Books by Nora Roberts

by Roberts, Nora

  "Girl talk," Morgana said smoothly and moved over to kiss his cheeks. "Hello, handsome."

  He tweaked her nose. "I know when my women are keeping secrets."

  "No peeking," Morgana said, knowing Matthew was nearly as skilled at reading thoughts as Sebastian. "Now, where's everyone else?"

  He wasn't satisfied, but he was patient. If she didn't tell him soon, he would look for himself. He was, after all, her father.

  "Douglas and Maureen are in the kitchen, arguing over who's fixing what for lunch. Camilla's rousting Padrick at gin." Matthew grinned, wickedly. "And he's not taking it well. Accused her of charming the cards."

  Bryna managed a smile of her own. "And did she?"

  "Of course." Matthew stroked the wolfs silver fur. "Your sister's a born cheat."

  Bryna sent him a mild look. "Your brother's a poor loser."

  Morgana laughed and linked arms with them both. "And how the six of you managed to live in this place together and not be struck by lightning is a mystery to me. Let's go down and make some more trouble."

  There was nothing like a group meal with the Donovans to lift her mood. And a mood lift was precisely what Morgana needed. Watching with affection the squabbling, the interplay between siblings and spouses, was better than front-row seats at a three-ring circus.

  She was well aware that they didn't always get along. Just as she was aware that, whatever the friction, they would merge together like sun and light in the face of a family crisis.

  She didn't intend to be a crisis. She only wanted to spend some time being with them.

  They might have been two sets of triplets, but there was little physical resemblance between the siblings. Her father was tall and lean, with a shock of steel-gray hair and a dignified bearing. Padrick, Anastasia's father, stood no higher than Morgana, with the husky build of a boxer and the heart of a prankster. Douglas was nearly six-four, with a receding hairline that swept back dramatically into a widow's peak. Eccentricity was his hobby. At the moment, he was sporting a magnifying glass around his neck that he peered through when the whim took him.

  He'd only removed his deerstalker hat and cape because his wife, Camilla, had refused to eat with him otherwise.

  Camilla, often thought of as the baby of the brood, was pretty and plump as a pigeon, and she had a will of iron. She matched her husband's eccentricities with her own. This morning, she was trying out a new hairstyle of blazing orange curls that corkscrewed around her head. A long eagle feather dangled from one ear.

  Maureen, as skilled a medium as Morgana had ever known, was tall and stately and had an infectious, bawdy laugh that could rattle the rafters.

  Together with Morgana's serene mother and dignified father, they made a motley crew. Witches all. As she listened to them bicker around her, Morgana was nearly swamped with love.

  "Your cat's been climbing the curtains in my room again," Camilla told Maureen with a wave of her fork.

  "Pooh." Maureen shrugged her sturdy shoulders. "Just hunting mice, that's all."

  Camilla's massive curls jiggled. "You know very well there's not a mouse in this house. Douglas cast them out."

  "And did a half-baked job," Matthew muttered.

  "Half-baked." Camilla huffed in her husband's defense. "The only thing half-baked is this pie."

  "Aye, and Doug made that, as well," Padrick interjected and grinned. "But I like my apples crunchy."

  "It's a new recipe." Douglas peered owlishly through his magnifying glass. "Healthy."

  "The cat," Camilla insisted, knowing very well she'd lose control of the conversation.

  "Cat's healthy as a horse," Padrick said cheerfully. "Isn't that right, lamb chop?" He sent his wife a lusty wink. Maureen responded with an equally lusty giggle.

  "I don't give a tinker's damn about the cat's health," Camilla began.

  "Oh, now, now-" Douglas patted her chubby hand. "We don't want a sick cat around, do we? Reenie will brew him up a nice remedy."

  "The cat's not sick," Camilla said in a strangled voice. "Douglas, for heaven's sake, keep up."

  "Keep up with what?" he demanded, indignant. "If the cat's not sick, what in Finn's name is the problem? Morgana, lass, you're not eating your pie."

  She was too busy grinning. "It's wonderful, Douglas. I'm saving it." She sprang up, dancing around the table to smack kisses on every cheek. "I love you, all of you."

  "Morgana," Bryna called as her daughter spun out of the room. "Where are you going?"

  "For a walk on the beach. For a long, long walk on the beach."

  Douglas scowled through his glass. "Girl's acting odd," he pronounced. Since the meal was nearly over, he plucked up his hat and dropped it on his head. "Don't you think?"

  Nash was feeling odd. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he hadn't slept in two days. Traveling steadily for approximately twenty hours in planes, trains, cabs and shuttle buses might have contributed to the dazed, dreamlike state he was currently enjoying. Still, he'd managed to get from the West Coast to the East, to catch another plane in New York and snatch a little twilight sleep crossing the Atlantic. Then there'd been the train south from Dublin and a frantic search for a car he could buy, rent or steal to carry him the last jarring miles from Waterford to Castle Donovan.

  He knew it was important to stay on the right side of the road. Or rather the wrong side. He wondered why the devil it should matter, when the rutted, ditch-lined dirt track he was currently bouncing along couldn't remotely be considered a road of any kind.

  And the car, which he'd managed to procure for the equivalent of twelve hundred American dollars-nobody could say the Irish weren't shrewd bargainers-was threatening to break apart on him at every bump. He'd already lost the poor excuse for a muffler, and was making enough noise to wake the sleeping dead.

  It wasn't that the land didn't have style and grace, with its towering cliffs and its lush green fields. It was that he was afraid he'd end up staggering up the final hill with nothing but a steering wheel in his hands.

  Those were the Knockmealdown Mountains to the west. He knew because the same slippery horse trader who'd sold him the car had been expansive enough to offer directions. The mountains to the west, St. George's Channel to the east, and you'll trip right over the Donovans before teatime.

  Nash was beginning to believe he'd find himself buried in a peat bog before teatime.

  "If I live," Nash mumbled. "If I find her and I live, I'm going to kill her. Slowly," he said with relish, "so she knows I mean it.".

  Then he was going to carry her off to some dark, quiet place and make love with her for a week. Then he was going to sleep for a week, wake up and start all over again.

  If, he reminded himself, he lived.

  The car sputtered and bucked and jolted his bones. He wondered how many of his internal organs had been shifted. Gritting his teeth, Nash cursed and cajoled and threatened the stuttering car up a rise. When his mouth fell open, he slammed on the brakes. The act managed to slow his descent. As he slid down the hill, he didn't notice the smell of rubber burning, or see the smoke beginning to pour out of the hood.

  His eyes were all for the castle.

  He hadn't really expected a castle, despite the name. But this was the real McCoy, perched high on the cliffs, facing the arrogant sea. Gray stone glittered in the sun, with flashing chips of quartz and mica. Towers lanced into the pearly sky. From the topmost, a white flag flew. Nash saw with awe and amazement that it was a pentagram.

  He blinked his eyes, but the structure remained, as fanciful as something from one of his movies. If a mounted knight had burst across the drawbridge-by God, there was a drawbridge-Nash wouldn't have turned a hair.

  He started to laugh, as delighted as he had been stunned. Recklessly, he punched the gas, and when the steering locked, drove straight into a ditch.

  Calling up every oath he knew, Nash climbed out of what was left of the car. Then he kicked it and watched the rusted fender clatter off.

&nb
sp; He squinted against the sun and judged that he was about to add a good three-mile hike to his travel arrangements. Resigned, he snagged his duffel bag out of the rear seat and started to walk.

  When he saw the white horse gallop across the bridge, he set himself to the task of deciding whether he was hallucinating or whether it was real. Though the horseman wasn't wearing armor, he was striking-lean and masculine with a waving silver mane. And Nash was not surprised to note the hawk clamped to the leather glove of his left arm.

  Matthew took one look at the man staggering up the road and shook his head. "Pitiful. Aye, Ulysses, pitiful. Wouldn't even make you a decent meal." The hawk merely blinked in agreement.

  At first glimpse, Matthew saw a disheveled, unshaven, bleary-eyed man with a knot forming on his forehead and a line of blood trickling down his temple.

  Since he'd seen the fool drive into the ditch, he felt honor-bound to set him right again. He pulled up his mount and stared haughtily down at Nash.

  "Lost, are you, lad?"

  "No. I know just where I'm going. There." He lifted a hand and gestured.

  Matthew lifted a brow. "Castle Donovan? Don't you know the place is lousy with witches?"

  "Yeah. That's just why I'm going."

  Matthew shifted in the saddle to reassess the man. He might be disheveled, but he wasn't a vagrant. His eyes might be bleary with fatigue, but there was a steely glint of determination behind them.

  "If you'll pardon my saying so," Matthew continued, "you don't look to be in any shape to battle witches at the moment."

  "Just one," Nash said between his teeth. "Just one particular witch."

  "Hmm. Did you know you're bleeding?"

  "Where?'' Nash lifted a hand gingerly, looked at his smeared fingers in disgust. "Figures. She probably cursed the car."

  "And who might you be speaking of?"

  "Morgana. Morgana Donovan." Nash wiped his fingers on his grimy jeans. "I've come a long way to get my hands on her."

  "Mind your step," Matthew said mildly. "It's my daughter you're speaking of."

  Tired, aching, and at the end of his tether, Nash stared back into the slate-gray eyes. Maybe he'd find himself turned into a squashed beetle, but he was taking his stand.

  "My name's Kirkland, Mr. Donovan. I've come for your daughter. And that's that."

  "Is it?" Amused, Matthew tilted his head. "Well, then, climb up and we'll go see about that." He sent the hawk soaring, then offered his gloved hand. "It's pleased I am to meet you, Kirk-land."

  "Yeah." Nash winced as he hauled himself onto the horse. "Likewise."

  The journey took less time on horseback than it would have on foot-particularly since Matthew shot off at a gallop. The moment they were across the drawbridge and into the courtyard, a tall, dark-haired woman rushed out of a doorway.

  Grinding his teeth, Nash jumped down and started toward her. "You've got a lot to answer for, babe. You cut your hair. What the hell do you-" He skidded to a halt as the woman stood her ground, watching him with bemused eyes. "I thought you were- I'm sorry."

  "I'm flattered," Bryna countered. With a laugh, she looked toward her husband. "Matthew, what have you brought me?"

  "A young man who drove into a ditch and seems to want Morgana."

  Bryna's eyes sharpened as she took another step toward Nash. "And do you? Want my daughter?"

  "I- Yes, ma'am."

  A smile flirted around her lips. "And did she make you unhappy?"

  "Yes-No." He let out a heavy sigh. "I did that all by myself. Please, is she here?"

  "Come inside." Bryna gently took his arm. "I'll fix your head, then send you to her."

  "If you could just-" He broke off when he saw a huge eye peering at him from the doorway. Douglas dropped his magnifying glass and stepped out of the shadows.

  "Who the devil is this?"

  "A friend of Morgana's," Bryna told him, nudging Nash inside.

  "Ah. The girl's acting odd," Douglas said, giving Nash a hearty clap on the back. "Let me tell you."

  Morgana let the brisk, chill wind slap her face and sneak through the heavy knit of her sweater. It was so cleansing, so healing. In a few more days, she would be ready to go back and face reality again.

  With a small, helpless sound, she sat on a rock. Here, alone, she could admit it. Had to admit it. She would never be healed. She would never be whole. She would go on and make a good life for herself and the child, because she was strong, because she was proud. But something would always be missing.

  But she was through with tears, through with self-pity. Ireland had done that for her. She'd needed to come here, to walk this beach and remember that nothing, no matter how painful, lasts forever.

  Except love.

  Rising, she started back, watching the water spray on rocks. She would brew some tea, perhaps read Camilla's tarot cards or listen to one of Padrick's long, involved stories. Then she would tell them, as she should have told them all along, about the baby.

  And, being her family, they would stand behind her.

  How sorry she was that Nash would never experience that kind of union.

  She sensed him before she saw him. But she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, teasing her because she was pretending to be so fearless. Very slowly, her pulse hammering in a hundred places, she turned.

  He was coming down the beach, in long, hurried strides. The spray had showered his hair, and droplets of water were gleaming on it. His face was shadowed with a two-day beard, and there was a neat white bandage at his temple. And a look in his eyes that had her heart screaming into her throat.

  In defense, she took a step back. The action stopped him cold.

  She looked- The way she looked at him. Oh, her eyes were dry. There were no tears to tear up his gut. But there was a glint in them. As if-as if she was afraid of him. How much easier it would have been if she'd leapt at him, clawing and scratching and cursing.

  "Morgana."

  Giddy, she pressed a hand over the secret she held inside. "What happened to you? You're hurt?"

  "It's-" He touched his fingers to the bandage. "Nothing. Really. I had a car fall apart on me. Your mother put something on it. On my head, I mean."

  "My mother?" Her gaze flickered over his shoulder, toward the towers of the castle. "You've seen my mother?"

  "And the rest of them." He managed a quick smile. "They're- something. Actually, I ditched the car a couple of miles from the castle. Literally. That's how I met your father." He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. "Then they were taking me in the kitchen and pouring tea into me and- Hell, Morgana, I didn't know where you were. I should have. You told me you came to Ireland to walk the beach. I should have known. I should have known a lot of things."

  She braced a hand on the rock for balance. She was deathly afraid she was about to have a new experience and faint at his feet. "You've come a long way," she said dully.

  "I would have been here sooner, but-Hey." He jumped forward as she swayed. The shock came first, that she felt so frighteningly fragile in his arms.

  But her arms were strong enough as she pushed at him. "Don't."

  Ignoring her, Nash pulled her close and buried his face in her hair. He drew in her scent like breath. "God, Morgana, just give me a minute. Let me hold you."

  She shook her head, but her arms, her treacherous arms, were already wrapping hard around him. Her moan was not of protest, but of need, when his mouth rushed to hers and took. He sank into her like a parched man into a clear, cool lake.

  "Don't say anything," he murmured as he rained kisses over her face. "Don't say anything until I've told you what I have to tell you."

  Remembering what he had told her before, she struggled against him. "I can't go through this again, Nash. I won't."

  "No." He caught her hands by the wrists, his eyes burning into hers. "No walls this time, Morgana. On either side. Your word."

  She opened her mouth to refuse, but there was something in his eyes she was power
less against. "You have it," she said briefly. "I want to sit down."

  "Okay." He let her go, thinking it might be best if he wasn't touching her while he was struggling to fight his way clear of the morass he'd made of things. When she sat on the rock, folded her hands in her lap and lifted her chin, he remembered he'd given serious thought to murdering her.

  "No matter how bad things were, you shouldn't have run away."

  Her eyes widened and gleamed. "I?"

  "Yes, you," he shot back. "Maybe I was an idiot, but that's no reason for making me suffer the way you did when you weren't there when I came to my senses."

  "So, it's my fault."

  "That I've been going out of my mind for the last month? Yeah, it is." He blew out a breath between his teeth. "Everything else, all the rest of it's on my head." He took a chance and touched a hand to her cheek. "I'm sorry."

  She had to look away or weep. "I can't accept your apology until I know what it's for."

  "I knew you'd make me crawl," he said in disgust. "Fine, then, I'm sorry for all the stupid things I said."

  Her lips curved a little. "All of them?"

  Out of patience now, he hauled her back to her feet. "Look at me, damn it, I want you to look at me when I tell you I love you. That I know it has nothing to do with charms or spells, that it never did. That all it has to do with is you, and me."

  When she closed her eyes, he felt panic skitter up his spine. "Don't shut me out, Morgana. I know that's what I did to you. I know it was stupid. I was scared. Hell, I was terrified. Please." He cupped her face in his hands. "Open your eyes and look at me." When she did, he let out a shudder of relief. He could see it wasn't too late. "This is a first for me," he said carefully. "First I have to ask you to forgive me for the things I said. I can tell you that I didn't mean them, that I was just using them to push you way, but that's not the point. I did say them."

  "I understand being afraid." She touched her hand to his wrist. "If it's forgiveness you want, you have it. There's no need to hold it back from you."

  "Just like that?" He pressed his lips to her brow, her cheeks. "You don't want to maybe turn me into a flounder for three or four years?"

  "Not for a first offense." She drew back, praying they could find some light and friendly plane to walk on for a little while. "You've had a long trip, and you're tired. Why don't we go back in? The wind's picking up, and it's nearly teatime."