by Nora Roberts
burns. “Blowback, mostly. What about you?”
“Fin and I took care of each other. Why didn’t you say something? Stubborn arse.” Connor rose, gripped her hands.
“I’ve worse cooking breakfast.”
“There’s no need for pain. Are you burned as well?” he asked his sister.
“Not a fucking mark. We have his blood, and the ash his torn flesh turned to. We’ll use it against him. We’ll figure out just how, and we’ll use it against him when next we come at him. And it won’t be his ground the next time. We’ll be sure of it.”
Iona didn’t ask how. Sitting there, with those she loved, with her hand in Boyle’s, she felt her faith come back.
“He couldn’t take it,” she said slowly, and touched her free hand to her amulet. “Even when I was helpless, or as close to helpless as I’ve ever been, even when he hurt me, he couldn’t take it from me. He needed me to give it to him. He could kill me, but he couldn’t take what’s in me. That pissed him off.”
“Good.”
Iona smiled. “Damn good. I stabbed him with my athame.”
“Did you now?” Fin rose, walked over, and, bending down, kissed her hard on the lips. “That’s our girl. A weapon of light against the dark. It may be why there was so much blood left for us.”
“We’ll use that as well. I’m putting a meal together. I can’t promise what it might be, but we’ll eat well tonight. And there’s a bottle yet of that French champagne. We didn’t finish it, but I’d say the first battle is ours, and we’ll celebrate that. You lot can give me a hand. Not the two of you,” Branna said to Iona and Boyle. “You took the worst of it, so you’ll sit there and drink your whiskey by the fire a bit.”
“I’ve not finished with the stubborn arse yet.”
Meara punched Connor’s shoulder. “Mind your own arse.”
“Why when yours is not only stubborn but shapely as well?”
“In the kitchen, I said.” And this time Branna rolled her eyes at Connor to give him a clue.
“Fine, fine, I’m half starved anyway.”
He trooped out, dragging Meara with him.
“I’ll take a look at the horses. So you can rest your mind there.”
Iona smiled at Fin. “Thanks. They’re fine, but it never hurts.”
Then she leaned her head back, closed her eyes. “I was fire,” she said softly. “Not just making it, being it. It was terrifying and glorious.”
“It was, looking at you with Connor and Branna, burning like a torch, all white and heat. It was terrifying, and glorious.”
“And still, it wasn’t enough. I wanted it to be over, now. Tonight.”
“Some things don’t happen as fast as you like.” Boyle turned her hand over in his, then gave in and pressed it to his cheek. “It doesn’t mean they won’t happen.”
“That’s right. And Branna’s right. When we weigh it all, we tipped the scales on this one. The way you flew through the fog. You and Alastar, you’re my heroes.”
“Since I know what store you put by the horse, I’m in fine company.”
“When I close my eyes and see your hands. See them on fire.”
“Look at them here. See that? Same as ever.”
Big, scarred. Precious.
“I didn’t think we’d get to you.” He spoke slowly, and with great care. “I didn’t think we’d get to you in time if at all, and that I might never see you again. I didn’t have your faith. I want you to know I have it now. So, you can say you’re my hero as well.”
She tipped her head to his shoulder a moment.
“And I think, all things considered . . .”
She took a sip of whiskey. “What things?”
“I’m saying, I think considering all of it, and the fact we’re done for now, and don’t know as yet what might be next. Considering all that, and all the rest, I think it would be best all around if you married me.”
She lowered the glass to stare at him. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I know all you said after I was, well, just a raving git, and I’ve done what you wanted, or tried my best to. But I think it’s time we were past that now, and considering it all, we’ll get married and put all that away.”
“Married.” Had the battle, the bruisings, the flaming addled her brain? “As in married?”
“It’s the sensible thing. We’re good for each other, as you’ve said yourself. And . . . we have horses in common.”
“Can’t forget the horses.”
“It matters,” he muttered. “You love me. You said you did, and you’re a woman honest about her feelings.”
“That’s true.”
“So, we’re good for each other, and have the horses. You love me and it’s the same for me, so we’ll just get married.”
She decided her brain was working just fine, thank you. “What’s the same for you?”
“Jesus.” He had to stand for a moment, circle around the room. Stall by tossing more peat on the fire. “I never said it to a woman not my mother or related in some fashion. I don’t toss such things about as if they’re nothing.”
His hair, caught between brown and red, was a tumbled mess. She hadn’t noticed before, she realized. Or the blood on his shirt, the way his jaw set, so stubborn.
But she could see, very clearly, the intensity in his eyes.
“I believe you.”
“Some words matter more than others, and it’s one of those.”
“What’s one of those, exactly?”
“Love is. I know what love is, damn it, because you put it in me, and you’ve given it to me. And I’ll never be the same again. I’ll never feel it for anyone else.”
“It.”
“I love you, all right then?” He punched the words out like an argument waiting to happen, and she was totally, utterly done for.
“I’m saying it clear enough.” His brows drew together in that half scowl as he threw up his hands. “I love you. I . . . want to as well. I want all that I feel for you, as I’d only be half alive without it. And I want to marry you, and live with you, and have a family with you some time or other. But for now, I want you to stop making me run around it all, and just say it’s all right with you.”
She only stared at him a moment, as she wanted it all, every tiny detail of it, etched forever in her memory. “This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Oh bugger it. You want fancy words? Maybe I could pull some Yeats out or something.”
“No, no, no.” Laughing, she got to her feet, and felt stronger and surer than she’d ever felt before. “I meant it. This is romance, for me, from you. If you could say it just one more time. The three words, the word that matters more than others.”
“I love you. Iona Sheehan, I love you. Give me a bloody answer.”
“It was yes as soon as you opened your mouth. I just wanted to hear it all. It was yes the minute you asked.”
He blinked at her slowly, then narrowed his eyes. “It was yes? It’s yes?”
“I love you. There’s nothing I want more than to marry you.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Well good. Grand. God.” He lunged at her, and she met him halfway. “God, thank God. I don’t know how much longer I could’ve done without you.”
“Now you’ll never have to know.” She gave herself over to the kiss, and all the promises in it. “You’ll never have to do without me.” She held on, tight, tight. “We did win tonight, in so many way. In ways he’ll never understand. We have love. He doesn’t know what it means. We have love.”
“I’m marrying a witch.” Hauling her off her feet, he circled with her. “I’m a lucky man.”
“Oh, you really, really are. When?”
“When?”
“When are we getting married?”
“Tomorrow would do me.”
Delighted, she laughed. “Not that soon. Talk about boots-first. I need a fabulous dress, and I need Nan to be here. And
I haven’t met your family.”
“A lot of them are right in this house.”
“That’s true. We won’t wait too long, but long enough to do it right.”
“I have to buy you a ring. The boys were right, after all. I need to get you something shiny.”
“Absolutely.”
“And you’re right, too, it has to wait a little bit of time. At least long enough to get a booking at Ballintubber Abbey.”
“At . . .” Joy all but drowned her. “You’d marry me there?”
“It’s what you want, isn’t it? And by God, it seems it’s what I want as well. There, in the ancient and holy place. It’s what’s meant for us.”
He grabbed her hands, yanked them to his lips, then laughed down at her. “You’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours. That’s what I want.”
She laid her cheek on his heart. Love, she thought, given freely, taken willingly.
There was no stronger magick.
“It’s what I want,” she murmured, then smiled when she heard Alastar bugle. “He knows I’m happy.” She tipped her head back. “Let’s go tell everybody else, and pop that champagne.”
With wine and music and light, she thought. They’d come through the fire, beaten back the dark for another day.
And now, on the longest day, when the light refused to surrender, she was loved. At last.
* * *
DEEP IN THE WOODS, IN ANOTHER TIME, THE WOLF WHIMPERED. The man inside it cursed. And with arts as black as midnight, slowly began to heal.
Carefully, began to plan.
Keep reading for an excerpt from the two-hundredth novel by Nora Roberts
THE WITNESS
Now available from Berkley Books
June 2000
ELIZABETH FITCH’S SHORT-LIVED TEENAGE REBELLION BEGAN with L’Oréal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.
For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.
Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as chief of surgery of Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.
Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she’d return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother—a surgeon, like her mother.
Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She’d traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human body and play Chopin’s Piano Concerto—both Nos. 1 and 2—by rote.
She’d never been on a date or kissed a boy. She’d never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.
She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mother’s meticulous and detailed agenda.
That was about to change.
She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week’s medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal, scheduled with the selected outfit, with shoes, bag and accessories.
Designer suits; Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cuts, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.
After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she’d begun—maybe—to develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans and a hoodie and some chunky-heeled boots in Cambridge.
With cash, so the receipt wouldn’t show up on her credit card bill, in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.
She’d felt like a different person while wearing them, so different she’d walked straight into a McDonald’s and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.
The pleasure had been so huge, she’d had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.
The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe they’d always been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.
But she could feel them, actually feel them, sprouting in her belly now.
“Your plans changed, Mother. It doesn’t follow that mine have to change with them.”
Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the Pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeon’s hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as always—no color there, either.
“Elizabeth.” Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. “It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You’ll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule.”
Even the thought made Elizabeth’s stomach hurt. “I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York.”
“And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn’t had this coming week off, I couldn’t fill in for Dr. Dusecki at the conference.”
“You could have said no.”
“That would have been selfish and shortsighted.” Susan brushed at the jacket she’d hung, stepped back to check her list. “You’re certainly mature enough to understand the demands of work overtake pleasure and leisure.”
“If I’m mature enough to understand that, why aren’t I mature enough to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need it.”
Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. “A girl of your age, physical condition and mental acumen hardly needs a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week cruise, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. There’s no one to fix your meals or tend to the house.”
“I can fix my own meals and tend to the house.”
“Elizabeth.” The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. “It’s settled.”
“And I have no say in it? What about developing my independence, being responsible?”
“Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibility and freedom of choice. You still require guidance and direction. Now, I’ve e-mailed you an updated schedule for the coming week, and your packet with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summer term.”
As she spoke, Susan closed the garment bag, then her small Pullman. She stepped to her bureau to check her hair, her lipstick.
“You don’t listen to anything I say.”
In the mirror, Susan’s gaze shifted to her daughter. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to actually look at her since she’d come into the bedroom. “Of course I do. I heard everything you said, very clearly.”
“Listening’s different than hearing.”
“That may be true, Elizabeth, but we’ve already had this discussion.”
“It’s not a discussion, it’s a decree.”
Susan’s mouth tightened briefly, the only sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were coolly, calmly blue. “I’m sorry you feel that way. As your mother, I must do what I believe best for you.”
“What’s best for me, in your opinion, is for me to do, be, say, think, act, want, become exactly what you decided for me before you inseminated yours
elf with precisely selected sperm.”
She heard the rise of her own voice but couldn’t control it, felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes but couldn’t stop them. “I’m tired of being your experiment. I’m tired of having every minute of every day organized, orchestrated and choreographed to meet your expectations. I want to make my own choices, buy my own clothes, read books I want to read. I want to live my own life instead of yours.”
Susan’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of mild interest. “Well. Your attitude isn’t surprising, given your age, but you’ve picked a very inconvenient time to be defiant and argumentative.”
“Sorry. It wasn’t on the schedule.”
“Sarcasm’s also typical, but it’s unbecoming.” Susan opened her briefcase, checked the contents. “We’ll talk about all this when I get back. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Bristoe.”
“I don’t need therapy! I need a mother who listens, who gives a shit about how I feel.”
“That kind of language only shows a lack of maturity and intellect.”
Enraged, Elizabeth threw up her hands, spun in circles. If she couldn’t be calm and rational like her mother, she’d be wild. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
“And repetition hardly enhances. You have the rest of the weekend to consider your behavior. Your meals are in the refrigerator or freezer, and labeled. Your pack list is on your desk. Report to Ms. Vee at the university at eight on Monday morning. Your participation in this program will ensure your place in HMS next fall. Now, take my garment bag downstairs, please. My car will be here any minute.”
Oh, those seeds were sprouting, cracking that fallow ground and pushing painfully through. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth looked straight into her mother’s eyes and said, “No.”
She spun around, stomped away and slammed the door of her bedroom. She threw herself down on the bed, stared at the ceiling with tear-blurred eyes. And waited.
Any second, any second, she told herself. Her mother would come in, demand an apology, demand obedience. And Elizabeth wouldn’t give one, either.
They’d have a fight, an actual fight, with threats of punishment and consequences. Maybe they’d yell at each other. Maybe if they yelled, her mother would finally hear her.
And maybe, if they yelled, she could say all the things that had crept up inside her this past year. Things she thought now had been inside her forever.
She didn’t want to be a doctor. She didn’t want to spend every waking hour on a schedule or hide a stupid pair of jeans because they didn’t fit her mother’s dress code.
She wanted to have friends, not approved socialization appointments. She wanted to listen to the music girls her age listened to. She wanted to know what they whispered about and laughed about and talked about while she was shut out.
She didn’t want to be a genius or a prodigy.
She wanted to be normal. She just wanted to be like everyone else.