by Nora Roberts
the gate. He called out to her the minute she stepped inside.
“Back in the kitchen.”
Now wasn’t that homey, she thought, amused at both of them. The little woman home from work and the man in the kitchen. It was a bit like playing house, she supposed, and tried not to worry that the house, and the game, wasn’t for either of them in the long run.
He was at the stove, which amused her. He could cook, as he’d demonstrated at that first breakfast. But he wasn’t one to make a habit of it.
“Want some soup?” He stirred at the little pot, sniffed. “It’s canned, but it’s food. I was stuck on the phone all night and missed dinner.”
“Thanks, no. I managed to get some of Shawn’s lasagna, which I can promise tasted better than that will. If you’d called, I’d have brought you some.”
“Didn’t think of it.” He turned to get a bowl out of the cupboard. One look at her, and he wanted to grab her. “You’re later than usual,” he said, keeping his tone casual as she set a bag on the counter. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it tonight.”
“We were busier than usual. I shouldn’t say ‘usual,’ ” she corrected and rolled the ache from her shoulders. “We’ve been packed every night this week. Aidan wants Shawn to take on some help in the kitchen, and you’d think Aidan had brought his manhood into question. Such a ruckus. They were still going at it when I left.”
“Aidan’s going to need another man at the bar.”
“Well, I won’t be the one to say so, as he’ll have the same reaction as Shawn. I’m not having my head bit off.”
She got the kettle to fill as Trevor leaned back against the counter, spooning up soup where he stood. “I’ll have some tea to keep you company. Since you’re eating, you might want to have what’s in the bag with your tinned soup.”
“What is it?”
She only smiled and turned on the tap. Trevor set down his bowl, peeked in the bag. When his hand darted in, like an eager boy’s into a pond after a prize frog, she laughed.
“Bagels?”
“Well, we couldn’t have you pining, could we?” Delighted with his reaction, she carried the kettle to the stove. “Shawn made them, lest you think I’ve been baking—and believe me you’re better off I haven’t. He wasn’t pleased with the first batch or you’d have had them a couple of days ago. But he’s well satisfied with these, so I think you’ll enjoy them.”
Trevor only stood there, the plastic-wrapped bread in his hand, staring at her as she turned on the burner under the kettle. It was ridiculous, insane, but something was stirring inside him. Warm, fluid, lovely. In defense, he struggled with a joke.
“A full dozen, too. I guess I owe you twelve hundred dollars.”
She glanced back, her face blank for a moment, then it filled with humor. “A hundred a piece. I forgot about that. Damn, I suppose I’ll have to split it with Shawn.” She patted his cheek, then reached for the tea. “Well, no charge this time. I thought you’d enjoy a little bit of home.”
“Thank you.”
His voice was so serious, she glanced back, saw his face. His mouth was serious as well, and his eyes were dark and fixed on her. Her pulse scrambled, so she covered it with a shrug. “You’re very welcome, but it’s just a bit of bread after all.”
No, it wasn’t. She’d thought of it. Without even realizing how much the small gesture would mean, she’d thought of him.
He set the bag down, stepped to her, turned her. And laid his mouth on hers.
Soft, lush, long and deep. That something that stirred inside him swelled.
He drew back, half believing he’d see what it was, what it meant, in her face. But her eyes were clouded. Deep blue smoke blurring whatever was behind them.
“Well.” She was sinking, sinking without meaning to have stepped into the bog. “I can’t wait to see what happens after you taste—”
But he silenced her. Another kiss, luxurious and tender. She was trembling, he realized, and had trembled against him before. But it was different, for both of them somehow different. The crackle of power that always snapped between them was only a low humming now, steady and true. The blood that always raced ran thick, almost lazy.
“Trevor.” His name circled in her head, slipped through her lips. “Trevor.”
He reached behind her, switched off the burner, then lifted her into his arms. “I want to make love with you.” And saying it, he knew it would be the first time.
She pressed her lips to the side of his throat as he carried her out. It was like sliding into a dream, she thought, one she hadn’t known she had pooled inside her. Being granted a wish she hadn’t known slept in her heart.
She felt . . . treasured.
When he carried her up the stairs, the romance of it made her heart ache. Music drifted through her head. Harps and flutes both low and sweet. He stopped, looked at her, and she thought he must hear it as well. Such moments were made for magic.
The bedroom windows were open, so the wind danced through the curtains and brought with it all the damp and mysterious scents of night. The moon shimmered through in silver dust.
He sat her on the bed, then moved around the room to light the candles that had been set out for practicality and never used. Their flames swayed and tossed soft shadows, a softer fragrance. From the tall bottle on the table by the bed he took one of the flowers she had picked from the cottage garden and put there. He handed it to her.
Then he sat beside her, lifted her into his lap and held her. The way she curled into him as if she’d been waiting made him wonder how they had missed this step. Why they had both rushed to reach the peak, time after time, night after night, without once lingering over the journey.
This time, he promised himself. This time. When he touched a hand to her cheek, she lifted her face, lifted her mouth to meet his. Time spun out, lost importance in this new and sumptuous mating of lips. The love hidden inside her heart poured into it without shame or fear, and still continued to rise inside her as if from a well that never ran dry.
Here was the compassion neither thought they needed, the tenderness both had shrugged aside, and all the patience they’d forgotten.
He pressed his lips to the center of her palm. Her hands were elegant, he thought, silky of texture. They might have belonged to a princess in a castle. No, there was too much strength in them for a princess. A queen, he decided, kissing her fingers one by one, who knew how to rule.
He brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist, and felt her blood beat there.
Music whispered on the wind as he laid her back on the pillows. Her arms came up, her fingers skimming over his face, into his hair, as gentle as his had been. Her eyes weren’t clouded now, but clear.
“There’s magic tonight,” she said, and drew him down to her.
They touched, as if it was the first time, as if there had been no others before or would be no others after.
Innocence reaching for intimacy. For that night at least, she knew it was true and gave herself to it. To him. Through the glow of candlelight and moonbeams, they gave to each other.
He tasted and she whispered. She stroked and he murmured. Sounds of pleasure twined together. Without rush, they undressed each other and savored the magic.
His skin was tones darker than hers. Had he noticed that before? Had he paid enough attention to how like silk she was, or how passion, the gradual, glorious build of it, gave that lovely white skin a flush of rose?
The taste of her, there, just at the underside of her breast. Nothing else had that delicacy of flavor. He thought he could live on that alone for the rest of his life.
And when his tongue slid over her and she shivered,he was sure of it.
Even when warmth simmered toward heat, when breaths became gasps and murmurs moans, there was no hurry. She crested on a long, gentle wave, her body flowing up to his. She felt golden, rich with sensation, each one somehow separate and shining even as they merged together.
Love mad
e her selfless, nudged her to give back the glory. She rose over him, slid down to him, her lips warm and tender. Her hands skimmed over him, tough muscles that quivered at her lazy strokes, smooth skin that delighted her.
Now, she thought, now before greed could sneak back and steal this time from them. She clasped his hands with hers and took him into her.
Slowly and silkily, with urgency only a pulsebeat away. He filled, she surrounded.
The light danced over her skin, her hair, into her eyes, bewitching him. He remembered the painting of the mermaid with her face, that gorgeous arch of body, lovely thumble of hair. She belonged to him now, fact and fantasy. He’d have followed her, if she’d asked, into the sea. Into the heart of it.
Her eyes closed, her head tipped back, her body bowed. Nothing he’d ever seen was more beautiful than that moment when she lost herself. The shiver ran down her and into him. He swore he could feel it, feel her, in every cell.
He came up to meet her, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat. And it was there, holding each other, that they let go of everything else and sank under the surface, and toward the heart, together.
In the dark, wrapped around him, her mind sliding toward sleep, Darcy closed a hand over the silver disk that lay on his heart. She assumed his Irish-loving mother had given it to him, and that he wore it touched her. “What does it say?” she murmured, because the words were faded and unclear to her.
But when he told her she was already drifting, so his voice floated like out of a dream. Forever love.
Later, when they slept, he dreamed a dream of blue water shot through with sunlight like bright jewels,tipped by white waves that spewed drops like tears. Beneath the surface, where silence should have reigned, was music. A celebration of sound that quickened the pulse and fed the spirit.
He went toward it, searching shadows and light for the source. The golden sand beneath his feet was littered with gemstones, as if some carelessly generous hand had strewn them like bread crumbs.
A silver palace rose up into the blue light, its towers glinting and a banquet of flowers spread at its feet. The music swelled, seduced, became female. A woman’s voice raised in song. A siren’s call that was irresistible.
He found her beside the silver palace, sitting on a hill of rich blue that pulsed like a heart. There she sat and sang and smiled at him in a beckoning way.
Her hair, dark as midnight, flowed around her, teased the milky skin of her breasts. Her eyes, blue as the hill, laughed.
He wanted her more than he wanted to live. The wanting made him feel weak, and the weakness infuriated him. Still he couldn’t stop himself from going to her.
“Darcy.”
“Have you come for me, then, Trevor?” Her voice wove spells, magic threads winding even when she spoke. “What will you give me?”
“What do you want?”
She only laughed again, shook her head. “It’s for you to figure out.” She reached out a hand, coyly inviting him to join her. Jewels sparkled at her wrist, little points of brilliant fire. “What will you give me?”
Frustration beat through his blood. “More of these,” he said, touching the gems at her wrist. “As many as you want, if that’s what you want.”
She held her arm out, turning it so the stones shot fire. “Well, I can’t say I mind having such things, but it’s not enough. What else have you got?”
“I’ll take you to all the places you want to see.”
She pouted at that and picked up a glittering comb to run it through her flowing hair. “Is that all?”
Temper snaked up, hissed in his throat. “I’ll make you rich, famous. Put the damn world at your feet.”
Now she yawned.
“Clothes,” he snapped. “Servants, houses. The envy and admiration of everyone who sees you. Everything you could ask for.”
“It’s not enough.”
He saw that this time when she spoke, her eyes wept. “
Can’t you see it’s not enough?”
“What, then?” He reached for her, intending to pull her up, to make her answer, but before his hands could touch, he slipped, stumbled, and was falling.
The voice that followed him wasn’t Darcy’s, but Gwen’s. “Until you know and give, it won’t be done. Until you do, it won’t begin.”
He shot out of sleep like a man at the edge of drowning, heart thundering, breath raw. And even then, awake, aware, he heard the faintest whisper.
“Look at what you already have. Give what’s only yours to give.”
“Christ.” Shaken, he got out of bed. Darcy shifted closer to the warmth he’d left, and slept on.
He started toward the bathroom, for water, then yanked on his jeans instead and went downstairs. Three A.M., he thought when he saw the clock. Perfect. He got down the bottle of whiskey and poured a stiff three fingers into a glass.
What the hell was wrong with him? But he knew, and knocked back the whiskey, hissed at the heat, set down the glass. He was in love with her. With a half laugh, he pressed his fingers to his eyes. Fell in love over bagels, he decided.
He’d been doing fine until then, he thought. Holding his own. Attraction, affection, interest, sex. Those were all safe and sound, those were all controllable.
Then she brings him a bagful of baked goods and he’s gone. Joke’s on you, Magee, he thought. You’ve been on your way since the first minute. The last slide just took you by surprise.
Hell of a slide, too.
He hadn’t thought he had it in him. After Sylvia, when he’d done everything he could to be in love, had planned it, orchestrated it, and failed so miserably at it, he’d been sure he simply wasn’t capable of that kind of emotion toward a woman.
It had worried him, dismayed him, angered him. Then he’d accepted it as likely for the best. If a man lacked something, it was only logical, efficient even, to compensate for it elsewhere. Work, his parents, his sister. The theater.
It had been enough, nearly enough. He’d convinced himself of it. And convinced himself that he could want Darcy, have Darcy, care for Darcy without it ever being more than that.
Now, without plan, without effort, it was . . . she was everything.
Part of him was thrilled. He wasn’t incapable of love. But there was just enough fear snaking through that thrill to remind him to be cautious. Be careful.
He went to the back door, opened it to cool his head with air gone damp and misty. He needed a clear head to deal with Darcy.
Magic, she’d said. There was magic tonight. He believed that, and was beginning to accept that there had been magic all along. In her, in this place. Maybe it was fate, and maybe it was luck. He’d have to work out if that luck was good or bad. Loving Darcy wasn’t going to be a smooth and easy road. Then again, he’d never really wanted the smooth and easy.
He didn’t want what his grandparents had—the chill formality of their marriage with no passion, with no humor or affection. There’d never be anything like chilly formality with a woman like Darcy.
He wanted her, and would figure out how to keep her. He didn’t doubt that. It was just a matter of calculating what to offer, how to offer, and when to offer what she wouldn’t be able to resist.
The last echo of the dream drifted back to him. Give what’s only yours to give.
He closed the words out, shut the door. He’d had enough of magic for one night.
SEVENTEEN
THE MORNING WAS misty. Darcy woke to light gray with rolling fog, and the bed empty beside her. There was nothing new in either. The fog would burn off before long if it was meant to. And as far as she could tell, Trevor was always up before dawn.
The man was a robot when it came to such matters.
She rolled over, wishing he was there to cuddle up against and knowing that because he wasn’t she wouldn’t sleep for wondering what he was up to. She supposed neither of them had gotten a reasonable night’s sleep since they’d become lovers. But running on sexua
l energy seemed to be working.
She felt wonderful.
She rose to take her robe from the hook in the closet. She had clothes in there as well and other things she deemed necessary for basic living throughout the cottage. It was a kind of living together they were doing, she knew, and had been all summer. Though neither of them mentioned it. In fact, they took great pains to avoid the subject, as if it were politics or religion.
He had a few things in her rooms over the pub, for the times he stayed there. And though it was a first for her, this having her things on a man’s shelf and his on hers, it had been a casual process, this shifting of items from place to place and melding of homes and lifestyles. Casual, she thought as she walked into the bath to turn on the shower, because that’s how they treated the entire business between them.
Yet there had been nothing casual in what had happened the night before. The scope of it was . . . She stepped under the spray, closing her eyes, tilting back her head. It was beyond anything she’d experienced before, anything she’d known two people could create between them.
It had to have been the same for him. He couldn’t have touched that way, been touched by her that way, unless he felt something deep and something true.
Lovemaking. Dreamily, she circled soap over her wet skin while the steam rose and closed her in. She hadn’t understood what that meant before Trevor. Not what it could mean. Vulnerability. She’d never realized that being vulnerable to someone else could be beautiful. Safe and warm and lovely. Just as knowing that for that stretch of time, in that soft world, he’d been vulnerable as well.
Here, at last, was a man she could open herself to completely, could promise herself to. And trust, and love, and cherish. They would spend their lives together, going wherever fate took them, grabbing hold of what life offered and making more from it. Through rushed days or quiet nights, in solitude or crowds. Making children, building homes.
She would make her mark beside him, and open all the doors she’d always longed to pass through.
It was possible to have everything after all, she thought. All you needed first was love.
He heard her singing of it when he stepped into the bedroom, of love and longing. It made him ache. He stood, while her voice slipped through the door she hadn’t quite closed and twined around him. He waited until her song ended, until he saw her moving around the room through the narrow opening.
He’d spent part of his wakeful night deciding just what to do about her.
He gave the door a quick knock with his knuckle, eased it open. She’d already wrapped a towel around herself and was slathering on the cream she kept in a little white pot. He thought it smelled like warm apricots, and it never failed to whet his appetite.
Her hair was wet and curled and wild as it was in the painting she had in her room. It reminded him, uncomfortably, of his dream.
“I brought you some tea.” “
“That’s lovely. Thanks.” She took the cup, smiling at him. Her eyes were still dreamy from her song. “I thought maybe you’d gone on to work already. I’m glad you didn’t.”
She moved closer to touch her mouth to his. She felt soft everywhere from wishing he’d take her back to bed to make love again as they had in the night.
“I was about to come up and wake you.” Wanting her clouded his brain, just as the steam clouded the bath. So he stepped out, kept the door open. “You beat me to it.”
She sipped the hot tea as the air in the bedroom shivered in and chilled her. “And what did you have in mind for after you’d waked me?”
A man with a single-digit IQ and no libido would have caught the invitation. Stay on track, Trevor warned himself. “A walk.”
“A walk?”
“Yeah.” He moved across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He didn’t intend to touch her and lose focus, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t watch her dress and torture himself. “You usually walk down to the village anyway. So we’ll take a walk, then I’ll drive you down.”
She was pink and warm and fragrant from her shower, naked but for a towel, and the man wanted to go tramping around in the mist. A woman with less confidence, Darcy thought, would wonder if she’d misplaced her sex appeal during the night.
It didn’t mean she couldn’t be miffed. “
“Don’t you have to work?” Prepared to pout, she turned to the closet.
“I can take the morning. Mick’s coming in to keep an eye on things. Between him and Brenna I can spare a couple hours.”
The fact was, he could have spared days. Even weeks. It would have been more