Fairytale (15 page)

“I
didn’t
hear the damned story! I—”
He pushed a hand through his damp hair. “I’m going inside.”

She closed her eyes, refusing to watch him
go. Damn! She hadn’t meant to cause him any more pain. And she
obviously had. She’d been worried he’d see through the lies she
told. Now he was seeing lies when she spoke the truth. Why was he
so certain her fairytale didn’t exist? What kind of cruel joke was
this, anyway? He knew the story, but claimed he’d never heard of
it? And what had he meant when he’d told her it was the story he’d
been searching for all his life?

Oh, God, and what did any of this matter?
She’d been foolish to let herself get distracted. She was here to
do a job, not to find answers to the mysteries of her birth and
bloodlines. Not to find out, once and for all, if she might really,
truly have a sister.

She closed her eyes, released a long, slow,
shuddery breath, and with it, forcibly, a bit of her tension. The
sound of the rain was a comfort, and she stood still, feeling its
coolness soaking her clothes, her hair. It didn’t matter that she
didn’t know who she was. Or where she came from. Or what she was
supposed to be doing in this lifetime. It didn’t matter.

She shouldn’t be asking anything from Adam
Reid, anyway. Not when she was about to deceive him and steal from
him. Let him go inside. She’d stay here. And maybe the rain would
cleanse her stained soul. She tipped her face up to the droplets,
felt them cooling her heated skin. And she couldn’t stop the tears
of shame from falling from her eyes, but they mingled with the rain
and were hidden.

Shit, this was too far-fetched to be for
real. Now, more than ever, he knew that Brigit Malone was lying.
Trying to convince him she held the answer to his childhood
delusions. Trying to make him believe she’d heard the tale...that
he’d finally found the source for those fantasies that had nearly
got him beat to death by his own...

Not nearly beat to death. It was a few broken
ribs, for Chrissakes! A half-dozen stitches in the back of the
head. Kids get hurt worse than that playing high school sports.

He hadn’t been in high school, though. He’d
been in second grade. He remembered thinking that if this was love,
he wanted no part of it. And he’d held that lesson in his heart,
ever since. Love and pain were one and the same in his scarred
mind. And whether it made practical sense or not, the lesson was
too well learned to ever be forgotten. Hell, he ought to thank the
old man for teaching him so well.

It doesn’t matter.

Adam stood at the bank of windows in his
study, and he stared out to the stone ledge. She was still out
there. Had been for hours. He’d turned out all the lights so he
could see her in the darkness and the rain. The yellow stars and
moons on her dress made it a little easier to spot her.

She’d remained as she’d been, standing there
and letting the rain pummel her body. He’d had to come inside.
Jesus, she’d been so sensual, especially before she’d risen. When
she’d been lying beside him on that cool rock protrusion, with her
eyes closed and her dress getting wet. All he could think about was
lowering his body on top of hers, of kissing the rainwater from her
skin...

Not of the lies she was telling or of the
reasons behind them. She couldn’t have heard the story when she was
a kid.

Why not, Adam? You apparently did.

Only he didn’t remember it as a story. He
thought he’d actually gone there. Seen that place called Rush,
firsthand. Talked to a pregnant fairy named Maire, for God’s
sake.

Yeah. And what are the chances of Brigit
making up a name like that? What are the odds she’d come up with
the same name you dreamed? Hmm?

But he hadn’t gone there. It
had
been
a dream, instigated by a tale he must have heard...but one he
couldn’t have heard, because he’d searched the world over for it,
and he’d never found it.

Brigit must know about his dream. She must
know details. How, though?

Made no sense whatsoever. There was no
conceivable reason for her to deceive him this way. And even if she
somehow knew all the details of his childhood delusion, and was
making up all this about having heard stories of Rush, there was
one thing she couldn’t fake. Couldn’t lie about. Her likeness to
the woman in his fantasy. The woman he’d been told was his fate.
The woman who was supposed to break his heart, because he had to
let her go in the end.

In a dream, he reminded himself, turning to
glance at the painting, the enchantress from his childhood fantasy.
Only in a dream.

And that old doubt came whispering through
his mind like a cool, bracing wind. It wasn’t a dream, Adam. And it
wasn’t a delusion. It was real, and deep down inside, you know it.
No other explanation makes sense.

A shiver worked up his spine. The practical
part of his mind dismissed that whimsical voice, ignored it, but
his heart couldn’t do the same. What if it were true? What if his
experience hadn’t been a fantasy? And what if she were
really...

His gaze returned to the ledge outside. She
stood with her arms stretched out to her sides, head tipped back to
the rain. And she turned in an excruciatingly slow circle.

She is a faery’s childe, and her joy is the
rain. From it she draws comfort.

Jesus, he snapped inwardly. Quit thinking in
terms of that damned Celtic text!

But he couldn’t stop thinking of it, because
she was the embodiment of all it described. Damn, could she really
be...

Finally she stopped turning, let her arms
fall to her sides, and turned to walk along the path, and out of
his line of vision. She was coming back to the house.

Maybe, he reasoned, as he built a fire in the
grate and tried to convince himself it was for his own benefit, not
hers, maybe there really were more things in heaven and earth than
were dreamt of in his philosophy. Maybe.

So either she was telling the truth, and had
no more idea than he, where the story had come from. Or she was
lying in a deliberate attempt to perpetrate some complex scam.

Or maybe all of this was real. Part of his
mind wanted to play with that theory, examine it, and dwell on it.
But most of his mind rebelled. He wouldn’t let himself linger in
those long-forbidden areas of his mind—realms he’d deemed
off-limits, like the woods where it had all begun. But it kept
coming back to him, teasing his brain the same way sounds on
rooftops around Christmas Eve teased children’s minds the world
over. Tempting his imagination to dare explore it.

She’d told him a tale of Rush. And in it,
Maire had twin daughters. Brigit and Bridin. She’d asked him about
that part of the tale, whether it was included in any versions he
might have heard. Why? The only logical answer was that she,
Brigit, believed she might
be
the Brigit in the story. And
that somewhere, she had a twin sister named Bridin.

If that were true, then the pregnant Maire
he’d dreamt of had shown him a vision of her own soon-to-be-born
daughter. And told him she was to be his fate.

He blinked, recalling that fairy lady’s words
to him when he’d been a little boy. “She needs you to show her the
way...the way to her sister, and then show her the way back
home.”

He gave his head a shake to silence that
bell-like voice he remembered so well, but it went right on. “You
mustn’t let yourself fall in love with her. She’ll break your heart
if you do.”

A cold chill crept into his nape, and he
shivered. As he passed the geranium on the end table, he paused,
doing a double take. The thing’s leaves were vivid green. And if he
wasn’t mistaken, those tiny nubs he saw were flower buds.

His stomach knotted a little. Just yesterday
the plant had been withered and brown. He remembered the way she’d
paused beside it, rubbed her fingers over the drying leaves.

Brigit, his mind whispered. She must
be...

“She must be the owner of a nursery on the
Commons, stupid,” he said aloud. “She must be applying her talents
to save my pathetic house-plants. And that’s all.”

But overnight?

Tomorrow, he decided, dropping to his knees
in front of the hearth and adding larger bits of wood, he would do
some research on Brigit Malone.

He woke to screams so harsh and so frantic
they made his heart freeze in his chest. And then he smelled the
smoke.

“Oh, shit!”

He dove out of bed in his shorts, and took
only the briefest second to feel his bedroom door for heat before
flinging it open, lunging into the hall, and leaning over the
railing, automatically checking the fireplace. He immediately saw
what was wrong, and his entire body sagged in relief. There was no
fire. Something had plugged the flue. Smoke billowed gently from a
smoldering log on the grate and floated upstairs. Brigit had
stopped screaming, so she must realize now that there was no
danger.

He took the stairs two at a time, and used
the brass pail and the matching shovel to scoop the offending log
out. Smoke spiraled off the charred lump. He rapidly shoveled up a
few other smoke-belching embers, and added them to the pail, then
carried the mess outside, into the rain, and dumped it right into
the first puddle of water he came to.

He left the front door open, and opened all
the windows in the study before going back upstairs again. And then
he tapped on Brigit’s door, wanting to check on her before going
back to bed.

There was no answer.

Frowning, Adam pushed the door open and
stepped inside. But she wasn’t in the bed. He flicked the light on,
and then crossed the floor to open the French doors, and allow
fresh air in to cleanse the room’s slightly smoky air. And that’s
when he saw her.

She sat on the floor in the corner, knees
drawn to her chest, eyes wide but, he thought, unseeing. She was
pale, and trembling, and tears had burned tracks into her cheeks.
She clutched a book to her chest with white knuckled hands. And she
wore only that vanilla satin nightgown. One of the thin straps had
fallen from her shoulder, and the way her knees were bent, the
bottom of it was bunched up around her hips. She looked, he thought
sadly, like a frightened little girl. And that was what did him
in.

A shiver ran up Adam’s spine at the fear in
her eyes. He’d never seen anything so desolate in her before. She
always seemed so vibrant, so full of life. But right now, her eyes
were vacant. Dead.

He crouched in front of her, his hands
automatically closing on her shoulders. “Brigit? Hey...come on,
talk to me.” He shook her a little. “Brigit?”

Her eyes seemed to focus on him. But her
breathing was still ragged and too fast.

“It’s all right, angel,” he told her. And
then he blinked, surprised the endearment had fallen so naturally
from his lips. And then he decided it fit her. “There’s no fire,”
he soothed. “Just smoke. The chimney was plugged. It’s no big
deal.”

She closed her eyes, released a shuddering
sigh. “I was so afraid...”

“It’s all right.” He sank to the floor beside
her. It was a good spot. The night breeze rapidly filled the room
with rain-washed air that swept through, whisking the smoke back
outside with it before blasting more fresh air in.

She pressed close to his side, her head on
his shoulder. “Sister Ruth told us to hold hands,” she whispered.
“But I let go. I went back...for Sister Mary Agnes.”

A cold chill raced up his spine as she
whispered the words, and he wasn’t certain she was even aware who
she was talking to. His arms went around her in an effort to stop
her shivering, but it didn’t work.

“B-but I couldn’t find her,” she said. “There
was so much smoke...and then the flames...”

“There’s no fire, Brigit. You’re safe.” He
clasped her nape, turned her head so he could look into her eyes.
They were still closed, so tightly it was as if she were fighting
not to see something. But he had a feeling she was seeing it
anyway. “Open your eyes, Brigit. Dammit, look at me. There’s no
fire, you understand?”

Her eyes opened, but he wasn’t sure if it was
in response to his command or to her own nightmares. They opened
wide. Too wide.

“I couldn’t get out! I couldn’t breathe!”

A lump came into his throat, so large he
nearly choked on it. This was no dream. No nightmare. This was a
real memory.

“You’re safe now,” he told her. He took her
hands, pressed her palms to his own face. “Look at me, will you?
It’s Adam. There’s no fire. You’re safe, Brigit.”

She blinked several times. “Adam...” She sat
up a little straighter, searching his eyes, then she covered her
face with her palms and muttered, “Oh, God, oh, God.” Her entire
body shook with the force of her sobs. She drew her knees to her
chest, wrapped her arms around them, and she rocked back and
forth.

There was the slightest hesitation on Adam’s
part. Slight...as his wariness kicked in to analyze her behavior.
Real trauma, or clever ploy?

No. She wasn’t acting. Whatever was happening
to her, or had happened to her, was real. And frightening. And like
it or not, it was tearing his heart out to see her in this
state.

Adam got to his feet and bent over her. He
slipped one hand beneath her legs and one around her back, and he
picked her up, took her to the bed. He lowered her onto it. She
rolled to one side, her back to him, and drew herself into a little
ball. She reminded him of the woolly bear caterpillars he used to
search for as a child. The way they’d curl themselves up when he
touched them. An act of self-preservation. She was every bit as
scared right now as those insects had been. She trembled, and every
few seconds a sob racked her body. She still clutched that book to
her breast, whatever it was.

Adam swallowed hard. He looked at the door,
even then knowing he couldn’t leave her. Not like this. He
whispered a prayer to St. Francis of Assisi, and then he laid down
on the bed beside her. He snagged a handful of covers, pulled them
up to cover them both.