Enchanted

by Nora Roberts

  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.

  “Chocolate chip.” She managed a smile of her own. “Is there another kind?” She busied her hands by opening the container. “They’re pretty good. I’ve eaten two dozen at least already.”

  “Then sit. You can wash them back with tea. You’ll have gotten chilled wandering about. The wind’s brisk today.”

  “I suppose.” She sat at the little kitchen table, just big enough for two. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been out,” she began, shoving at her tangled hair as he brought the pot to the table. “I was distracted by—” She broke off as he skimmed his thumb over her cheek.

  “You’ve scratched your face.” He said it softly as the tiny drop of blood lay warm and intimate on his thumb.

  “Oh, I … got tangled up. Some thorns.” She was lost in his eyes, could have drowned in them. Wanted to. “Liam.”

  He touched her face again, took away the sting she was too befuddled to notice. “You were distracted,” he said, shifting back, then sitting across from her. “When you were in the forest.”

  “Ah … yes. By the white doe.”

  He lifted a brow as he poured out the tea. “A white deer? Were you on a quest, Rowan?”

  She smiled self-consciously. “The white deer, or bird, or horse. The traditional symbol of quest in literature. I suppose I was on a mild sort of quest, to find you. But I did see her.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said mildly. His mother enjoyed traditional symbols.

  “Have you?”

  “Yes.” He lifted his tea. “Though it’s been some time.”

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Aye, that she is. Warm yourself, Rowan. You’ve bird bones and you’ll take a chill.”

  “I grew up in San Francisco. I’m used to chills. Anyway, I saw her, and couldn’t stop myself from following her. I ended up in this clearing, with a stone circle.”

  His eyes sharpened, glinted. “She led you there?”

  “I suppose you could put it that way. You know the place? I never expected to find something like it here. You think of Ireland or Britain, Wales or Cornwall—not Oregon—when you think of stone dances.”

  “You find them where they’re wanted. Or needed. Did you go in?”

  “No. It’s silly, but it spooked me a little, so I went around. And got completely lost.”

  He knew he should have felt relieved, but instead there was a vague sense of disappointment. But of course, he reminded himself, he’d have known if she’d stepped inside. Instantly. “Hardly lost, since you’re here.”

  “It seemed like I was lost. The pa
th disappeared and I couldn’t get my sense of direction. I probably have a poor one anyway. The tea’s wonderful,” she commented. It was warm and strong and smooth, with something lovely and sweet just under it.

  “An old family blend,” he said with a hint of a smile, then sampled one of her cookies. “They’re good. So you cook, do you, Rowan?”

  “I do, but the results are hit-and-miss.” All of her early-morning cheer was back and bubbling in her voice. “This morning, I hit. I like your house. It’s like something out of a book, standing here with its back to the cliffs and sea and the stones glittering in the sunlight.”

  “It does for me. For now.”

  “And the views …” She rose to go to the window over the sink, and caught her breath at the sight of the cliffs. “Spectacular. It must be spellbinding during a storm like the one we had last night.”

  Spellbinding, he thought, knowing his father’s habit of manipulating the weather for his needs, was exactly what the storm had been. “And did you sleep well?”

  She felt the heat rise up her throat. She could hardly tell him she’d dreamed he’d made love to her. “I don’t remember ever sleeping better.”

  He laughed, rose. “It’s flattering”—he watched her shoulders draw in—“to know my company relaxed you.”

  “Hmm.” Struggling to shake off the feeling that he knew exactly where her mind had wandered, she started to turn. She noticed the open door and the little room beyond where he’d left a light burning on a desk, and a sleek black computer running.

  “Is that your office?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I’ve interrupted your work, then.”

  “It’s not pressing.” He shook his head. “Why don’t you ask if you want to see?”

  “I do,” she admitted. “If it’s all right.”

  In answer he simply gestured and waited for her to step into the room ahead of him.

  The room was small, but the window was wide enough to let in that stunning view of the cliffs. She wondered how anyone could concentrate on work with that to dream on. Then laughed when she saw what was on the monitor screen.

  “So you were playing games? I know this one. My students were wild for it. The Secrets of Myor.”

  “Don’t you play games?”

  “I’m terrible at them. Especially this kind, because I tend to get wrapped up in them, and then every step is so vital. I can’t take the pressure.” Laughing again, she leaned closer, studying the screen with its lightning-stalked castle and glowing fairies. “I’ve only gotten to the third level where Brinda the witch queen promises to open the Door Of Enchantment if you can find the three stones. I usually find one, then fall into the Pit of Forever.”

  “There are always traps on the way to enchantment. Or there wouldn’t be pleasure in finding it. Do you want to try again?”

  “No—my palms get damp and my fingers fumble. It’s humiliating.”

  “Some games you take seriously, some you don’t.”

  “They’re all serious to me.” She glanced at the CD jacket, admiring the illustration, then blinked at the small lettering: Copyright by the Donovan Legacy. “It’s your game?” Delighted, she straightened, turned. “You create computer games? That’s so clever.”

  “It’s entertaining.”

  “To someone who’s barely stumbled their way onto the Internet, it’s genius. Myor’s a wonderful story. The graphics are gorgeous, but I really admire the story itself. It’s just magical. A challenging fairy tale with rewards and consequences.”

  Her eyes took on tiny silver flecks of light when she was happy, he noted. And the scent of her warmed with her mood. He knew how to make it warm still more, and how to cause those silver flecks to drown in deep, dark blue.

  “All fairy tales have both. I like your hair this way.” He stepped closer, skimmed his fingers through it, testing weight and texture. “Tumbled and tangled.”

  Her throat snapped closed. “I forgot to braid it this morning.”

  “The wind’s had it,” he murmured, lifting a handful to his face. “I can smell the wind on it, and the sea.” It was reckless, he knew, but he had dreamed as well. And he remembered every rise and fall. “I’d taste both on your skin.”

  Her knees had jellied. The blood was swimming so fast in her veins that she could hear the roar of it in her head. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe. So she only stood, staring into his eyes, waiting.

  “Rowan Murray with the fairy eyes. Do you want me to touch you?” He laid a hand on her heart, felt each separate hammer blow pound between the gentle curves of her breasts. “Like this?” Then spread his fingers, circled them over one slope, under.

  Her bones dissolved, her eyes clouded, and the breath shuddered between her lips in a yielding sigh. His fingers lay lightly on her, but the heat from them seemed to scorch through to flesh. Still, she moved neither toward him nor away.

  “You’ve only to say no,” he murmured, “when I ask if you want me to taste you.”

  But her head fell back, and those clouded eyes closed when he lowered his head to graze his teeth along her jawline. “The sea and the wind, and innocence as well.” His own needs thickened his voice, but there was an edge on it. “Will you give me that as well, do nothing to stop me taking it?” He eased back,