Adam’s eyes narrowed. He moved farther to the left to get a better view, and when he finally did, he stood there gaping like a fish. God Almighty, it was perfect! It was freaking perfect! She’d captured everything from the original. He couldn’t spot a single flaw, except for the parts that remained unfinished. And those, he saw with regret, were surprisingly few.
She was a fast worker.
His gaze jumped from the painting to her face again, and he frowned and tilted his head. She stood utterly motionless, seemingly mesmerized by staring up at the original. The one hanging over the mantel. For a very long time, she stood that way, her eyes fixed and unblinking. But odd-looking. Unfocused maybe, as if she were not just looking at the painting, but into it. Or...or something. It seemed to Adam as he watched her that her breathing got slower, and deeper. He could see her lungs expand and contract in a long, drawn-out rhythm. She looked— he sought for an apt description—like a sleepwalker. Yes, that was it, exactly. A sleepwalker. Eyes opened, but not seeing. They seemed glazed-over, cloudy.
And when she finally did begin to move, it was with the slow, almost awkward motions of a somnambulist. Her hands rose in slow motion and worked the tubes of paint and balanced the palette. She never looked at them. And while the movements seemed clumsy, she didn’t drop anything. It was all done with an unconscious ease. And then she lifted the brush. And the whole time, her eyes never left the painting on the wall.
Adam blinked, gave his head a shake, narrowed his eyes. Her actions didn’t change, though. She painted without looking. And for a long time, he couldn’t see what the results might be, because he was unable to take his eyes off her face and her hands as she worked. As he watched, she wielded the brushes faster, and with more confidence. Never blinking, never even peeking at the work in progress.
It was eerie. Watching the scene sent chills right down his spine, but he couldn’t look away. Seemed he became as immersed in staring at her as she’d become in staring at “Rush.” The spell was only broken when her movements slowed, became more lethargic. And her eyelids drooped, as if the entire exercise had exhausted her. Her shoulders slumped a little. It was obvious she was trying now. Putting forth an effort to keep going. Working at getting it right. The frown lines between her brows appeared, where before she’d seemed utterly relaxed. And then she gave her head a little shake, and set the brush down.
She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips, then finally, she surveyed what she’d done. And so did Adam. He looked from her canvas to the one on the wall several times, and he gaped in astonishment, not only at the sheer perfection of the work, but at the amount she’d accomplished in a single session.
As he looked on, she conducted a similar survey, looking anxiously from one painting to the other. From the original to the forgery. And she nodded in apparent approval. But her face held no joy, no excitement. It seemed sadness was all she felt.
And finally, she began the process of recapping the paint tubes. She gathered up the brushes and took them away, moving off in the direction of the kitchen. Probably to clean them.
Only then was Adam able to focus on anything besides Brigit and what had been happening inside that room. It occurred to him, as it no doubt should have much sooner, that he was too warm with his light jacket on. The sun burned over his back, heating him right through it, and when he wiped the back of a hand across his brow, it came away damp. Frowning, he glanced down at his wristwatch. Three hours! Three hours he’d stood here, all but motionless, lost in watching her. Three hours she’d remained bent over that canvas, with her eyes focused elsewhere.
It was one more thing about Brigit Malone that defied explanation. How the hell did she do what he’d just seen her do? He wondered how she explained it to herself. Maybe she thought she was channeling the work or something. He just didn’t see how she could do the things she did, and not realize it was...it was magic.
And beyond all of that was the fact he had to face. Not possible to doubt it anymore. He’d been right about Brigit’s intentions. She’d lied to him all along, with the intention of stealing a painting she knew meant more to him than anything else he owned. She was going to do it despite what they’d shared, or what he’d thought they’d shared. Despite what she’d come to mean to him.
God, if she knew him at all, she’d know he wouldn’t care about that. About her inability to be honest with him, yes. That hurt. But “she could take the damned painting. Hell, if the idea were to switch the forgery for the original, he’d rather have the forgery. Because it was hers. Something she’d done. Why couldn’t she see that?
Maybe because he was the only one who felt that way. Maybe because this caring was all on his side. Maybe because he didn’t mean a damn thing to her.
Brigit came back into the room, drying her hands on a rag. She carefully lifted the canvas from the tripod, and he almost winced. Moving it while it was still wet was risky...and after all that work? He supposed, though, she saw that as necessary. She had to keep what she was doing a secret, after all. It wouldn’t do to have Adam waltz in one afternoon to see it sitting there, big as life.
He had to crouch down low to see her head up the stairs, and then crank his neck uncomfortably to watch her enter her bedroom. So she kept this masterpiece hidden somewhere in her room, then. Okay. Fine. He’d know that much at least. Meanwhile, he decided it would be a damned good idea to mark the original with that pen Mac had given him. Not because he wanted to prove her guilty. Not even in hopes of recovering the work. But just in case she disappeared from his life before he got his answers, he’d need to know, for his own peace of mind, whether she’d gone through with this or not. And because if all he had left of her ended up being the painting she’d created through her own, incredible magic, then he at least wanted to know he held her copy, and not the original. From the looks of things, if Brigit went ahead with her plans, the original wouldn’t be hanging there much longer.
Finished. The painting was finished. And so was Brigit. Done for. She wanted to save Raze. She needed to find her sister. And she was in love, deeply, madly in love with Adam Reid. No matter the risk, she couldn’t betray him. She couldn’t.
Zaslow had given her three days. And that was good, because that would give the paint plenty of time to dry. She had no choice, the way she saw it. There was nothing else she could do.
She’d have to leave Adam, because it wasn’t fair to stay. But she’d tell him the truth first. Everything. Everything. She pulled a sheet of paper from her bedside stand, and began her letter to him.
Adam waited until he was certain she was asleep. Then he crept out of bed and downstairs into the study. He carefully removed his painting from its spot above the mantle, and set it on the floor. Then he wrote a single word on the back, in the lower right-hand corner. Rush. He watched as the letters faded before his eyes, until only a trace remained.
Then nothing.
Why, he wondered, was he still doubting Brigit’s true intent here? Why was there this one, stubborn, stupid part of him that was hoping against hope she would change her mind? Why did he have even a kernel of doubt she’d go through with her plan to betray him?
But he knew why he held on to that tiny shred of hope. He knew perfectly well why, didn’t he? He was in love with the goddamned woman. He loved her with every part of him, and if she’d just reconsider, if she’d just turn to him instead of away from him, trust him enough to be honest and let him help her...
...Who was he kidding? It wouldn’t matter. Because in order to help her, he had to try to help her find her sister, and then he had to let her go. In the end, he’d lose her, either way.
There was nothing left for him, was there? He didn’t honestly think his heart would survive a single day once she finally left him forever.
The telephone rang, and he picked it up before it could do so again, with a weary, “Yeah?”
“I’ve found the sister,” Mac said without preamble. “And, buddy, you’re not gonna believe it.”
Chapter Fourteen
The situation was dire.
Darque paused in his rooms—the ones he used on those seldom occasions when he could be here to watch over his captive in person—to stare through the two-way mirror at Bridin.
She’d grown into a stunning young woman. She sat up straight, her posture regal and proud, in the chair beside the bed. Eyes closed, that deep, rich voice of hers as serene as ever as she sang one of the old songs. Such a solemn woman. So resigned to this existence.
Or so she’d convinced him. He’d only recently become aware of what she’d done. While he’d been away seeing to matters in Rush, trying to quell yet another of those constant uprisings, she’d created a painting, and sent it home with her nurse, Kate, who, in turn, had sold it to an art gallery in Ithaca. No coincidence, that. Darque had dealt with her kind too often in the past not to know this had some hidden meaning. And there was only one he could think of. That the painting was meant as a message of some sort, a message from Bridin to her missing twin. A message which would bring that other one to him. And if he wasn’t careful, the two of them might escape. Together—only together— they might well make their way back to Rush, and stir a full-scale revolt. His hold on the throne could be in serious jeopardy.
Naturally, he’d tried to nip Bridin’s attempt in the bud, by going to this gallery himself. But he’d been unable to so much as touch the painting. She’d placed an enchantment on it.
As furious as he was with her, he couldn’t help but admire her cunning. Despite the frequent tranquilizers, and the constant confinement, she’d managed to hold on to her magic. Gods, it must be stronger than he’d guessed.
And the painting...the painting was utterly mesmerizing. He’d stood in that gallery—as close as he could get to the thing—and stared at it, lost in its beauty for hours.
And then he’d decided to try another approach. He’d hired a reputable art thief to steal it. Once the thief did so, Darque would order him to destroy it. . . right there, where Darque could watch, and be assured it was done. Bridin’s sister must never see that painting.
Never.
It was only with this most recent trouble that Darque had installed the mirror, so he could watch Bridin at all times. He’d be aware if she tried creating any more magical messages.
It was dangerous for him to be here, now. The kingdom was quiet for the moment, but he knew too well it was only a pause in the chaos that usually reigned. He ought to be there.
And he would be, soon. Just as soon as he saw this painting destroyed, and assured himself the sister remained blissfully unaware of her twin and her heritage, he’d leave.
And this time, he planned to take Bridin with him. With her life in the balance, her people would comply, willingly and completely, at long last. When Bridin, their queen, knelt at his feet, the rest would follow.
All he need do would be to convince her to remove that necklace, and he’d be able to take her. Subjugate her. Make her his servant.
And he was close...he was so close to convincing her to remove the pendant. Each night, he went to her while she slept, and used all the strength he had to speak to her mind, to mesmerize it with the power of his own, to bend her to his will. It was exhausting him. Draining him. And it was dangerous. So dangerous, because when he entered her mind that way, he had to open his own to her subtle influence as well.
It was a struggle of wills. But she was beginning to weaken. He was winning. When she learned that the painting had been destroyed, that her sister had never received the message meant for her, her devastation should be the final blow. Her will would be broken, and she would be his to command.
And command her, he would.
As he watched, already savoring his victory, Bridin rose with the grace of...of a fay queen. And stood there, with the windows at her back. The setting sun behind her cast fiery red light through the thin nightgown she wore, so that there was nothing of her body Darque couldn’t see.
His throat went dry. He averted his face quickly, knowing the one weapon of the fairy female, that no man, mortal or otherwise, could hope to fight.
But his eyes were drawn back to hers.
“I know you’re watching me, Dark Prince,” she said slowly, and somehow, though he knew she couldn’t see him, her eyes met and melded with his. “I know what you’re thinking right now.”
Gods, that voice! Deep and smooth and soft. Like velvet stroking him. He put his palms to his ears, closed his eyes. But still he heard her.
“You think you’ll own me. That I’ll be your slave, as well as your prisoner soon.”
“Shut up,” he yelled, turning away from the glass.
“But you’re wrong, Dark Prince. It is I who will own you. Body and soul. Unless you release me, my handsome, ruthless, evil captor...you’re doomed.”
Darque grated his teeth as he stormed out of the room, down the stairs and out of the house. Damn her! Damn her, she’d pay. She would pay for that impertinence, and pay dearly.
Chapter Fifteen
There was something on Adam’s mind. Something important.
Adam had changed since she’d moved into his life. He’d lost weight. His face seemed drawn and taut, and he rarely smiled. His eyes had lost their sparkle and their life. And they sported circles beneath them. The spring had gone from his step, and Brigit would have been blind if she’d believed it wasn’t because of her.
He’d gone and let himself care for her. The fool. The poor, wonderful fool.
He sat, now, in the study, staring into the dying embers that glimmered cherry red in the hearth. He’d gone off to the university this morning, just like always. And with the painting finished, Brigit had spent the day at Akasha, tending to the plants that had been a bit neglected these last few days. She’d tried to get back that old feeling of peace the shop usually gave her. She’d slipped a Clannad CD into the stereo, adjusted the music nice and low. She’d set a few sticks of vanilla incense aglow. She’d opened a window to admit the autumn breeze, just enough to set all the wind chimes tinkling.
But it hadn’t worked. Nothing could ease her mind. Not now. And she knew why. For a brief space in time, she’d been allowed to touch paradise. Adam had let her in, admitted her to that secret place inside his heart.
It had been over too soon. For some reason she could only guess at, he’d changed his mind. He’d tossed her out and locked the iron door to the room where he kept his heart prisoner. And she didn’t think he was going to let her back in again.
It had been bad enough before she’d known how sweet it felt to love someone the way she loved him. Now...now it was nothing short of sheer torture.
She hadn’t expected to see him waiting up for her when she’d come home from Akasha. It was almost midnight, after all. And she winced again as she noticed the marked change in him, since she’d first met him. He sat just as tall, there in the leather chair nearest the hearth. His shoulders were every bit as wide as before. But he seemed wounded. Someplace so deep it didn’t show. Except to her. She could see him bleeding.
“Sit down, Brigit. I have to talk to you.”
She came forward, realized her knees were shaking, and weak. If he were going to ask her again for her reasons...
“I have something for you,” he said softly, not even meeting her eyes as he took the slip of paper from his pocket. She took it from him as she passed him on her way to the sofa. But her feet stuttered to a halt when his fingertips touched hers. And she saw him close his eyes, and she felt the shaft of pain that shot through him.
An answering bolt of guilt assaulted her. God, she was so glad this would soon be over. A few more days. Long enough for the paint to dry thoroughly. And then she’d be gone.
And that was a damned lie. She wasn’t glad. Because she knew that once she left him, she could never see him again. For his sake, she had to get out of his life.
She took the paper, unfolded it, and read aloud. “310 Park Street, Binghamton, New York.” Her vision
blurred as she skimmed the next line, and she didn’t feel herself sinking to the floor. She just ended up there, legs folded beneath her, the paper trembling in her hands.
“Bridin McCallister,” she whispered, and she felt dizzy. “Bridin...”
“Your sister was adopted by Rebecca and James McCallister in 1969,” Adam said softly, slowly. “But they were killed in an auto accident ten years later. James’s brother, Matthew, took custody of Bridin after that, but something went wrong.”
Brigit looked up at him, met his eyes. She parted her lips to question him, but no words emerged. Through her tears she saw the struggle in his eyes. The indecision. And finally he sighed, and reached out a hand to stroke her face.
“I can wish I’d never set eyes on you until hell freezes over. You know that, Brigit? But even then I can’t stand to see you hurting.”
She sniffed, blinking her vision clear. “You...you’ve found her? You know where she is? Jesus, Adam, you’ve found my sister?” she whispered, then shook her head in disbelief.
Adam’s lips thinned, and it seemed he had to force himself to continue. “Yeah. I know where she is. But like I said, Brigit, something went wrong.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.” He opened his eyes, stared hard into hers.
“I’ve been dreaming about Bridin all my life,” she whispered, still unable to coax her voice to full life or any real volume. Unable to force any solid sound through the tightness of her throat. “You have to tell me.”
He nodded, bit his lip. “She started having dreams, right after the accident that killed her adoptive parents. Only, she called them visions, and began insisting her parents had been murdered by some supernatural force. She started talking about her memories of her true home, ‘on the other side.’ Kept claiming she was only half-mortal. That the other half. . . was fay.”
Brigit shook her head slowly. It seemed all she was able to do as she let the information sink into her brain and felt a blade slice her heart.
Fairytale (Fairies of Rush) Page 22