“Maybe I was doing the same thing.”
“Really? Telling me you were done with me is an odd way to accomplish that.”
“Mac.” She leaned forward, and this time she took his hands. “You’re the first man I’ve ever said it to. You have to be careful throwing that word around. If you’re careless with it, casual with it, it loses power. You’re the first because you’re the first. And for me, you’ll be the only. That’s how it works with the Todds. We mate for life. So you have to marry me.”
His system kicked, a quick boot. “I have to marry you?”
“Yeah. So that takes care of that.”
“Hold on.” Pleasure trickled through him. “Don’t I get a ring or something? Then you get down on one knee and ask, and I say yes or no?”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
“I feel lucky. I’m buying a house.”
“Oh.” There was a tug. Grief, sorrow. Acceptance. “New York. Yeah, well, that’s where your work is. Guess they always need cops there.”
“Probably, but I’m buying a house here. Do you think I’d ask you to leave your heart? Don’t you know mine’s here now, too?”
She stared at him. For one long moment, she could do nothing but stare at him. And saw their lives in his eyes. “Don’t make me cry. I hate that.”
“I put in an offer on the Logan place.”
“The . . .” Big and beautiful and by the sea. “It’s not for sale.”
“Oh, but it’s going to be. I can be very tenacious. I want children.”
“So do I.” Her fingers tightened on his. “It’ll be good with us. Good and solid and real. But you have to do something for me first.”
“I’m not going away.”
“Can’t you trust me enough to do this one thing?”
“That won’t work either. Tell me what’s frightening you. Start with the dream last night.”
She looked away from him. “I killed you.”
“How?” he asked, sounding intrigued.
“What, have you got ice in your veins? I ended your life, your existence.”
“We’ll figure out the solution faster if we don’t panic. Tell me about the dream.”
She shoved away from the table, paced the room three times in tight little circles trying to burn off her agitation. And told him. And in telling him brought it all back so clearly that fear crawled through her like freshly hatched spiders.
“I killed you, and destroyed everything that matters,” she finished. “I can’t carry that load, Mac. Can’t deal with it. It’s why I turned away from what I am. Turned away from Mia. It seemed the right—the only—thing to do. Part of me still thinks that.”
“But you know that won’t work and that you have to face it.”
“You’re asking me to risk you, my family, my friends, my home.”
“No, I’m not,” he said gently. “I’m asking you to protect us.”
Emotion totally swamped her. “God, Mac, that was a big button to push.”
“I know it. I’ll help you, Ripley. I think I was meant to. Meant to love you,” he added, taking her fisted hand, smoothing it open. “To be a part of this. I don’t think my life’s work is a coincidence, or my coming here, or my sitting here with you right now. And I know we’re stronger together than we are apart.”
She looked down at their joined hands. Everything she wanted, she realized, and hadn’t known she was looking for, was right here in her grasp.
“If I kill you, it’s really going to piss me off.”
His lips twitched. “Me, too.”
“Are you wearing Mia’s pendant?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t go anywhere without it. Or this.” She dug in her pocket. She should have known where it was all heading when she felt compelled to bring it with her. The ring was a complex twist of silver, a trio of melded circles, scored with symbols. “It was my grandmother’s.”
He was humbled, and incredibly moved. Had to clear his throat. “So I get a ring after all.”
“Looks like. It’s going to be too small for your hand. Wear it on the chain with the pendant.”
He took it from her, squinting as he tried to make out the symbols without his glasses. “It looks Celtic.”
“It is. The middle circle says ‘justice,’ the ones on either side say ‘compassion’ and ‘love.’ I guess that covers it.”
“It’s a beautiful piece.” He took off the chain, opened it, and slid the ring on. “Thank you.”
Before he could slip the chain back over his head, she gripped his wrist. “Hypnotize me again.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Don’t give me that crap. This is all too dangerous. I want you to take me under, give me some posthypnotic suggestion or whatever it is. Something that will stop me if I start to lose control.”
“In the first place, you’re too open to other energies when you’re in a trance state. You were like a sponge, Ripley, soaking up what others poured into you. And in the second place, I have no idea if any suggestion would hold. When you’re conscious and aware, you’re too strong-minded, too strong-willed, to be influenced in that way.”
“It’s another line of defense. We don’t know it won’t work unless we try. This is something you can do, and I’m trusting you. I’m asking you for help.”
“That’s a hell of a button, too. Okay, we’ll try it. Not now,” he added quickly. “I want some time to do a little more research and prepare. And I want Nell and Mia here.”
“Why can’t this be just between us?”
“Because it’s not. I’ll try it, but only when you have your circle. Now wait here a minute.” He said it in such a no-nonsense, don’t-bother-to-argue tone that Ripley wasn’t sure if she was irritated, amused, or impressed. But she sat, drumming her fingers on the table, as he left the room.
While she listened to him rummaging around in the bedroom, muttering to himself, she drank the coffee she’d let go cold.
When he came back, he drew her to her feet. “I bought this in Ireland a dozen years ago.” Turning her hand over, he placed a silver disk in her palm. Through its center ran a swirling rise of silver, and on either side sat a small, perfectly round stone.
“Rose quartz and moonstone,” Ripley said.
“For love, and for compassion. I bought it as a kind of talisman, a good luck piece. I always carry it with me. Can’t find it half the time, but it always turns up. So I think it’s been pretty lucky. It has a loop in the back, so I imagine it was once worn as a pendant. Or you can just carry it in your pocket. I didn’t know it at the time, but I bought it for you.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “This is going to make me mushy.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I have to get back to work, and I can’t be all googly-eyed. I really love you,” she told him as she turned her mouth up to his. “I really do.”
He nudged her along, careful not to behave as if he was nudging her along.
He had a great deal to do.
Mac wasn’t foolish enough to believe he couldn’t be hurt. Even killed. No, he believed Ripley’s dream was a foretelling of what could be. The cycle that had begun three hundred years before was still in play.
But he was also smart enough to know various means to protect himself, and to believe that knowledge is power. He would gather more knowledge and strengthen the shield over both of them.
He wouldn’t risk putting her in a vulnerable trance state unless he was certain she would be safe.
He got out the copies of his ancestor’s journal entry, and found the page he wanted.
February 17
It is early, before dawn. Cold and deep dark. I have left my husband sleeping warm in bed, and come to my tower room to write this. A restlessness is on me, a worry that nags like a bad tooth.
A mist hangs over the house like a shroud. It presses against the glass. I can hear it scratching—sly little fingers made of bone. How it craves to com
e in. I have charmed the doors and windows and all the tiny cracks, as my mother taught me before despair swallowed her spirit.
How long ago that was, and yet on a night such as this it was only yesterday. And I pine for her—the comfort, the strength, the beauty of her. With this chill seeping into my bones, I wish for her counsel. But it is barred to me, even through crystal and glass.
It is not for myself I fear, but for my children’s children’s children. I have seen the world in my dreams, a hundred years times three. Such wonders. Such magic. Such grief.
A cycle spins. I cannot see it clearly. But I know my blood, before and after me, spins with it. Strength, purity, wisdom, and, above all, love will war with what now creeps outside my house.
It is ageless, it is ever. And it is dark.
Blood of mine freed it, and blood of mine will face it. From this place and time I can do little more than protect what is now and pray for what will come. I will leave what magic I can behind me for these beloved and distant children.
Evil cannot and will not be vanquished by evil. Dark will only swallow dark and deepen. The good and the light are the keenest weapons. Let those who come after hold them ready, and end this in time.
Beneath was a charm written in Gaelic that Mac had already translated. He studied it again now, hoping that the message from the past would help with the now.
Harding felt better than he had in days. The vague fatigue that had dogged him was put down to recovery from whatever bug had invaded his system. But his mind was clear, and he was certain he’d passed the crisis.
In fact, he felt well enough to be annoyed that a touch of the flu had thrown him off stride and off schedule. He fully intended to rectify that by approaching Nell Todd that very day for his first interview.
In preparation for it, he decided to have a light breakfast and a large pot of coffee in his room so that he could go over his notes, refresh his memory of the details, and plan the best strategy for persuading her to talk to him for his book.
The idea of the book, and the money and glamour he intended to reap from it, filled him with anticipation. For days, it seemed, he hadn’t been able to think of it clearly, to imagine it, to remember just what it was that he planned to do.
It was as if his mind had been locked away behind some thick door, and whenever it had fought its way clear again, had been too tired to function.
While he waited for his breakfast, he showered and shaved. Looking at himself in the mirror, he admitted that he didn’t look his best. He was pale, a bit gaunt. Not that he couldn’t get by without the pounds he could clearly see he’d shed. But the dark circles haunting his eyes offended his vanity.
He considered using a portion of his imagined advance for the book for a little nip and tuck, and a regenerative stay in some posh spa.
After he had completed his initial interview with the former Helen Remington, he would finish putting his book proposal together and send it to the New York agent he’d contacted about the idea.
In the bedroom he considered the choice between tailored suit and the more casual look of slacks and sweater. He opted for the casual—more friendly, approachable. That was the image for Nell Todd, rather than the formal business attire he’d used with Evan Remington.
As he thought of Remington, a wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing him to grip the closet door to steady himself. Not quite a hundred percent yet, he thought. He would feel better, he was certain, after breakfast.
His next shock came when he put on his slacks. They gapped at the waist, bagged at the hips. He realized he’d lost at least ten pounds during his bout with the flu, perhaps more. Though his hands shook a bit as he cinched his belt in the last notch, he told himself he could take advantage of this unexpected development.
He would just keep the weight off, start an exercise program, watch his diet more carefully. He’d look fit and trim for public appearances when his book was published.
By the time he sat down to breakfast at the table that room service had set up by the window, he’d convinced himself he was perfectly fine. In fact, better than ever.
With his first cup of coffee, he gazed out the window. The sun was bright, almost too bright as it bounced off the ice that seemed to slick every surface. He found it odd that the strength of that sun didn’t appear to be melting any of the ice. And that the village street seemed so still. As if it was genuinely frozen. A bug in amber.
He hoped the bookstore wasn’t closed because of the weather. He preferred to approach Nell Todd there, this first time. She would feel safer, he imagined, and more inclined to listen to his pitch. He might also be able to set up an interview with Mia Devlin.
As the person who’d hired Nell, who’d rented her a house, when she had first come to the island, the Devlin woman would add a great deal to the book.
More, Mia Devlin was reputed to be a witch, not that Harding himself actually believed in such nonsense. But something unusual had gone on in the forest the night Remington had been taken into custody, and the Devlin angle was worth exploring.
Blue lightning, a shining circle. Snakes under the skin.
Harding shuddered despite himself, and began to look over his notes.
He could approach Nell Todd, tempering his request for information with his admiration for her courage and intelligence. And quite sincerely, too, Harding admitted. What she had done had taken guts, skill, and brains.
He would flatter her ego. Tell her how he had followed her trail across the country, interviewed dozens of people she’d worked for, or with. And ah, yes, he mused, flipping a page in his notebook, appeal to her sense of compassion, her duty to others who found themselves in abusive situations.
A beacon of hope, he scribbled down hastily. A shining example of courage. Female empowerment. For some, escape is an option too terrifying to be considered or too far beyond their crushed spirits. (Confirm latest statistics on spousal abuse, women’s shelters, victims of marital homicides. Select family therapist to interview re: most common causes, effects, results. Interview other survivors? Batterers? Potential comparisons and confirmations.)
Pleased that his thoughts were flowing smoothly again, Harding began to eat.
Conception often cubbyholes victims of this nature as being part of an abuse cycle. Helen Remington—Nell Channing Todd—appears to have no such cycle in her background. (Continue research into childhood. Obtain statistics on what portion of abuse victims have no such activities in their previous home life.) A cycle, however, must have a beginning. From all appearances, this cycle began and ended with Evan Remington.
Harding continued to write, but his concentration began to waver. His fingers dug into the pen, and the pen into the paper.
BITCH! WHORE! BURN THE WITCH!
MINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINE!
BLOOD. DEATH. VENGEANCE.
VENGEANCE IS MINE, IS MINE, IS MINE.
He flipped pages rapidly, slashing words over them, as his breath quickened. And the writing that was not his own all but scorched the paper.
THEY MUST DIE. THEY ALL MUST DIE. AND I WILL LIVE AGAIN.
When he came back to himself, his notebook was neatly closed, his pen set aside. And he was nonchalantly drinking coffee, gazing out the window, and planning his day.
He thought it might be wise to take a nice long walk, to be out exercising in the fresh air. He could fill in several areas of description of the island, take a closer look at the cottage where Nell had lived when she’d first arrived.
It was certainly time he had a personal look at the woods where Remington had chased her that night.
Feeling comfortably full, Harding tucked away his notebook, secured a fresh one. He slipped it, along with a small tape recorder and a camera, into his pockets and set out to work.
He remembered nothing he’d written, nor the bloodlust that had gushed inside him as he’d done so.
Nineteen
The yellow cottage stood quiet at the edge of the little forest. Th
e trees were bare and black and cast short shadows on the ground. Within them was utter silence.
There were thin, lacy curtains at the windows and the glass sparkled in the bright sunlight.
Nothing stirred. Not a blade of winter grass, not a single crisp brown leaf. There seemed to be no sound at all, though the sea was close and the village just at his back. As he stood, staring at the house by the wood, Harding thought it was like studying a photograph taken by someone else. A frozen moment, given to him for reasons he couldn’t explain.
He felt a chill run up his spine. His body shook with it, and his breath came hard and fast. He took one stumbling step back, but it seemed as if he was rammed against a wall. And could not turn and run as he so suddenly wanted to do.
Then, as quickly as the sensation had come, it passed. He was only standing on the roadside, looking at a pretty cottage by a winter wood.
He would definitely get a checkup when he got back to the mainland, he decided, as he took one shaky step forward. Obviously, he was under more stress than he had realized. Once he had all the background data and research for the book organized, he would take that vacation. Just a week or two to recoup and recharge before he got down to the serious work of writing.
Cheered by that thought, he continued toward the woods. Now he could hear the soft and steady heartbeat of the sea, the careless call of birds, the light rustling of wind through naked branches.
He shook his head as he marched into the trees, and glanced around with the suspicious condescension of a confirmed urbanite for the solitude of nature. Why anyone would choose to live in such a place was beyond him.
Yet Helen Remington had done so.
She’d given up great wealth, a privileged lifestyle, a beautiful home, and a gilded social standing—and for what? To cook for strangers, to live on a rocky lump of land, and one day—he imagined—to raise a brood of squalling brats.
Stupid bitch.
His hands clenched and unclenched as he walked. Beneath his feet a dirty fog began to churn, to boil over his shoes. He quickened his pace, nearly running now, though the ground was slick and patched with ice. His breath came out in visible streams.
Books by Nora Roberts Page 198