Dance of Dreams

by Nora Roberts

  Courtship! He berated himself and kept running as the sun grew higher. He set himself a punishing rhythm. What courtship had he given her? He had taken her like a crazed man the first time, and when he had told her he loved her, had there been any finesse? A schoolboy would have shown more care!

  Well out at sea a school of dolphins took turns leaping into the air; a beautifully choreographed water ballet. Nick kept running.

  She won’t be back, he thought grimly. Then in despair—good God what will I do? Will I bury myself in the company and have nothing else, like poor Nadine? Is this what all the years have been for? Every time I dance, she’ll be there, just out of reach. She’ll go to another company, dance with Mitchell or Kirminov. The thought made his blood boil.

  I’ll drag her back. He pounded on, letting the pain fill him. She’s so young! What right do I have to force her back to me? Could I? It isn’t right; a man doesn’t drag a woman back when she leaves him. There’s the pride. I won’t.

  The hell I won’t, he thought suddenly and turned back toward the house. He never slackened his pace. The hell I won’t.

  ***

  Ruth pulled up in front of the house and sat in the rented car, letting the engine idle. The house was two stories of wind– and salt-weathered cedar and gleaming glass. Very impressive, Uncle Seth, she decided, admiring the clean, sharp lines and lavish use of open space he had used in designing this house.

  Swallowing, she wondered for the hundredth time how to approach the situation. All the neat little speeches she had rehearsed on the plane seemed hopelessly silly or strained.

  “Nick, I thought we should talk,” she tried out loud, then laid her forehead on the steering wheel. Brilliant. Why don’t I just use: “Hello, Nick, I was just passing by, thought I’d drop in?” That’s original.

  Just do it, she told herself. Just go up there and knock on the door and let it happen. Moving quickly, Ruth shut off the engine and slid out of the car. The six steps leading to the front door looked impossibly high. Taking a deep breath, as she had so many other times for a jeté from the wings, she climbed them.

  Now knock, she ordered herself as she stared at the door. Just lift your hand, close it into a fist and knock. It took her a full minute to manage it. She waited, the breath backing up in her lungs. No answer. With more determination she knocked again. And waited.

  Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Ruth put her hand on the knob and turned. She almost leaped back when it opened to her touch. The locks and bolts of Manhattan were more familiar.

  The living room apparently took up the entire first floor. The back wall was almost completely in glass, featuring a stunning panorama of the Pacific. For a moment Ruth forgot her anxiety. She had seen other buildings of her uncle’s design, but this was a masterpiece.

  The floor was wood, graced by a few very plain buff-colored rugs. He had placed no paintings on the walls. The ocean was art enough. Trinkets were few, but she lifted an exquisite old brass silent butler that pleased her tremendously. There was a bar with shelves behind it lined with glasses of varying colors and shapes. The sofa was thick and deep and piled with pillows. A gleaming mahogany grand piano stood in the back of the room, its top opened wide. Ruth went to it and lifted a sheet of staff paper.

  Musical notes dotted it, with Nick’s meticulous handwriting in the margins. The Russian writing was unintelligible to her, but she began to pick out the melody on the piano.

  His new ballet? She listened carefully to the unfamiliar music. With a smile she set the paper back in place. He was amazing, she decided. Davidov had the greatest capacity for work of anyone she had ever known.

  But where was he?

  Ruth turned to look around the room again. Could he have gone back to New York? Not with the door unlocked and pages of his new ballet still on the piano! She glanced at her watch and suddenly remembered: She was still on East Coast time. Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought as she quickly calculated the time difference. It was early! He was probably still in bed.

  Slowly, Ruth walked to the stairs and peered up. I can’t just go up there. She pressed her lips together. I could call. She opened her mouth and shut it again on a sound of annoyance. What could she say? Yoo-hoo, Nick, time to get up? She lifted her fingers to her lips to stifle a nervous giggle.

  Taking a deep breath, Ruth put her hand on the banister and started to climb.

  ***

  Nick opened the double glass doors that led from the back deck to the living room. He was breathing hard. His sweat shirt was dampened in a long vee from neck to hem. The exertion had helped. He felt cleaner, clearer. He would go up and have a shower and then work through the day on the new ballet. His plans to go east and drag Ruth back with him were the thoughts of a crazy man.

  Halfway into the room, he stopped. The scent of wildflowers overwhelmed him. God! Would he never escape her?

  What right had she to do this to him, to haunt him wherever he went? Damn her, he thought furiously. I’ve had enough of this!

  Striding to the phone, he lifted it and punched out Ruth’s number in New York. Without any idea of what he would say, Nick waited in blind fury for her to answer. With another curse, he hung up again. Where the devil is she? The company? No, he shook his head immediately. Lindsay. Of course, where else would she go?

  Nick picked up the phone again and had pushed four numbers when a sound caught his attention. Frowning, he glanced toward the stairs. Ruth walked down, her own face creased in a frown.

  Their eyes met immediately.

  “So, there you are,” she said and hoped the words didn’t sound as foolish as they felt. “I was looking for you.”

  With infinite care Nick replaced the phone receiver on its cradle. “Yes?”

  Though his response was far from gracious, Ruth came down the rest of the steps. “Yes. Your door was unlocked. I hope you don’t mind that I just came in.”

  “No.”

  She fidgeted nervously, concentrating all her effort into a smile. “I noticed you’ve started work on a new ballet.”

  “I’ve begun, yes.” The words were carefully spaced. His eyes never left hers.

  Unable to bear the contact, Ruth turned to wander the room. “This is a lovely place. I can see why you come whenever you have the chance. I’ve always loved the ocean. We stayed in a house on the Pacific once in Japan.” She began to ramble on, hardly knowing what she said but needing to fill the space with words. Nick remained silent, studying her back as she stared out to sea.

  Realizing his muscles were balled tight, Nick forced them to relax. He hadn’t heard a word she had said.

  “Do you come to enjoy the view?” he demanded, interrupting her.

  Ruth winced, then composed her face before she turned. “I came to see you,” she told him. “I have things to say.”

  “Very well.” He gestured with his hand. “Say them.”

  His unconscious gesture stiffened her spine. “Oh, I intend to. Sit down.”

  His brow lifted at the order. After a moment he moved to the sofa. “I’m sitting.”

  “Do you practice being insufferable, Davidov, or is it a natural talent?”

  Nick waited a moment, then leaned back against the pillows. “You’ve traveled three thousand miles to tell me this?”

  “And more,” Ruth shot back. “I’ve no intention of being buried by you, professionally or personally. We’ll speak of the dancing first.”

  “By all means.” Nick lifted his hands and let them fall. “Please continue.”

  “I’m a good dancer, and whether you partner me or not, I’ll continue to be a good dancer. In the company you can tell me to dance until my feet drop off, and I’ll do it. You’re the director.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  Ruth glared at him. “But that’s where it stops. You don’t direct my life. Whatever I do
or don’t do is my choice and my responsibility. If I choose to take a dozen lovers or live like a hermit, you have nothing whatever to say about it.”

  “You think not?” His words were cool enough, his position still easy against the pillows, but fury had leaped into his eyes.

  “I know you.” Ruth took another step toward him. “As long as I’m free, until I make a personal commitment, no one has any business interfering with how I live, with what I do. No one questions you, Davidov. You wouldn’t permit it. Well, neither will I.” She put her hands on her hips. “If you think I’ll run along like a good little girl and pack my bags because you tell me to, you’re sadly mistaken. I’m not a little girl, and I won’t be told what to do. I make my own choices.” She walked toward him.

  “You always expect everyone to cheerfully do your bidding,” she continued, still fuming. “But you’d better prepare yourself for a shock. I’ve no intention of being your underling. Partners, Davidov, in every sense. And I won’t live with you; it’s not good enough. If you want me, you’ll have to marry me. That’s it.” Ruth crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

  Nick straightened slowly, then, taking another moment, rose. “Is that an ultimatum?”

  “You bet it is.”

  “I see.” He studied her consideringly. “It seems you give me no choice. You will wish to be married in New York?”

  Ruth opened her mouth, and when there were no words, cleared her throat. “Well, yes—I suppose.”

  “Did you have in mind a small ceremony or something large?”

  With the impetus gone, she stared at him in confusion. “I don’t know . . . I hadn’t thought . . .”

  “Well, you can decide on the plane, yes?” He gave her an odd smile. “Shall I make reservations for a flight now?”

  “Yes. No,” she said when he turned for the phone. Nick tilted his head and waited. “All right, yes, go ahead.” Ruth went to the windows again and stared out. Why, she asked herself, does it seem so wrong?

  “Ruth.” He waited until she faced him again. “I’ve told you I love you, I’ve said the same words to women I don’t even remember. Words mean little.”

  She swallowed and felt the ache begin. The whole expanse of the room separated them.

  “I have not shown you, as I wanted to, the way I felt. You make me clumsy.” He spread his fingers. “A difficult thing for a dancer to admit. If I were not clumsy, I could tell you that my life is not my life without you. I could tell you that you are the heart of it, the muscle, the bone. I could tell you there is only emptiness and aching without you. I could tell you that to be your partner, your husband, your lover, is what I want more than breath. But . . .” He shook his head. “You make me clumsy, and I can only tell you that I love you and hope it is enough.”

  “Nick!” She ran for him, and he caught her before she was halfway across the room.

  He held her tightly, just filling himself with the joy of having her in his arms again. “When I saw you walk down the stairs, I thought it was a dream. I thought I had gone mad.”

  “I thought you’d still be asleep.”

  “Sleep? I don’t think there has been sleep since you left me.” He drew her away. “Never again,” he said fiercely. “Hate me, shout at me, but don’t leave me again.” His mouth came down on hers and smothered her promise.

  Her answer was as wild and heated as his demand. She tangled her fingers into his hair, pressing him closer, wanting to drown in the current that raged between them. Need soared through her, a raw, urgent hunger that made her mouth grow more desperate under his. Desire came in an avalanche of sensations; his taste, his scent, the thick soft texture of his hair in her hands.

  “I love you.” Her mouth formed the words but made no sound. “I want you.”

  She felt him release the zipper at her back and let the dress slip to the floor. Nick let out a low groaning murmur as he stroked his hands down her sides.

  “So small, Iyubovnitsa, I fear always to hurt you.”

  “I’m a dancer,” she reminded him, thrilling to the touch of his hands over the thin silk of her chemise. “Strong as an ox.” They lowered to the sofa and lay tangled together. “I was afraid,” she murmured, closing her eyes as his hands gently aroused her. “Afraid to trust you, afraid to love you, afraid to lose you.”

  “Both of us.” He pulled her close and just held her. “No more.”

  Ruth slipped her hand under his shirt to lay it on his heart. Davidov, she thought. How many years had she worshipped the legend? Now the man was hers. And she his. She held his heart and was sure of it. Smiling, she pressed her lips to his neck and lingered there.

  “Davidov?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Are you really going to accept that ultimatum?”

  His hand reached for her breast. “I’ve thought about it. It seems for the best. You were very fierce. I think I’ll humor you.”

  “Oh, do you?” Her smile was in her voice.

  “Yes, but I will not permit your dozen lovers unless they are all me.” He took his mouth on a teasing journey along her jaw line. “I think I should keep you busy enough.”

  “Maybe,” she said and sighed luxuriously as he began to unlace the front of her chemise.

  His mouth came to hers and swept her away even as he continued to undress her. “I will be a very jealous husband. Unreasonable, perhaps violent.” He lifted his face to smile down at her. “Very hard to live with. Do I still call for the plane?”

  Ruth opened her eyes and looked into his. She smiled. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book in The Cousins O’Dwyer Trilogy by Nora Roberts

  DARK WITCH

  Available from Berkley October 2013

  Winter 1263

  Near the shadow of the castle, deep in the green woods, Sorcha led her children through the gloom toward home. The two youngest rode the sturdy pony with Teagan, barely three, nodding with every plod. Weary, Sorcha thought, after the excitement of Imbolg, the bonfires, and the feasting.

  “Mind your sister, Eamon.”

  At five, Eamon’s minding was a quick poke to wake up his baby sister before he went back to nibbling on the bannocks his mother had baked that morning.

  “Home in your bed soon,” Sorcha crooned when Teagan whined. “Home soon.”

  She’d tarried too long in the clearing, she thought now. And though Imbolg celebrated the first stirrings in the womb of the Earth Mother, night fell too fast and hard in winter.

  A bitter one it had been, crackling with icy winds and blowing snow and ice-tipped rain. The fog had lived all winter, creeping, crawling, curtaining sun and moon. Too often in that wind, in that fog, she’d heard her name called—a beckoning she refused to answer. Too often in that world of white and gray, she’d seen the dark.

  She refused to truck with it.

  Her man had begged her to take the children and stay with his fine while he waged his battles over that endless winter.

  As the wife of the cennfine every door would open for her. And in her own right, for what and who she was, welcome would always be made.

  But she needed her woods, her cabin, her place. She needed to be apart as much as she needed to breathe.

  She would tend her own, always, her home and her hearth, her craft and her duties. And most of all, the precious children she and Daithi had made. She had no fear of the night.

  She was known as the Dark Witch, and her power was great.

  But just then she felt sorely a woman missing her man, yearning for the warmth of him, the fine, hard body pressed to hers in the cold and lonely dark.

  What did she care for war? For the greed and ambitions of all the petty kings? She only wanted her man home safe and whole.

  When he came home, they would make another baby, and she would feel that life inside her again
. She mourned still the life she’d lost on a brutal black night when the first winter wind had blown through her woods like the sound of weeping.

  How many had she healed? How many had she saved? And yet when the blood had poured from her, when that fragile life had flooded away, no magick, no offering, no bargain with the gods had saved it.

  But then she knew, too well, healing others came more easily than healing self. And the gods as fickle as a giddy girl in May.

  “Look! Look!” Brannaugh, her eldest at seven, danced off the hard path, with their big hound on her heels. “The blackthorn’s blooming! It’s a sign.”

  She saw it now, the hint of those creamy white blossoms among the black, tangled branches. Her first bitter thought was while Brighid, the fertility-bringing goddess, blessed the earth, her own womb lay empty inside her.

  Then she watched her girl, her first pride, sharp-eyed, pink-cheeked, spinning through the snow. She’d been blessed, Sorcha reminded herself. Three times blessed.

  “It’s a sign, Ma.” Dark hair flying with every spin, Brannaugh lifted her face to the dimming light. “Of coming spring.”

  “Aye, it’s that. A good sign.” As had been the gloomy day, as the old hag Cailleach couldn’t find firewood without the bright sun. So spring would come early, so the legend went.

  The blackthorn bloomed bright, tempting the flowers to follow.

  She saw the hope in her child’s eyes, as she’d seen it at the bonfire in other eyes, heard it in the voices. And Sorcha searched inside herself for that spark of hope.

  But found only dread.

  He would come again tonight—she could already sense him. Lurking, waiting, plotting. Inside, she thought, inside the cabin behind the bolted door, with her charms laid out to protect her babies. To protect herself.