Romancing the Crown Series

by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)

  "That's crazy."

  She didn't say anything. The vandals who had painted their threat across her window were ignorant and vicious and wrong about almost everything. But they were right about one thing, though Drew would never believe it.

  She couldn't bespell people, that was true. And she hadn't caused the fire at the airport.

  But she could have.

  Chapter 10

  Evening was stretching shadows behind the slim black rails of the iron fence surrounding the grounds, the sheltering trees and the still figures of the guards on duty at the gate when Drew pounded on Lorenzo's door.

  His cousin opened the door himself, took one look at Drew's face and called over his shoulder, "It's Drew. I'll talk to him in the study." Then he stood back.

  Drew made it halfway into the quiet room with its comfortably shabby furnishings before the fury in him vibrated out. "I want to know who wrote that obscenity on Rose's window. Don't tell me you don't know."

  Lorenzo shut the door behind him. "I take it you're referring to the vandals who left a message on Signorina Giaberti's window today.

  "You know damned well I am. And you know who it was. Your man would have seen it done. Not," Drew said, clipping each word off precisely, "that he thought it worthwhile to stop the bastard."

  "The men watching her are under orders. They are to observe who comes to the shop, to her living quarters upstairs, whom she meets when she isn't with you. They aren't to reveal themselves unless her life— or yours—is in danger.

  It was logical. It was reasonable. It made him want to smash something. Drew took a steadying breath, and if he didn't actually feel any calmer, he reclaimed enough control to act as though he was. "I think I could use a brandy, if you don't mind." He nodded at the decanter.

  "Help yourself."

  He did. The first fiery sip made him want to toss back the whole shot. This was such an unusual reaction that he stopped and stared at the amber liquid.

  Rose had given in to his insistence that they call the police, though more with resignation than outrage. Drew had stayed until they arrived. His name, his connection to royalty, could be a bloody nuisance, but he didn't hesitate to use it when necessary. Making sure the officers understood the importance of this particular investigation had been quite necessary. "Did your man give the police a description of the vandals?"

  Lorenzo nodded. "Three men, all under twenty-five. Two of them have been identified, and I expect we'll know who the third one was shortly. Neither of the two have any known connections to the Brothers."

  That would be Lorenzo's priority, of course. It wasn't his, not anymore. Drew wondered if he should feel guilty about that, but all he felt was tired. Almost as exhausted as if he'd had one of his spells.

  He took another, healthier swallow of the brandy, hoping the heat would translate into energy, however spurious. "I knew she was in some danger from the terrorists. It didn't occur to me she might be risking attack from her friends and neighbors, as well."

  Lorenzo frowned, moved to the sideboard and poured himself a shot of brandy. "What do you want me to tell you, Drew?"

  "Did I increase her risk when I arranged to have her work with you? Did that help convince the people who threatened her today that she really has magical abilities?"

  "It may have increased the risk she'd draw this kind of attention, yes. But she's in a lot more danger from the Brothers than she is from a few superstitious fools.

  "Her mother wasn't safe from those superstitious fools."

  "Her mother wasn't under a twenty-four/seven watch by my men.

  Lorenzo hadn't denied the danger, Drew noticed. His lips tightened and he paced over to the window, which faced west. The drapes were open, letting the ruddy glow of sunset spill onto the carpet in a long, orange rectangle. Outside, the leaves on the trees were fire-tipped, their edges molten in the gaudy light.

  Damn her, anyway. He wanted to shake Rose, make her admit this psychic nonsense was just that. Clinging to her heritage was endangering her. His temples started to throb. "What are you going to do about the cretins who threatened her?"

  "They'll be arrested, of course. Eventually."

  "Eventually?"

  "We have to be sure they won't lead us to anyone else. Also, of course, we don't want to give away the presence of my men." His eyes were steady and watchful over the rim of the snifter as he took a sip of brandy. "That doesn't meet with your approval, I take it."

  ' T see the necessity." But Drew didn't like it. He looked at the dying glow outside, swallowed brandy and thought about fires. And conscience.

  Finally, reluctantly, he spoke. "I don't think there's any need to keep your men on her around the clock. Not from your standpoint, that is. She doesn't know anything. But I hope you'll continue to keep her under surveillance. She isn't safe."

  Lorenzo stared at him. "You're worrying me."

  "Why?" Drew snapped. "Because I formed an opinion?"

  "Because you've known her a week, and your objectivity is shot. Next thing I know you'll be telling me she really does have visions.

  A week. Drew swirled the last of the brandy in the snifter, releasing the biting aroma. It seemed a great deal longer. "No," he said slowly. "I'm not likely to tell you that."

  "Are you going to be able to go on with this, Drew? Without giving away why you're really seeing her?"

  "That's the other reason I came to see you, actually." He set the snifter down on his cousin's desk with a little clink. The brandy hadn't done a thing for his headache. "I won't be seeing her anymore."

  His head was throbbing by the time he reached his room. He left the lights turned off, removed his shoes and lay down on his bed fully clothed, shutting his eyes against the pain.

  Lorenzo assumed he was worried about giving away their suspicions. That was far enough from the truth to be funny—if he'd been able to find anything about this damnable situation funny, that is. The simple truth was, he couldn't continue seeing Rose without taking her to bed.

  He'd ruined one woman's life. That was enough. This fixation he felt for Rose would fade. Never before had he been so close to having a woman and had to draw back. Naturally that made him think about her too much.. .the softness of her skin, the color of her eyes, her beautiful breasts. Her laugh. The sound of her voice.

  He knew her voice. As if he'd heard it all his life, instead of for only a week, he knew the sound of her.... He'd known instantly it was her when she called last night.

  He lifted heavy eyelids. The throbbing had turned to pounding, hard, vicious blows from the inside out. As if something in his brain was trying to burst out through his skull. Soon the pain would hit that white extreme he dreaded. And the disorientation would begin.

  Drew forced himself up on one elbow and reached for his cell phone. And turned it off.

  He was about to go crazy. Again. He wasn't taking any chances on having her call in the middle of that to tell him what a bastard he was, or.. .or anything else.

  Collapsing back on the pillow, he shut his eyes against the coming onslaught. But he couldn't shut out himself. Pain blurring his thoughts to an endurance marked off second by second, he knew it was fear that had made him turn off his phone. Just as it was fear that had made him push her away. He was afraid of giving in to this craving, afraid of giving in.. .to something he couldn't name—

  The spell hit. His senses twisted, leaving him stranded in his mind. And counting.

  * * *

  Rose moved through the next few days in a state of dull bewilderment. It was denial, of course. She recognized that without having the energy or even the desire to fight it. She couldn't believe Drew had truly ended things between them. Every time the phone rang, her heartbeat spiked. Every time, she thought it might be him. And, of course, it never was.

  She hated being so pathetic, but couldn't seem to stop. She hated that she was worrying Gemma, too, and did her best to act normally, but all she wanted to do was sleep. On Wednesday she took a nap
in the middle of the day, telling Gemma she was trying to fight off a bug. And truly, she felt tired, achy, as if she was coming down with the flu. But they both knew that what ailed her wasn't physical.

  Although a part was. Denial couldn't stretch far enough for her to pretend she didn't ache in other ways, too. Especially at night, alone in the bed where she had always been alone.

  Every day she went to the airport. What she did there might have had something to do with her fatigue. It certainly had a great deal to do with her nightmares.

  On Monday she'd been escorted to the airport by a dark, quiet man who didn't give his name—one of Lorenzo Sebastiani's men. She'd been given a tape recorder and told to act like an assistant. He'd spoken briefly with all the security guards then on duty, asking them basic questions and giving her the chance to check their èsseri.

  None of them matched the one from the bomb fragment, which she'd reported. The man had nodded as if 1 he'd expected nothing different, and that had been it. She'd been driven home, and when she asked who they'd be checking out the next day, the answer was, "Thank you very much for your help, Signorina. I don't believe we'll have to bother you again."

  Frustrated, she'd pointed out that there were a great many airport employees, including some of the security guards, that she hadn't met. Mr. Anonymous told her the others had been cleared by other means.

  He'd been lying. She'd been close enough to be sure of that and irritated enough to tell him so before going inside. She could only assume that, without Drew pushing him, Lorenzo Sebastiani had decided he didn't want to waste time with her. He'd been skeptical all along—polite about it, but he hadn't expected her to be any help.

  So what if he'd given up on her? That didn't mean she had to give up. Maybe, once having seen that she might be able to make a difference, she couldn't turn her back on it. Maybe, she admitted as she sipped her third cup of coffee for the day, just because she was better at denial than letting go. Whatever her reasons, she'd gone to the airport every day, varying the time so she'd catch the different shifts.

  So far, nightmares were the only result. The more she used her Gift, the more it could use her.

  She wasn't sure what the other dream snatches meant, but she knew where the nightmares about the grieving woman came from—the ring her aunt had bought. Working with her Gift every day had sensitized her, and the tie, so fleetingly established when she'd touched the ring, grew stronger every night.

  Which was why she was in her tiny backyard today. There was a patch of dirt beneath the three trees— Calabrian pine, Cyprus and golden oak—planted in a rough triangle. Slowly Rose began to sweep the dirt, starting at the center and working out in a spiral. As she swept, she prayed.

  Hail Mary full of grace...

  It wasn't the same dream every night. That would have been too easy, she thought with a scowl. No, instead of a nice, clear vision, all she got was jumbled, fearful snatches.

  .. .pray for us sinners now...

  Sometimes there was a plane, a small one, and it was in trouble. That had a feel of the past to it. Sometimes there was a woman—frightened, grieving, trapped. Sometimes there was a fire. And when she dreamed about fire, she dreamed about Drew.

  .... the Lord is with thee...

  The settings varied, the details changed, but usually there were some all-too-real elements. Like the way his hands felt on her, the way his kiss lit her from the inside out. And the way, every time, he turned and walked away. Over and over, he walked away from her. Then the fire would call her—pure, fierce, beguiling.

  ... now and at the hour of our death.

  "Are you ready, dear?" Aunt Gemma asked, closing the kitchen door. She was wearing a moss-green dress, and her hair hung in a braid down her back, like Rose's. A white apron with deep pockets was tied around her middle.

  "Not quite." It was hard to keep the denial thing working when she dreamed about him leaving her every night. She blinked the dampness away, frowned and whispered a fourth Hail Mary as she finished her careful sweeping. "Did you bring the seawater?"

  "Right here." Gemma took a small blue bottle out of one of the apron's pockets. "Are you sure you're up to a seeking? You haven't been feeling well lately.

  A flicker of amusement penetrated Rose's mood. "Imagine you suggesting I shouldn't work with my Gift. I'm all right, Zia. I don't have to be happy to do this. And she...she's terribly unhappy." Amusement died beneath a weight of other feelings, some of them her own. " She may even be in danger. I need to find out."

  "Let's do it, then."

  Together the two women completed the simple preparations. Standing inside the swept area, Gemma dribbled the seawater in a circle around them while Rose sat, cross-legged, and began centering herself.

  The sun was hot. The air was moist, without a hint of a breeze and thick with the scent of lavender, thyme and honeysuckle layered over the darker smell of earth. A fat bumblebee drifted near Rose's head. She made them all part of her centering—the bee, the smells, the trickle of sweat between her breasts, the dappled sun-shapes on the ground—letting herself sink deeply into the moment.

  Gemma sat across from her niece, automatically tidying her full skirt so that it covered her legs. As always, she felt the earth reach up through her, a timeless embrace of growth, death, birth and new growth, as the endless presence made her welcome.

  She watched her niece, wondering, not for the first time, what it was like to have a Gift that brought disruption and change, instead of ageless comfort. The Gift of Fire was also called the Wild Gift, for good reason. Gemma's sister had told her once that connecting with fire was like embracing the dance of life, which was also death—endless possibilities, moments flickering into being and dying.

  It sounded very uncomfortable.

  Rose sat in complete stillness, yet Gemma could feel the life vibrating in her...So young, Gemma thought, love and anxiety mingling. So young, and hurting so much... What had gone wrong? She'd been so sure Andrew Harrington was the one for Rose.

  Drat that young man, anyway. Gemma delved into one of her pockets and took out the fat, white candle and the kitchen matches. She set the candle between them, then lit it.

  As always, the flame drew Rose's gaze. She stared at it for a long, dreamy moment, then held out her left hand. Gemma took it in her right one, and the connection was made. Through her, Rose was grounded, tied to the earth and the moment. She wouldn't lose herself in the fire-trance.

  Then Rose held out her right hand, and Gemma put the ring into it.

  Rose's hand jerked in Gemma's, then steadied. Her eyes closed and her face twisted. Grief. It poured off her in waves so strong even Gemma could feel them. Tears rolled down Rose's cheeks.

  The candle flame jumped, then flared. Gemma watched it closely. It continued to grow larger, brighter, but slowly. Rose was calling on fire, but she was in control. Still, Gemma was relieved to see the flame steady when it was about one-third the height of the candle.

  Wax dribbled down the side. Sweat dribbled down Gemma's temple, and her hip ached mildly. She wondered if this would be a long session. Time passed differently for one in fire-trance. Rose might return after only moments and feel she'd been away for half the day, or she might not come back until the candle was guttering—it could last between one and three hours, depending on how heavily Rose drew on the flame —and think she'd been in trance for a few minutes.

  The connection between them continued, reassuringly strong, like someone humming too low for the ears 1 to hear. The air felt stuffy and close, like a room that needed airing. It will storm tonight, Gemma thought, and shifted carefully to ease her hip.

  Rose didn't notice. She was too deeply in trance to be easily distracted now. The tears had dried on her cheeks, and she had that absent-yet-focused look on her face that made Gemma smile. Children usually looked so sweet and defenseless when they slept. From the time she was a baby, Rose had looked as if she took the business of sleeping seriously and was giving it her full attent
ion.

  Gemma had just decided she was going to have to shift her position again—really, this getting older was annoying at times, what with stiff joints and hot flashes and all manner of inconveniences—when the candle suddenly went out.

  Rose's eyes opened. "I have to see the prince.

  * * *

  "I wish you'd try calling Drew again.

  Rose spared her aunt a quick glance as she stepped into her black heels. They were the same ones she'd worn the last time—the only other time—she'd been to the palace. She'd changed quickly into a loose, cotton dress and pulled her hair back. One didn't barge in on royalty in dirty jeans. "It's obvious he doesn't want to talk to me, Zia."

  "He probably turned off his cell phone for some reason and forgot to turn it back on."

  "Maybe so." She didn't believe it for a minute. Of course, her aunt didn't know this wasn't the first time she'd tried calling Drew's private number. She grabbed her purse. "You can keep trying to call if you like. I 'm going to the palace.

  "I don't see how you're going to get in to see the prince! If you'd just wait until you can reach Lord Andrew..."

  Rose grinned and headed for the outside stairs. "I'll make such a bloody nuisance of myself they'll fetch Drew or the prince just to get rid of me."

  She heard Gemma pattering down the stairs after her. "I'm sure you're doing what you feel you have to do. But I don't see why it's so urgent—you've had the ring for over a week now, and you said yourself you aren't sure if you were picking up present, past or future."

  "It's always hard to tell in a fire-trance." Rose reached the bottom of the stairs and inhaled. The air was sultry, and clouds were massing on the horizon to the east, dark and portentous.

  Good. A storm would break the heaviness in the air.

  "And I don't see how you're going to persuade the prince to believe your vision."

  "I've got the ring." Rose's fingers tightened on the little glass box in her left hand. "And if that doesn't work..." She reached the street and glanced around, looking for the taxi she'd called. She usually took the bus if the distance was too far for her feet or the weather was bad, but a taxi would be much faster.