by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
She closed her eyes and tried to accept it. "Does Lucas know?" She rubbed her chest, where an ache had settled. Grief for a woman she'd never met.. .and for the man who had cared for her. Maybe loved her. "The ring," she murmured. "How did I end up with her ring?"
He frowned. "I hadn't thought of that. There's a sister—the caretaker mentioned her. She's the only family from what he said, and she had been staying with Jessica. She left when Jessica died."
"She came to Montebello." Rose pushed to her feet. "She must have. She's the one who sold the ring to Gemma. Jessica must have told her about Lucas, and she flew there to see him, to tell him. But she hasn't." She started to pace. "She probably can't get past the guards, everyone surrounding the prince. He'll want to talk to her, Drew. Even if it hurts, he'll want to see her."
"I'll tell him about her." Drew stood. "You're right. He'll want to know."
"I've hardly thought of her at all. We came here for her, and she's barely crossed my mind since we got on the king's jet. Oh, God."
"Thinking about her more often wouldn't have saved her."
"But it's typical. So typical. I've put myself first all along. For so many years..." She moved jerkily, stopping by the window. "For so long I've avoided using my Gift. I presented myself as an expert to you yesterday." Her short laugh was derisive. "Oh, such an expert I am. I've been careful to learn the bare minimum, myself. What I had to know to control my Gift and not a whit more. Because I'm afraid." She hugged herself.
"Rose." He crossed to her, lifted a hand as if he meant to touch her—then let it drop. "You can't blame yourself. Being psychic doesn't make you omnipotent or all-knowing.
"But if I'd learned how to use my Gift better—if I'd practiced it daily, the way Gemma wanted—I would have known she was dead. Instead I scared Lucas, but I let him think things were mostly okay. That whatever was wrong, there was still time to do something to help her.
"Lucas is hurting, but you didn't cause it. And you couldn't have prevented it."
She swallowed and hugged her arms around her middle, feeling cold. So cold. "If I'd been working with my Gift all along, I'd be able to handle it better. Maybe I'd be able to help you. Maybe we wouldn't have to live apart."
This time he didn't hesitate. He put his arms around her and pulled her gently against him, her back to his front. "The flaw is in me. You know that. You know it, Rose.
"If I could control myself better—if I didn't push at your shields—"
"It's me pushing at them, I think, that does the damage," he said quietly. "I want you. In every way, not just the physical. I didn't realize how alone I was until..." He stopped. "I can't feel these shields you keep talking about, but I can feel myself trying to—to reach for you. I can't control that any more than I can the damned shields, but I can tell I'm doing it."
His shields were being stressed from within and without, just like at the airport. He'd nearly gone catatonic then. She'd pulled him back, but what if he went farther, deeper inside himself, next time?
She swallowed hard, stepped out of his arms and faced him. "I think your shields must go soft sometimes when you're alone. Otherwise the pressure would have overwhelmed you before now. Drew, you need to get away by yourself soon." It wasn't a cure, but it might help. It had to help.
"I'm doing all right. I haven't had an attack since the one at the airport."
"Your shields flickered a lot that night. That may have relieved some of the pressure, but it's a temporary relief. You had a headache last night, Drew." One that had gone away when he put distance between them.
His eyes were bleak. "Who in the hell decided to call this psychic crap a Gift?" He shook his head and reached for her.
She stepped back. "You shouldn't touch me. The risk—"
"To hell with the risk," he growled. "I need to hold you."
While I still can.
Rose didn't have to be a psychic to hear his unspoken words echoing between them, and she couldn't deny either of them the contact. Quietly she moved into his arms. It felt so good, so right... I'll be careful, she thought. If his shields start to weaken, I'll pull away.
"Why are you afraid of your Gift?"
She stiffened, and hoped he wouldn't notice. "I told you. There's a danger of getting lost in the fire trance.
"When you started the fire in the prince's fireplace, you were afraid. That had nothing to do with a trance." He paused. "Your mother died in a fire."
It was hard to hide anything from an empath, she thought. Even a blocked one. She nodded.
"She was Gifted, too, wasn't she?" he asked softly. "Like you are. Fire-Gifted. And it killed her."
"It's not... I may have been too careful. Too afraid. Because of what happened.
"What did happen, Rose?" He stroked her hair. "I need to know. I need to understand how your Gift puts you in danger."
Rose closed her eyes tightly, trying not to see it again, feel it all over again. "My mother was open about her Gift. She'd trained with it all her life and used it to tell fortunes —to earn a living, yes, but also because she wanted to help. She said it was up to us to make our Gifts a blessing, not a curse. She believed the times of ignorance and persecution were over."
His hand was warm and soothing. "Unfortunately, ignorance never really goes out of style."
"No, it doesn't. Neither does fear. Or evil." She swallowed. "She warned a woman, a client, to leave her husband, because that's what he was. Evil. You could feel it on him, as if he were coated in pestilence.. .she'd Seen that he would kill his wife if she didn't get away. Well, the woman did leave him. And he blamed my mother. Called her a witch." Memory swirled, dragging at her. "She knew. When she warned the woman, she knew he would come for her.
"She foresaw her death?"
"No. She Saw him setting fire to the house. Our home. She sent me to stay with Gemma." The pain of that burned in her still. "I didn't want to go, but.. .but I was only eleven." The same age as Drew had been when he was kidnapped. The eerie coincidence held her mute for a moment.
"She didn't leave the house herself?"
Rose shook her head. "She thought she could handle it. She thought.. .calling fire, starting fires—that's easy. It comes naturally to us. But to control the fire—to put it out—we have to go into it. That takes training, and it's hard. Because we don't just call fire. It calls to us, too, makes us want it, crave the dance.. .and if we go into it and it's stronger than we are..." She shuddered.
"What happens?" His voice was low, intense. "What happens if you go into the fire?"
"You burn." Tears came. "Oh, Drew, she burned. Not the house. Her. She called the fire to her and couldn't come back out. And I know, you see, I know how it happened. I Saw it, felt the fire calling—and it didn't hurt." The tears were falling freely now. "There should be pain, there should be, but there isn't. There's this terrible exultation as it burns you and burns you, and it doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt at all."
"God." His arms tightened, then eased. "Dear God, Rose, you felt it all?"
"Not the way an empath would. But I Saw. Gemma told me I woke up screaming. I don't remember that."
"How could your aunt ask you to use your Gift? After that, how could she ask it of you?"
"Because safety lies in practice. In learning control. She's right about that, but the Gift grows stronger with use. The stronger the Gift, the greater the danger, and I—I'm already stronger than my mother was. So I've tried to use it as little as possible, just for trancing, and that rarely. I've never gone into the fire," she finished, suddenly, absurdly tired, considering all the sleep she'd had. "I've never dared."
His fingers were cool and gentle on her cheeks, wiping away the dampness. And she felt his shield flicker.
Instinctively her heart reached for his—and she wrenched herself back. Out of his arms, away from that dangerously uncertain shield. She retreated several feet. "Drew. Your shield."
He froze, his face blank. "What am I supposed to do—dash under the shower
?"
"You need to be alone. Away from me. I'll go. I can...the restaurant. I'll go there and have breakfast." She could manage coffee, at least.
"No, I'll leave." He made a curt, chopping motion. "I'll go back to the ranch, talk to the caretaker again. Maybe I can find out how to reach Jessica's sister. It's little enough to bring Lucas, but I can at least do that much."
Her throat was tight with pain. And though she wasn't an empath, she wasn't sure how much was hers, how much his. "We flew halfway around the world for nothing."
"Not for nothing."
His voice was cool and level. His face...wasn't. His eyes blazed with emotion. His face was tight with it, the grooves in his cheeks dug deep.
She struggled to keep from going to him. If they hadn't followed her faulty vision, they wouldn't have had even these few days together. Even though she couldn't touch him, even though she might never touch him again, it had been worth it.
"No," she said when she'd won the battle for control. "You're right. It wasn't for nothing."
He hesitated. "I'll be gone all day, I expect."
"I'll be fine. Go."
After he left, she sat on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest, curled in on her pain. They couldn't go on like this. It hurt when he pulled away, closed himself off from her. Even knowing why he had to do it, it still hurt. But she could handle that. Except now.. .now she realized it hurt him, too. In a different way and maybe more deeply. To keep from reaching out, in comfort, in love... She shuddered. This morning she'd had a taste of how that felt.
Neither of them could stand hurting the other. Neither of them could keep from it. Not as long as they were together. She'd been steeling herself for the time he would tell her goodbye. She'd even thought she was being strong and selfless because she stood ready to sacrifice whatever she must for his sake.
But she'd put all the responsibility on him. Leaving Drew the pain and guilt of telling her they must part was not an act of love, but cowardice.
Feeling old and weary in her soul, Rose reached for the phone. There was one more thing she could do for him.
* * *
Drew rode up in the hotel elevator, rubbing the tight muscles at the back of his neck. He'd gotten a description of the sister, a few facts, but the caretaker hadn't any idea where she was.
He'd visited Jessica's grave again. This time, he'd left flowers.
It wasn't much, balanced against his cousin's grief. But it was all he could do.
He walked a little faster as he approached their suite, knowing that Rose was waiting for him. He would be more careful, he promised himself. He wouldn't touch her, but he'd be able to look at her, talk to her.
He had the key card out before he reached the door. It was late—maybe she'd already eaten. He hoped not. They could go out. That would be better than the intimacy of the suite, he thought, shutting the door behind him. He wouldn't be so tempted in public, and...
The suite was dark, except for a single lamp beside the couch.
He knew. Even before he went to her bedroom and found her letter, he knew.
After the first few sentences, the flowing handwriting blurred. He shut his eyes, trying to pretend something other than tears was ruining his vision. An urge to crumple the paper, to kick something, break something, swept over him.
It passed. He carried the letter to the couch and sat there, holding it. Smoothing it with his fingers while he waited for his eyes to clear.
She'd written it on hotel stationery, filling the first side and half of the other. Her handwriting was like her —slightly spiky, with dramatic peaks and lush, rounded curves. She wrote of love.
He sat there for a very long time, touching the paper she'd touched. Knowing that this, even this, had been an act of love, taking on herself the burden of parting.
She'd called Lorenzo and had him arrange her return to Montebello, sparing them both a parting that would undoubtedly have been emotional enough to wreck his shield. She said they could write each other if he wanted. Or he could call—she would always be happy to hear his voice, no matter what. But she would understand if he found it better to do neither.
For a long time, all he could hear was her name. Over and over, her name rose in his mind, a cry from the heart. Rose.
When his eyes were clear again, he went to the desk and took out another sheet of stationery. There was one more thing he could do for her—something he would have done before, had he not been so much a coward.
I'm not as strong as you, he wrote. I don't think I could stand to hear your voice, knowing I couldn't see you, be with you. Perhaps, in time, I'll be able to write you, to hear from you this way. I hope so. I can't right now.
He hesitated long over the next part, struggling with his old enemy—words. Nothing he could write would come close to what he felt. But she deserved his effort, however flawed the result. So eventually he continued: I've been wore alive in the time I've spent with you than I thought possible. It's pathetically inadequate to say I'll never forget you—that would be like saying I'll not forget my arm, or the colors of sunset, or the smell of spring. I love you. I always will.
Chapter 18
Montebello, four days later
Rose turned the sign on the door to Closed with a sigh of relief. She'd made it through another day—or this part of it, at least. There were still hours to go before bedtime.
Not that she expected to sleep much. Gemma, she thought with a grimace, would probably make her drink one of her teas again.
Before the long hours of the night arrived, though, she had another chore. One she'd taken up after she returned.
With her aunt's help, she would practice using her Gift.
Her steps were slow as she climbed the stairs. She wasn't fooling herself. Her decision to work consciously with her Gift had something to do with a woman who had died, but it had just as much to do with hope. Stupid, irrational hope. The odds against her being able to learn enough control to keep from stressing Drew's shields were vanishingly small. And even if she did, he might not have the control he needed. Or he might have changed his mind by then.
But she didn't believe that.
I love you. I always will. That was what he'd written, and that was what she believed, heart and soul.
Her throat ached. Something, it seemed, was always aching these days. She hadn't realized heartache could be so physical.
Gemma greeted her cheerfully when she entered the living room and watched her anxiously. Just as she had ever since Rose had come home. "I'm almost finished with this sauce," she said. "Give me another ten minutes and I'll be done."
"That's fine. I'll change."
Rose went to her room and pulled on her jeans, then went to the closet for a shirt.
Right in front, in pride of place, was the gift she'd found waiting upon her return—the absurdly expensive evening coat she'd admired in Heathrow. It was ankle-length cashmere, soft as sin and red. Incredibly bright red. She adored it. Not that she had anywhere to wear such impractical elegance, but that didn't matter. She stroked one soft sleeve. Seeing it, touching it, gave her pleasure. So did the idea that when he'd bought it for her, Drew had been thinking of the places he wanted to take her. Places that were part of his world.
When the ache in her throat threatened her control, she grabbed a T-shirt and closed the door on her beautiful, impractical token. Time to get to work.
Gemma was waiting outside. She handed Rose the broom, and Rose performed the ritual cleansing of the area. They sat, as they had before, with a candle between them and she took her aunt's hand.
This time, though, Gemma didn't light the candle. Rose did, with a wave of her hand and a call. And then —hesitantly, carefully—she opened herself to fire.
* * *
Drew hesitated at the door of the little cafe. The last time he'd come here, he'd attended the fioreanno with Rose. He wondered if it was a sign of incipient masochism that he'd mentioned this café to Lorenzo when his cousin had s
uggested they have a last drink before Drew left the country.
But there was pleasure, along with pain, in being here. Perhaps he was merely pathetic, he thought, threading his way through the tables to the one Lorenzo had chosen, at the back. He'd gone to the beach, too. As if he could hold on to her a little longer by visiting the places where he'd known her.
"How's Lucas?" Lorenzo asked when Drew sat down.
"Pretty much the same." He'd just come from telling Lucas everything he could about Jessie. It had been a difficult conversation. "Unhappy. Grieving. Blaming himself and trying his damnedest not to let anyone know about any of it."
"You'd know about that."
"I didn't even know her."
"I'm not talking about Jessica Chambers. What will you have?" Lorenzo asked as the waitress arrived, smiling brightly at both of them.
"Beer will be fine." Drew had gotten drunk once, the first night after she left. He hadn't dared repeat that. Drinking his way into oblivion was entirely too tempting.
" So why are you leaving?" Lorenzo asked after the waitress brought them their glasses.
"Business calls. I'll be back for the crowning ceremony. Speaking of which," Drew said in an effort to direct the conversation away from himself, "have you heard anything more about, ah, any potential problems?"
"Nothing. If anyone is planning something, they've kept it almighty quiet. I'm wondering if we were fed that tip to distract our attention from their real goal. What happened with you and Rose?"
So much for directing the conversation. "It didn't work out. But that's nothing unusual, is it?" He took a healthy swig of beer. Like everything else these days, it lacked flavor. "I'm not known for the longevity of my relationships.
"You were different with her. She mattered."
Drew looked down at the amber liquid in his glass. "Yes. She did." And still does, he thought. And always will. "Lorenzo..."
"Yes?"
"Never mind." He wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. How do you go on when you can't have the one person you need? Her absence was a hole in his gut, gnawing at him constantly. He was leaving Montebello because he didn't trust himself to stay away, and she'd been right—neither of them could stand the way they kept hurting each other.