by LETO, JULIE
Four bodies floated to the surface of the lagoon. One of them was Farrow Pryce’s.
Thirty
“We have to stop her,” Rafe said, but Mariah hung on tighter, refusing to let him leave just yet. The shock of realizing that four men had fought for their lives only yards from where she stood quelled the lust that had spiked through her, but she still could not bear to let him go.
“We can’t,” Mariah said, her voice husky, as if she’d been screaming for hours. Her temples pounded and her stomach roiled as if she’d just magically been transported here from Valoren itself, yet she summoned the strength to hold him in place. “It’s too late.”
She didn’t have to turn around to know that Pryce and his men were dead. Gemma had held them beneath the surface until they’d stopped moving. Still, when Rafe insisted on dragging them to the shore, she did not stop him. She even assessed whether any of them would have benefited from CPR.
None would have—which worked out for the best. The thought of pressing her lips to Farrow Pryce’s mouth to breathe life into him made her drop to the sand and will the contents of her stomach to remain in place.
She should have mourned the dead men, no matter what they’d done. But she saved her grief for Gemma. She’d have to live with her actions—with what Mariah had helped her do. Infected by the magic, she’d thrown Pryce and his men into the lagoon, giving Gemma the perfect means to commit cold-blooded murder.
Rafe, soaking wet, dropped onto the beach beside her. Her gaze instantly went to the streaks of red on his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her fingers grazing over where she’d cut him.
“I’ll live,” he replied, his smile so gentle and brimming with love, she finally released the emotions she was trying so hard to keep inside.
More powerful than any curse, Rafe opened his arms, and she immediately fell into him. They’d deal with the death and destruction later. Right now, she had to concentrate on life.
Her life, reclaimed. Rafe’s life, renewed. Her love had freed him. And his love had saved her. Now they just had to figure out how to build a life together—or, possibly, how to survive a lifetime apart.
“Now I know what you felt when the magic invaded you,” she admitted. “It was impossible to fight. Not that I tried very hard. I was so angry.”
“Angrier than Pryce,” he said, sparing the man’s corpse a rueful glance over her shoulder. “The rage allowed you to take the sword and its magic from him. Had he known what you’d just been through, he might not have attempted to hurt you.”
“I’d never felt so…”
She grimaced, but Rafe took her chin and forced her to look at him, then brushed away the residual effects of the magic with a kiss so real, so invigorating, she thought she might lose herself in him for eternity. Not that this would be a bad thing. In fact, blending her soul with Rafe’s until the end of time suddenly seemed like a perfect plan.
Shouts and the crashing of bodies through the underbrush tore them away from each other in time to see Ben and Cat spill out onto the crescent-shaped shore of the lagoon. Soon after, Paschal appeared. They smiled when they saw Rafe and Mariah alive and entwined on the sand, but all three stopped short at the bodies a few yards away.
“What happened?” Cat asked.
Mariah leaned into Rafe, closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound of his heart beating in her ear while he recounted how Pryce had cut her with the sword while it was gleaming with magic, and how her anger, more powerful than his, had allowed her to usurp the weapon and hold him at bay. Rafe told them about how Mariah had summoned him, how he’d professed his love and broken the curse—for both of them.
“Gemma stole the stone,” Cat told them.
“We know. I tried to call it here,” Mariah explained. “But she must have already had some control, because she fought me. The magic is like venom. She must have been furious, and her anger fed the magic. I’d tossed Pryce and his men into the lagoon when they attacked, and Gemma froze the surface until they drowned. There wasn’t anything we could do.”
Paschal dropped to his knees. Mariah knew Ben’s father had counted Gemma as an ally, if not a friend. But she’d killed in cold blood. Magic or not, the act reinforced what they’d all wanted to deny: She was Rogan’s blood heir—in every way.
Mariah did not argue when Ben suggested that Cat and Mariah return with Paschal to the castle. Only after she had the older man ensconced in the library with a glass of brandy and Cat at his side did Mariah wander into the great hall to wait for Rafe’s return.
At first, she tried to ignore the space around the fireplace, but the mosaic glittered under the lights, making it impossible to look away. Before she’d poured her heart out to him—standing right in front of those tiled images—he’d shared jagged pieces of his past with her, slivers of his daily life. She spotted the small, dark house near the mountains, where he’d lived with Irika and his son. Had Rogan never interfered in Valoren, Rafe might have grown old and gray there, never knowing that a woman existed in his future who would love him desperately, despite her heavy emotional baggage.
She shivered and suddenly craved a shower—if someone had invented one that worked from the inside out. Yet she knew that when Rafe returned and wrapped her in his arms again, the effect would be just as cleansing. She took her time, studying the faces of the people in the mosaic, trying to imagine what Rafe’s life had been like centuries ago, when he finally slipped his hands around her waist and pulled her close.
He smelled of sweat and seawater, a combination she suddenly found very mortal, very human and very alluring.
“Ben has alerted an organization called the coast guard,” he explained. “He reported a boat in trouble and men in the water. He says when they arrive, he’ll claim we tried to rescue them, but they’d drowned.”
Mariah sighed, “It’s a more believable story than trying to convince them that a woman with a magic rock froze the surface of the lagoon in eighty-degree Florida weather. Did you check on Paschal?”
His voice dipped with sadness. “He’s deeply disturbed about Gemma’s actions.”
She tilted her head to the side and reveled in the way he nuzzled her neck. “As much as he didn’t trust her, I don’t think he ever expected she’d kill. Those men were no threat to us.”
“You don’t know that,” Rafe said. “I was mortal, and you were no longer infected by the magic. For all we know, she saved our lives.”
“That’s an interesting spin,” she said, exhausted.
“She was Rogan’s heir. Her bloodlines led her to a darkness she could not resist. I do not wish to give her credit for what she did. She’ll have much to account for at some point. But it is her cross to bear, not yours.”
Mariah hooked her hands behind Rafe’s back, just in case he got any big ideas about trying to let her go. “She was infected by the magic. Just like I was. Just like Farrow was.”
“Farrow chose to use the magic. He sought its secrets and paid the price. You defeated him, and the sword is now back in our possession.”
“Yeah, well, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” she said wryly. “The poor whacker didn’t know that you’d just broken my heart or he never would have messed with me.”
Her weak attempt at humor, not surprisingly, didn’t work. His scowl might have frightened her if she didn’t know the gentleness of his soul. “I concentrated so hard on trying to make you love me that I had not allowed myself to love you. I didn’t realize how deeply I was still entrenched in my past.”
“Meaning?” she asked, suddenly shaking inside.
Rafe kissed her forehead, then held her closer. “I still mourn Irika, but until tonight, I never truly let her go. I had not opened my heart to you, and I nearly cost you your life.”
She snuggled against his chest, once again hypnotized by the amazing sound of his heart, which seemed to beat a bit faster than it had on the beach. He slid his hands up her back and into her hair, tilting her he
ad.
Unlike any other kiss they’d shared, this one was filled with promise. His lips were soft, but his tongue was not. He made love to her mouth so thoroughly, she experienced a weakness in her limbs that might have pulled her to the floor if he hadn’t held her steady.
And for the first time in her life, she didn’t mind leaning on a man for support. Rafe offered his strength with no strings, no expectations. He wanted nothing from her but her love.
He had that in abundance from now until eternity. She whimpered when he broke the kiss.
“We should check on Paschal. If he’s strong enough, Ben advises that you and I retreat upstairs with him before the authorities arrive. He said something about my not having ‘proper identification.’ “
Mariah grimaced. “Yeah, that can be a problem with law enforcement types. I’d bundle up the sword, too. Wouldn’t be good for anyone if that baby is taken as evidence.”
She moved away, her hand still hooked with his, until she realized he hadn’t moved. When she turned, she found him gazing up at the mosaic again, not with longing in his eyes, but with curiosity.
“What?” she asked.
“This mosaic is not right,” he replied. “It has struck me as odd since we first entered this room.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said, surprised.
“Yes, of course, but I feel…” He took a step back. “Emotions. Many more than I can take in, but mostly… hope. My friends. My family. It’s as if…”
He retrieved a chair from the dining table and dragged it to the fireplace so he could reach up to the community fire that sparkled in the center of the tiled village. The moment his fingers brushed over the tiny red slivers, Mariah felt his body seize up. Though she’d braced her hand against his back as he’d climbed up, a bright blast of power sent him flying to the floor, unconscious.
* * *
“Rafe. Rafe, please. I didn’t go through all this to lose you now. Besides, you sort of have a lot of people waiting for you. Rafe, please wake up.”
Mariah’s voice drifted into his consciousness, and it took him a long moment to figure out what she’d said. He could feel her hair brushing against his face, and when he forced his eyes open, he saw that she was cradling his head on her lap.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Since you passed out? Quite a bit,” she said with a smile.
He had the sense of being surrounded by many people. The jingle of jewelry and the crackle of boots against the stone floor echoed all around. Voices suddenly broke into his consciousness, many of them talking in the Romani dialect he had not heard for centuries.
Pushing up to a sitting position, he saw dozens of Gypsies roaming about the great hall. Most were hugging one another in celebration, swinging children in their arms, attempting to venture into the rest of the castle, though they were blocked in the room by Ben, Cat and Paxton, who looked utterly and entirely shocked.
He opened his mouth to ask who all these people were, but suddenly he knew.
They were the Gypsies of Valoren.
He moved to stand, and Mariah helped.
“Looks like you and your brothers weren’t the only ones caught in Rogan’s curse,” she said.
“Curse?” repeated a deep, wizened voice from behind him.
Rafe turned and saw a man shuffling toward him, his gray hair and quick brown eyes instantly recognizable. Rafe gave a little bow in deference to the Chovihano. Irika’s father. His mentor in the shaman arts of the Romani.
His people were alive.
“Belthezor,” he said in greeting.
The Chovihano reached out both hands, took Rafe’s and gave Mariah what amounted to a disapproving glare. Rafe wasn’t surprised that Mariah did not quail, but hooked her hands possessively around Rafe’s arm.
“Who is this woman? Where is Irika?”
“Where did you come from?” Rafe asked, not anxious to break the news of Irika’s death to her father so soon after his reappearance.
“Rogan saved us,” the older man insisted.
“Saved?” Mariah and Rafe asked in unison.
He cast Mariah another spiteful glare. “Yes, saved. We received word from the governor’s messenger that an army was advancing to the village to reclaim the king’s land. I was moving the villagers to the caves when Rogan and Sarina begged us to come to the castle. Rogan spoke an ancient spell, and suddenly we were trapped within the tiles. That’s the last I remember, until you touched the center fire tonight with so much love in your heart for us.” The old man’s face brightened in a gentle smile. “You freed us, Rafe. You freed your people. You freed your son.”
Rafe staggered as the Chovihano reached behind him and unbuckled the bundle he was wearing on his back. Inside, Stefan dozed, unaware of and unconcerned with the celebration of freedom kicking up around him.
Mariah gasped. Rafe’s knees nearly buckled as he looked on the slumbering face of his infant son. He took the child and pushed away the swaddling, freeing his tiny limbs. The baby whined in protest, but did not wake. Rafe cradled him against his chest, fighting the instinct to squeeze him too hard.
Through clouded eyes, he watched Mariah take Belthezor to a quiet corner away from the crowd. The Chovihano frowned, but followed. Rafe found the chair he’d dragged from the table and sat in front of the empty fireplace, relearning his son’s face. His ink-dark hair. His round cheeks. His thick fingers, which curled under his dimpled chin as he slept.
Only the sound of Belthezor’s grief ripped his gaze away from his son. He was immediately surrounded by family and friends, and Mariah soon slipped away and returned to Rafe. She knelt at his side. His love for her grew exponentially as he realized she’d taken on the difficult task of telling Belthezor about his daughter’s death.
“He needs to mourn her,” Mariah said. “But he’ll be okay. He has his grandson, right? A piece of her.”
She gazed at the baby with an expression that was halfway between fear and wonderment—the same exact expression he’d seen on Irika’s face when she had looked on Stefan for the first time.
“Wow,” she said.
“I could never have imagined,” he said, brushing his hand over his son’s warm cheek. “I thought I had won the greatest gift of good fortune when I reunited with my brother and fell in love with you. I never thought I could have my son back.”
“We’re going to have a heck of a time explaining all this to the authorities,” Mariah said, but the sardonic tone of her voice was softened when she reached out and swept a lock of Stefan’s hair off his forehead. “But we’ll figure something out. He’s beautiful, Rafe. I guess we both got more than we bargained for tonight.”
Rafe’s heart clenched in his chest. He loved Mariah with all his soul and knew she felt the same for him, but they’d never discussed the future.
“Does this change how you feel?” he asked.
“What?” She looked up, her eyes wide, but glossy. “The instant family? Automatic motherhood? I’m probably going to screw him up terribly. It’s not like I had much of a role model. But luckily,” she said, her voice rising an octave and taking on a singsong tone, “we have something in this century called psy-cho-anal-y-sis.”
The baby squirmed in Rafe’s arms. Rafe had no idea what Mariah was talking about, yet again, but he knew his son would be in good hands with her. She was, if nothing else, incredibly resourceful.
Suddenly she laughed. “Isn’t my mother going to be shocked when I go home to Australia with not only a husband, but a child? That’s what she gets for making nice with me. Instant grandmotherhood.”
Rafe’s heart soared at the thought that Mariah wanted to marry him, and though he suspected she did not require a traditional proposal, he would make one just the same. Soon. There was so much to consider. So much to comprehend. That fact that she loved him and adored his son made all the rest insignificant.
Mariah slid one hand onto his shoulder and, with the other, caressed Stefan’s pudgy arm. When the
baby curled his fingers around hers, she gasped, then cooed. He could feel her apprehension, but her love was more powerful. Now that she’d opened the doors to the emotion, he suspected. her capacity for it would build to an immeasurable store. For both of them.
In the next half hour, Belthezor returned and, still mourning the loss of his daughter, took Stefan and guided the villagers upstairs while the authorities investigated the deaths of the men on the beach.
But, as the sun rose, Rafe could not resist venturing outdoors. Basking in the sunlight from a balcony overlooking the sea, he allowed the sunlight to warm his face for the first time in two hundred and sixty years.
“The coast guard is at the lagoon,” Mariah warned, though she joined him outside and tilted her beautiful face toward the bright morning sky. “We should stay inside until they’re gone. I promise you’ll have a thousand more mornings of sunshine to enjoy once we put all this behind us.”
Rafe was almost afraid to believe that circumstances had turned out as they had. In the rush of rounding up the Gypsies, mourning with his family for Irika and cuddling with his son, he’d been unable to fully understand something the Chovihano had said. He had not had a chance to discuss it with Mariah until now.
“He said Rogan saved them,” he said.
She bit her lip. “Maybe Rogan wasn’t as evil as you thought. Because of him, the Gypsies are alive—and so are you. And your son. All ready to start new lives.”
“I have absolutely no idea what to do with this new life,” he admitted.
Mariah slid her arms around his neck and kissed him long and leisurely, making sure she touched every single part of his mouth with her tongue and every part of his soul with her love. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
He held her tightly, lifting her in the jubilation of all he’d gained on account of Rogan’s curse. He now had a woman to love again, his child returned and his Gypsy family restored, as well as part of his gadje one. What more could a man want? What more did a man deserve?
“This could not have been the future you foresaw for yourself when you stole that stone from Valoren,” he said as Mariah led him to the grand staircase, a twinkle of desire lighting her amber eyes.