she wondered, tracing a fingertip over her lips. How could she be so sure she knew just what it would be like to meet his mouth with hers?

“Because you want to,” she murmured, opening her eyes to meet those in the mirror again. “Because you want him and you’ve never wanted anyone else like this. And, Rowan, you moron, you don’t have the slightest
idea how to make it happen, except in dreams. So that’s where it happens for you. Psychology 101—real basic stuff.”

Not certain if she should be amused or appalled at herself, she dressed, went down to brew her morning coffee. Snug in her sweater, she flung open the windows to the cool, fresh air left behind by the rain.

She thought, without enthusiasm, about cereal or toast or yogurt. She had a yen for chocolate chip cookies, which was absurd at barely eight in the morning, so she told herself. Dutifully she opened the cupboard for cereal, then slammed it shut.

If she wanted cookies, she would have them. And, with a grin on her face and a gleam in her eye, she began to drag out ingredients. She slopped flour, scattered sugar on the counter. And mixed with abandon. There was no one to see her lick dough from her fingers. No one to gently remind her that she should tidy up between each step of the process.

She made an unholy mess.

Dancing with impatience, she waited for the first batch to bake. “Come on, come on. I’ve got to have one.” The minute the buzzer went off, she grabbed the cookie sheet, dropped it on the top of the stove, then scooped up the first cookie with a spatula. She blew on it, slipped it off and tossed it from hand to hand. Still she burned her tongue on hot, gleaming chocolate as she bit in. And, rolling her eyes dramatically, she swallowed with a hedonistic groan.

“Good job. Really good job. More.”

She ate a dozen before the second batch was baked.

It felt decadent, childish. And wonderful.

When the phone rang, she popped the next batch in, and lifted the receiver with doughy fingers. “Hello?”

“Rowan. Good morning.”

For a moment the voice meant nothing to her; then, with a guilty start, she realized it was Alan. “Good morning.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, no. I’ve been up quite a while. I’m …” She grinned and chose another cookie. “Just having breakfast.”

“Glad to hear it. You tend to skip too many meals.”

She put the whole cookie into her mouth and talked around it. “Not this time. Maybe the mountain air”—she managed to swallow—“stimulates my appetite.”

“You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Really?” I’m not myself, she wanted to say. I’m better. And I’m not nearly finished yet.

“You sound a little giddy. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m wonderful.” How could she explain to this solid and serious man with his solid and serious voice that she’d been dancing in the kitchen eating cookies, that she’d spent the evening with a wolf, that she’d had erotic dreams about a man she barely knew?

And that she wouldn’t change a moment of any of those experiences.

“I’m getting lots of reading done,” she said instead. “Taking long walks. I’ve been doing some sketching, too. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy it. It’s a gorgeous morning. The sky’s unbelievably blue.”

“I checked the weather for your area last night. There were reports of a severe thunderstorm. I tried to call, but your lines were out.”

“Yes, we had a storm. That’s probably why it’s so spectacular this morning.”

“I was worried, Rowan. If I hadn’t been able to reach you this morning, I was going to fly to Portland and rent a car.”

The thought of it, just the thought of him invading her magical little world filled her with panic. She had to fight to keep it out of her voice. “Oh, Alan, there’s absolutely no need to worry. I’m fine. The storm was exciting, actually. And I have a generator, emergency lights.”

“I don’t like thinking of you up there alone, in some rustic little hut in the middle of nowhere. What if you hurt yourself, or fell ill, got a flat tire?”

Her mood began to deflate, degree by degree. She could actually feel the drop. He’d said the same words to
her before, and so had her parents, with the exact same tone of bafflement mixed with concern.

“Alan, it’s a lovely, sturdy and very spacious cabin, not a hut. I’m only about five miles outside of a very nice little town, which makes this far from the middle of nowhere. If I hurt myself or get sick, I’ll go to a doctor. If I get a flat tire, I suppose I’ll figure out how to change it.”

“You’re still alone, Rowan, and as last night proved, easily cut off.”

“The phone’s working just fine now,” she said between clenched teeth. “And I have a cell phone in the Rover. Added to that, I believe I have a moderately intelligent mind, I’m in perfect health, I’m twenty-seven years old and the entire purpose of my coming here was to be alone.”

There was a moment’s silence, a moment just long enough to let her know she’d hurt his feelings. And more than long enough to bring her a swift wash of guilt. “Alan—”

“I’d hoped you’d be ready to come home, but that apparently isn’t the case. I miss you, Rowan. Your family misses you. I only wanted to let you know.”

“I’m sorry.” How many times in her life had she said those words? she wondered as she pressed her fingers to the dull ache forming in her temple. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Alan. I suppose I feel a little defensive. No, I’m not ready to come back. If you speak to my parents, tell them I’ll call them later this evening, and that I’m fine.”

“I’ll be seeing your father later today.” His voice was stiff now, his way—she knew—of letting her know he was hurt. “I’ll tell him. Please keep in touch.”

“I will. Of course I will. It was nice of you to call. I’ll, ah, write you a long letter later this week.”

“I’d enjoy that. Good-bye, Rowan.”

Her cheerful mood totally evaporated, she hung up, turned and looked at the chaos of the kitchen. As penance, she cleaned every inch of it, then put the cookies in a plastic container, sealing them away.

“No, I am not going to brood. Absolutely not.” She banged open a cupboard door, took out a smaller container and transferred half the cookies into it.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed a light jacket from the hook by the door and, tucking the
container under her arm, stepped outside.

She didn’t have a clue where Liam’s cabin was, but he’d said he was closer to the sea. It only made sense to hunt it out, she decided. In case of … an emergency. She’d take a walk, and if she didn’t find it … Well, she thought, shaking the cookies, she wouldn’t starve while she was looking.

She walked into the trees, struck again at how much cooler, how much greener it was among them. There was birdsong, the whisper of the trees and the sweet smell of pine. Where sunlight could dapple through, it danced on the forest floor, sparkled on the water of the stream.

The deeper she walked, the higher her mood rose again. She paused briefly, just to close her eyes, to let the wind ruffle her hair, play against her cheeks. How could she explain this, just this, to a man like Alan? she wondered. Alan, whose every want was logical, whose every step was reasonable and solid.

How could she make him, or anyone else from the world she’d run from, understand what it was like to crave something as intangible as the sound of trees singing, the sharp taste the sea added to the air, the simple peace of standing alone in something so vast and so alive?

“I’m not going back there.” The words, more than the sound of her own voice, had her eyes snapping open in surprise. She hadn’t realized she’d decided anything, much less something that momentous. The half laugh that escaped was tinged with triumph. “I’m not going back,” she repeated. “I don’t know where I’m going, but it won’t be back.”

She laughed again, longer, fuller as she turned a dizzy circle. With a spring to her step, she started to take the curve of the path to the right. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of white. Turning, she stared with openmouthed wonder at the white doe.

They watched each other with the tumbling stream between them, the doe with serene gold eyes and a hide as white as clouds, and the woman with both shock and awe glowing in her face.

Captivated, Rowan stepped forward. The deer stood, elegant as a sculpture of ice. Then, with a lift of her head, she turned fluidly and leaped into the trees. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rowan scrambled across the stream, using polished rocks as stepping stones. She saw the path immediately, then the deer, a bounding blur of
white.

She hurried after, taking each twist and turn of the path at a run. But always the deer stayed just ahead, with no more than a quick glimpse of gleaming white, and the thunder of hooves on the packed ground.

Then she was in a clearing. It seemed to open up out of nowhere, a perfect circle of soft earth ringed by majestic trees. And within the circle, another circle, made of dark gray stones, the shortest as high as her shoulder, the tallest just over her head.

Stunned, she reached out, touched her fingertips to the surface of the nearest stone. And would have sworn she felt a vibration, like harp strings being plucked. And heard, in some secret part of her mind, the answering note.

A stone dance in Oregon? That was … certainly improbable, she decided. Yet here it was. It didn’t strike her as being new, but surely it couldn’t be otherwise. If it was ancient, someone would have written about it, tourists would come to see it, scientists to study.

Curious, she started to step through two stones, then immediately stepped back again. It seemed the air within quivered. The light was different, richer, and the sound of the sea closer than it had seemed only a moment before.

She told herself she was a rational woman, that there was no life in stone, nor any difference between the air where she stood and that one foot inside the circle. But rational or not, she skirted around rather than walking through.

It was as if the deer had waited, halfway around the dance just down a thin, shadowy path through the trees. Just as it seemed she looked at Rowan with understanding, and amusement, before she bounded gracefully ahead.

This time when she followed, Rowan lost all sense of direction. She could hear the sea, but was it ahead, to the left, or to the right? The path twisted, turned and narrowed until it was no more than a track. She climbed over a fallen log, skidded down an incline and wandered through shadows deep as twilight.

When the path ended abruptly, leaving her surrounded by trees and thick brush, she cursed herself for being
an idiot. She turned, intending to retrace her steps, and saw that the track veered off in two directions.

For the life of her she couldn’t remember which to take.

Then she saw the flash of white again, just a glimmer to the left. Heaving a breath, then holding it, Rowan pushed through the brush, fought her way out of the grasp of a thick, thorny vine. She slipped, righted herself. Cursing vividly now, she tripped and stumbled clear of the trees.

The cabin stood nearly on the cliffs, ringed by trees on three sides and backed by the rocks on the fourth. Smoke billowed from the chimney and was whisked away to nothing in the wind.

She pushed the hair out of her face, smeared a tiny drop of blood from a nick a thorn had given her. It was smaller than Belinda’s cabin, and made of stone rather than wood. Sunlight had the mica glittering like diamonds. The porch was wide but uncovered. On the second floor a small and charming stone balcony jutted out from glass doors.

When she lowered her gaze from it, Liam was standing on the porch. He had his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans, a black sweatshirt with its arms shoved up to the elbows. And he didn’t look particularly happy to see her.

But he nodded. “Come in, Rowan. Have some tea.”

He walked back inside without waiting for her response, and left the door open wide behind him. When she came closer, she heard the music, pipes and strings tangled in a weepy melody. She barely stopped her hands from twisting together as she stepped inside.

The living area seemed larger than she’d expected, but thought it was because the furnishings were very spare. A single wide chair, a long sofa, both in warm rust colors. A fire blazed under a mantel of dull gray slate. Gracing it was a jagged green stone as big as a man’s fist and a statue of a woman carved in alabaster with her arms uplifted, her head thrown back, her naked body slender as a wand.

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.