by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
"I shut everyone out." His eyes were bleak. "That's the problem."
Yes, he did. Last night, when she'd been completely vulnerable to him, he'd been barricaded against her. That was outside his control, she knew. She just wished it didn't hurt so much. "A blocked empath would have trouble letting down his guard," she said carefully. "Drew, you have to learn how to control your shield."
He sighed and set down his pen. "You're determined to have this conversation, aren't you."
"We have to figure out what to do. Yesterday, just before you had your attack, I felt your shield wobbling. You were insisting you didn't have a headache, then all of a sudden you were white with pain and your shield was oscillating."
"Say you're right. Say you're one hundred damned percent right about all this. What good does it do? I can't sense these bloody shields you keep harping on. Can you tell me how to fix something I'm completely unaware of?"
"I can help you become aware." She hoped she could, although there was nothing in the lore about teaching an adult empath to control his shields. She didn't, in truth, know if it was possible. "The traditional way empaths are taught in my family requires the shields to be down, so I'll have to improvise. Meditation may help.
"Great. I'll buy a book on Zen the first chance I get. In the meantime, it doesn't do any good to talk about it."
She reminded herself to have patience. "The specialist you consulted probably wanted to know all sorts of things about the circumstances surrounding the attacks, right? Well, we can do the same thing. We can start by examining what you were doing, thinking, feeling just before every one of your attacks." The sickness was growing. She dug her fingernails into her palms to fight it. "Maybe something about me is a trigger. Maybe not, though. You had attacks before you met me. And you haven't had one now for..."
"For about thirteen hours." He paused, looking down as if gathering himself for some great effort. "I have thought about all that," he said quietly. "About what was going on before each of my attacks. I.. .woke very early this morning.
"I noticed." She'd reached for him. Before her eyes had opened that morning, she'd reached for him and found him gone. He'd been sitting by the window, fully dressed. And distant. Horribly, pleasantly distant.
"I did a lot of thinking while I was waiting for the sun to come up. I believe I've found the common denominator.
He sounded calm, matter-of-fact. But the grooves in his cheeks cut deeply now, as if even his flesh were pulled in on itself, and his breathing was faintly uneven. Instinctively she reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around hers instantly. Tightly. And the weird all-over queasiness began to fade. Not that everything turned rosy and wonderful—she was still worried. Her throat was still tight, as if she'd been holding back tears for some time. But her world swam back into focus when he held her hand.
Then he began to talk. "It occurred to me that at the airport yesterday I'd been feeling tense. Crowded."
"Empaths don't like crowds," she said quietly.
"Yes. Well, when I considered that in terms of these shields I'm supposed to have, it made a certain sense. So I looked for similar stressors at other times when I'd had an attack. For example, one of my spells hit shortly after I arrived in Montebello. I'd been at the airport for hours after the bombing, surrounded by people in a state of high emotion, so that fit. Looking further back, I remember staying late at a nightclub that was especially crowded shortly before one attack. Right before the first one, I'd attended a soccer match. And then you...when I'm with you..."
Her throat ached. "I stress your shields, too. Because I want in."
"Not just that. I...want you in."
It was hard to speak past the lump in her throat. "There. Was that so difficult to say?"'
"Yes," he assured her dryly. "But not as hard as what I must say now. My desire for you seems to weaken my shields. Only I can't handle it, Rose, when my shields go down. That's what triggers my attacks. Not my shields, but the lack of them.
She couldn't speak. Her head felt stuffed with thoughts, all of them jammed up at some threshold so tightly none could get through and be heard. And inside, deep inside, a voice was crying, No, no, no...
"I suppose, like your aunt's cousin, I simply can't process what happens when my shields falter," he was saying in that cool, dry voice. "There are steps I can take to manage my disability. I'll need to avoid crowds as much as possible, obviously."
"And me." Her mouth was as dry as her eyes, dry and burning. "You'll have to avoid me." Then, because she couldn't help it: "But I brought you back!
His hand tightened on hers. "I think I would always come back for you if there was anything of me you can reach. There's.. .a connection. But that connection damns me as much as it saves me. I can't live with constant attacks, Rose."
"No." She couldn't look at him now. "No, of course you can't."
The logjam of thoughts was breaking up, and every one of them supported what he'd said. Oh, she'd wanted to believe the answer lay in his learning to be open. Of course she'd wanted that, she thought, bitter with herself. And she still believed it was dangerous for him to remain wholly blocked—the lore was quite definite about that—but he'd lived for more than twenty years in that state. The danger there was less acute than the one she posed.
He had very nearly not come back from his last attack.
So naturally he'd pulled back this morning, establishing his usual distance. He couldn't afford to do anything else. And she had to help him maintain that distance. She had to be cool, dispassionate, unemotional.
It was like asking the fire not to burn.
Oh, God, she thought, suddenly remembering the other reason she'd wanted him with her on this trip. She'd intended to ask him to help ground her when she searched for the prince's Jessie. He had stood between her and the fire in the prince's rooms and cut off the fire's call. Somehow he'd used his Gift to shield her.
And right after that, he'd been stricken with a "migraine." "That last night at the palace," she said. "You had an attack that night."
"Yes." Humor, dark and self-derisive, coated his voice. "I practically ran out of the room so no one would see me when it hit."
She couldn't ask him to help her. She felt a flutter of panic. She would just have to keep it a light trance, she told herself. Being physically close to the object of her search should help.
"You still have to learn to control your shields. How to soften them, even release them from time to time. Even if I have been triggering your recent attacks, the underlying problem is that you're blocked. You have to deal with that."
"How?"
She had no answers for him. For either of them.
His thumb was making slow circles on the back of her hand. He hadn't let go. In spite of everything, he hadn't let go of her hand. "I should never have come with you," he said abruptly. "I'm more likely to be a burden than a help.
"You said you couldn't regret me, no matter what." Now she looked at him, willing him to meet her eyes. When he did, though, she almost wished he hadn't. The despair she saw there broke her control. She looked away, swallowing all those tears she couldn't cry. Not now, not yet. "I can't regret you, either. Or this time with you. No matter what."
* * *
They landed in New York at ten-thirty local time. Because they'd missed their original flight the night before, they'd also missed the connecting flight to Denver. The prince's people had adjusted their itinerary accordingly, but it meant they had to change airports to make the next leg of their trip. Kennedy Airport, where the Concorde landed, didn't have a flight for Denver with seats available until the next day.
LaGuardia wasn't as crowded as Heathrow had been, but Drew had been with Rose constantly for twenty-four hours. She assumed his shield was already stressed and so watched him closely—with her eyes, yes, but even more with her other senses. They ate lunch in a generic sort of airport lounge, then went to the security check.
The line was long.
She put a hand on his arm. "Go to the men's room."
His eyebrows lifted. "It isn't necessary at the moment."
"Your shield feels.. .not down, but a little mushy. You're Water-Gifted. Splash some water on your face. Hold your hands under running water. It should help.
Without another word he left. It must have worked, because his barriers were solid again when he returned, and he didn't suffer an attack.
The flight to Denver was long and exhausting. For the first part of it, she instructed him in other ways he could protect himself. The color black offered some protection for an empath, as did dark blue, but they shouldn't be overdone. She recommended he wear those colors when he knew he would be in crowds. Also, he should avoid wearing synthetic materials. Wool, cotton, silk, linen—all helped buffer the emotions around him, which would help keep his shields from being stressed. He would be best off with clothes that could be laundered, she added. Immersion in running water cleansed the psychic dust better than cleaning with chemicals.
And whenever possible, especially if he was tired and stressed, he should get away to the water. Ocean, lake, river—he needed to be around water as much as possible. A tabletop fountain in his bedroom would be a good idea.
He listened carefully, only commenting at the end that it sounded frightfully New Age-ish. "Are you sure I shouldn't invest in some crystals?" The creases under his eyes deepened with amusement.
"It wouldn't hurt," she retorted. "Another thing you can do if you're feeling crowded and there's no nearby body of water—go to a church."
That startled him.
"Or a synagogue or mosque, but you'll probably be more comfortable in a place of your own faith. Prayer really does work, you see—on a psychic level, it cleanses. Some of the older churches are incredibly pure. Oh, and you should wear turquoise—the gemstone, not the color. It has healing properties, and seems to resonate especially strongly with the Water-Gifted."
"Still trying to get me to wear jewelry? I prefer pearls," he said thoughtfully.
Her throat closed up altogether.
For the rest of the flight, Drew worked—this time, without her interference.
He would have to remember to compliment Lucas on his people's discretion, Drew thought as the bellboy returned from putting Rose's suitcases in one bedroom. A two-bedroom suite was a tactful solution when making arrangements for a couple who might or might not wish to share a bed.
Necessary, too, he thought savagely as he handed the man a couple of bills. Damnably necessary.
Rose was looking out the large window at one end of the sitting room when the door closed behind the bellboy. The draperies were open, displaying a magnificent view of Denver at night.
She hadn't looked at him since he told the bellboy to put her suitcases in one bedroom, his in the other. "We'll check in with the police in the morning," he said, wanting to go to her. He ached for her, body, mind —and soul. "It's too late to accomplish anything tonight, and you're too tired. You didn't sleep much on the plane.
"My body thinks it's after three in the morning." She yawned. "I guess I'd better turn in."
"You should eat something first, even if you don't feel like it. It will help you adjust to the time change. I'll call room service."
She turned away from the view, saying lightly, "Determined to take care of me, aren't you?"
She was smiling. And she was pale, her eyes shadowed by pain. "Don't," he said, his voice thick. "For God's sake, don't keep smiling and smiling. I'd rather you screamed and threw things."
Her lips quivered as the smile slid away. "Maybe tomorrow. I'm too tired to muster a decent tantrum tonight. You must be wiped out, too."
"I'm not too tired." The words were out before he could catch them. "I'm sorry. I don't have any right... I need to be alone, but that isn't what I want."
"The risk is too great," she said quietly.
Without meaning to, he took a step toward her. And stopped. "Sex.. .seems to break the rules. You brought me back that way, and without the exhaustion that usually hits. And the first time I kissed you—that's the only time I started to have a spell, but it stopped."
"Drew." Her voice shook. "If we make love, I'll push at your shields. I—I want that kind of joining too badly. I won't be able to help myself." She turned away. "Maybe...maybe when I'm rested I'll have more control.
"Of course. I shouldn't have said anything. I'll call room service now. Something light—soup and a salad, perhaps?" Good God, he was babbling.
She gestured a vague refusal without looking at him. "I'll acclimate tomorrow. I'll deal with everything— tomorrow." She hurried to the room where he'd had the bellboy put her things and closed the door.
Drew stood where he was while something inside him ripped and ripped, as if he could be endlessly torn. At last, moving slowly, he went to his room, stripped and claimed the shower. He stood under the pounding water for a very long time. Because without the aid of any senses, rational or irrational—unsupported by logic or reason—he knew she was crying. If he heard her, he would go to her. If he went to her, they would end up joining their bodies.
And then one of two things would happen. Either she'd succeed in breaking down his shield and he'd go catatonic on her. Maybe she would be able to bring him back if that happened; maybe the spell would fade on its own. Probably, he thought, he wouldn't be trapped like that permanently.
Or else he would manage to make love without opening himself up to her at all the way he had last night. And it would be her heart that broke.
Chapter 17
Rose woke with her head clogged and aching. For the first few bleary seconds, she couldn't imagine where she was. Or when. She blinked groggily at the clock, frowning. Ten-thirty. Was it a.m. or p. m.?
Then she saw the crumpled tissues on the bedside table. And she remembered.
With a grimace, she threw back the covers. Crying herself to sleep—how stupid. No wonder she had a headache. A crying jag, after breathing the dessicated airplane air for hours, was a good way to give herself sinus problems. If Gemma had been here... But she had more pressing reasons than a stuffy head for wishing her aunt was there. She grabbed her clothes and headed for the bathroom.
How long had she heard the shower running last night? She bit her lip, her hand on the tap. Misery was such a liquid business. It didn't help to know he was suffering, too. Rose preferred anger to tears, but there was no one to be angry with. Not even herself. Action, she thought fiercely, was better than either anger or misery, and she stepped under the water. She was in Denver for a reason. She needed to remember that.
The steam helped clear her head. She washed her hair and combed it out, pulling it into a quick braid without drying it. Then she went to face Drew, and the day.
He was sitting at the round table near the window, already dressed and shaved. He wore neatly pressed slacks and a white shirt with tiny blue stripes. No tie or jacket. Sunshine gilded his hair, making it almost golden.
What did the pain matter? she thought. What did it matter, when the sight of him could lift her heart and make the world sing? "I smell coffee," she said. "And food, though it looks as if you ate without me. I can't believe I slept through the arrival of room service. I don't know if there's time to order me some breakfast before we go—"
He pushed his chair back and stood. "I'm afraid I have bad news."
She stopped. Her insides played roller coaster.
"After I went to bed last night I felt a headache coming on. I..." He looked away. "I decided to get out of the hotel. Away.
Away from her, he meant. "And if you'd had an attack while wandering around Denver? I did pull you back last time."
"I didn't wander around Denver. And my headache went away as soon as.. .soon after I left the hotel. He shook his head slightly. "Never mind about that right now. Rose—I drove out to the Chambers ranch and spoke with the caretaker."
"Caretaker? I thought ranchers had foremen. Wranglers."
"Not when the
owner is dead."
"No." She shook her head. "No, I felt her—she was grieving for her child. She wasn't—she isn't dead."
"You weren't sure if your vision was past, present or future," he said gently, coming to her. "You couldn't tell. You couldn't have changed this, Rose. From what the man told me, it was already too late when we left Montebello."
She was still shaking her head. Her knees felt weak. Drew took her shoulders in his hands and pushed.... Oh, the couch was behind her. She sat, dizzy with guilt. "It wasn't too late when I first touched the ring. Gemma was right. Oh, God, if I'd tried then, as soon as the ring came to me.
"No, she was already dead then." He sat beside her, his arm around her. "It's not your fault, Rose."
Rose thought of the sad woman with the strong, gentle heart, and grieved. "But the baby. I don't understand. If I touched Jessie at some point before her baby was born, she wouldn't have been grieving for it. She wasn't pregnant when I reached her, Drew. I'm sure of that."
He was silent a moment. "Are you sure she was grieving for her baby? Not Lucas?"
"She...both of them." Rose put her hand on her stomach, remembering the emptiness. "She'd lost them both."
"Maybe," he said gently, "you were picking up the most intense emotional experience of her life, right after her baby was stillborn. When she knew she was dying. That would explain the sense of loss, and the feeling she was in danger.
It would. It did, but it didn't feel right. And... "I saw her, Drew. She wasn't in a hospital."
"Apparently she chose to have the baby at home, with a midwife in attendance. The man I spoke with— the caretaker —is the midwife's brother, a friend of the family. He's mildly retarded, I think—"
"Maybe he told you wrong, then. Maybe he didn't understand, and—"
"Rose." He touched her lips with his, silencing her. "The cattle have all been shipped off. The hands have been let go. And the caretaker showed me her grave, freshly dug in a small family plot out on the ranch."