"She's not like us." He squeezed the hand he held, then released it. "If I take the steps, if I let us both feel more than we do now, I'd have to let her go or turn my back on my obligations. Obligations you know I came here to sort out." Furious with himself, he turned back to the sea. "I haven't even done that. I know my father wants me to take his place."
"Well not quite yet," Arianna said with a laugh. "But yes, when the time is right, it's hoped you'll stand as head of the family, as Liam of Donovan, to guide."
"It's a power I can pass to another. That's my right."
"Aye, Liam." Concerned now, she slid from the rock to go to him. "It's your right to step aside, to let another wear the amulet. Is that what you want?"
"I don't know." Frustration rang in his voice. "I'm not my father. I don't have his- way with others. His judgment. His patience or his compassion."
"No. You have your own." She laid a hand on his arm. "If you weren't fit for the responsibility, you would not be given it"
"I've thought of that, tried to come to accept it. And I know that if I commit to a woman not of elfin blood, I abdicate the right to take those responsibilities. If I let myself love her, I turn my back on my obligations to my family."
Arianna's eyes sharpened as she studied his face. "Would you?"
"If I let myself love her, I'd turn my back on anything, on everything but her."
She closed her eyes then, felt the tears welling in them. "Oh, it's proud I am to hear it, Liam." Eyes drenched she lay a hand on his heart. "There is no stronger magic, no truer power than love. This above all I want you to learn, to know, to feel."
Her hand closed into a fist so quickly, her eyes flashed with annoyance so abruptly, he could only gape when she rapped his chest "And for the love of Finn why haven't you looked? Your powers are your gifts, your birthright and more acute than any I know but your father. What have you been doing?" she demanded, throwing up her hands and whirling with a spin of white silk. "Prowling the woods, calling to the moon, spinning your games. And brooding," she added, jabbing a ringer at him as she turned back. "Oh, a champion brooder you ever were, and that's the truth of it. You'll torture yourself with the wanting of her, go keep her company during a storm-"
"Which I know bloody well Da brewed."
"That's beside the point" she snapped and skewered him with the sharp, daunting look he remembered from childhood. "If you don't spend time with the girl you won't think with anything but your glands, will you? The sex won't answer it all, you horse's ass. It's just like a man to think it will."
"Well, damn it, I am a man."
"What you are is a pinhead, and don't you raise your voice to me, Liam Donovan."
He threw up his hands as well, added a short, pithy curse in Gaelic. "I'm not twelve any longer."
"I don't care if you're a hundred and twelve, you'll show your mother proper respect."
He smoldered, seethed and sucked it in. "Yes, ma'am."
"Aye." She nodded once. "That'll do. Now stop tormenting yourself with what may be, and look at what is. And if your lofty principles won't let you look deep enough, ask her about her mother's family."
Arianna let out a huff of breath, smoothed down her hair. "And kiss me goodbye like a good lad. She'll be here any second."
Because he was still scowling she kissed him instead, then grinned sunnily. "There are times you look so like your Da. Now don't look so fierce, you'll frighten the girl. Blessed be, Liam," she added, then with a shiver of the light, spread white wings and soared into the sky.
CHAPTER 5
He hadn't sensed her, and that irritated him. His temper had been up, blocking his instincts. Now, even as he turned, he caught that scent-female, innocence with a light whiff of jasmine.
He watched her come out of the trees, though she didn't see him-not at first. The sun was behind him, and she looked the other way as she started up the rough path to the apex of the cliffs.
She had her hair tied back, he noted, in a careless tail of gleaming brown the wind caught and whipped. She carried a trim leather bag with its strap crosswise over her body. Her gray slacks showed some wear and her shirt was the color of daffodils.
Her mouth was unpainted, her nails short, her boots-so obviously new-showed a long, fresh scar across the left toe. The sight of her, muttering to herself as she climbed, both relaxed and annoyed him.
Then both sensations turned to pure amusement as she spotted him, jolted and scowled before she could school her expression to disinterest.
"Good morning to you, Rowan."
She nodded, then clasped both hands on the strap of her bag as if she didn't know what else to do with them. Her eyes were cool, in direct contrast to those nervous hands, and quite deliberately skimmed past him.
"Hello. I'd have gone another way if I'd known you were here. I imagine you want to be alone."
"Not particularly."
Her gaze veered back to his, then away again. "Well, I do," she said very definitely and began to make her way along the rocks away from him.
"Hold a grudge, do you, Rowan Murray?"
Stiffening with pride, she kept walking. "Apparently."
"You won't be able to for long, you know. It's not natural for you."
She jerked a shoulder, knowing the gesture was bad-tempered and childish. She'd come to sketch the sea, the little boats that bobbed on it, the birds that soared and called above. And damn it, she'd wanted to look at the eggs in the nest to see if they'd hatched.
She hadn't wanted to see him, to be reminded of what had happened between them, what it had stirred inside her. But neither was she going to be chased away like a mouse by a cat. Setting her teeth, she sat on a ledge of rock, opened her bag. With precise movements she pulled out her bottle of water, put it beside her, then her sketchbook, then a pencil.
Ordering herself to focus, she looked out at the water, gave herself time to scan and absorb. She began to sketch, telling herself she would not look over at him. Oh, he was still there, she was sure of it. Why else would every muscle in her body be on alert, why would her heart still be tripping in her chest?
But she would not look.
Of course she looked. And he was still there, a few paces away, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, his face turned toward the water. It was just bad luck, she supposed, that he was so attractive, that he could stand there with the wind in all that glorious hair, his profile sharp and clean, and remind her of Heathcliff or Byron or some other poetic hero.
A knight before battle, a prince surveying his realm.
Oh, yes, he could be any and all of them-as romantic in jeans and a sweatshirt as any warrior glinting in polished armor.
"I don't mean to do battle with you, Rowan."
She thought she heard him say it, but that was nonsense. He was too far away for those soft words to carry. She'd just imagined that's what he would say in response if she'd spoken her thoughts aloud. So she sniffed, glanced back down at her book and to her disgust noted that she'd begun to sketch him without realizing it.
With an irritated flick, she turned to a blank page.
"There's no point in being angry with me-or yourself."
This time she knew he'd spoken, and looked up to see that he'd strolled over to her. She had to squint, to shade her eyes with the flat of her hand as the sun streamed behind him and shimmered its light like a nimbus around his head and shoulders. "There's no point in discussing it." She huffed out a breath as he sat companionably beside her. When he lapsed into silence, appeared to be settling in for a nice long visit, she tapped her pencil on her pad.
"It's a long coast. Would you mind plopping down on another part of it?"
"I like it here." When she hissed and started to rise, he simply tugged her back down. "Don't be foolish."
"Don't tell me I'm foolish. I'm really, really tired of being told I'm foolish." She jerked her arm free. "And you don't even know me."
He shifted so they were face-to-face. "That could be pa
rt of it. What are you drawing there in your book?"
"Nothing apparently." Miffed, she stuffed the book back into her bag. Once again she started to rise. Once again he tugged her easily back.
"All right," she snapped. "We'll discuss it. I admit I stumbled my way through the woods because I wanted to see you. I was attracted-I'm sure you're used to women being attracted to you. I did want to thank you for your help, but that was only part of it. I intruded, no question, but you were the one who kissed me."
"I did indeed," he murmured. He wanted to do so again, right now when her mouth was in a stubborn pout and there was both distress and temper in her eyes.
"And I overreacted to it." The memory of that still made her blood heat. "You had a perfect right to tell me to go, but you didn't have the right to be so unkind about it. No one has the right to be unkind. Now, obviously, you didn't have the same- response I did and you want to keep your distance."
She pushed at the hair that was coming loose from her ponytail to fly in her face. "So why are you here?"
"Let's take this in order," he decided. "Yes, I'm used to women being attracted to me. As I've a fondness for women I appreciate that." A smile tugged at his lips as she made a quiet sound of disgust. "You'd think more of me if I lied about that, but I find false modesty inane and deceitful. And though I most often prefer to be alone, your visit wasn't intrusive. I kissed you because I wanted to, because you have a pretty mouth."
He watched it register surprise before it thinned and she angled her face away. No one's told her that before, he realized, and shook his head over the idiocy of the male gender.
"Because you have eyes that remind me of the elves that dance in the hills of my country. Hair like oak that's aged and polished to a gleam. And skin so soft it seems my hand should pass through it as it would with water."
"Don't do that." Her voice shook as she lifted her arms, wrapped them tight to hug her elbows. "Don't. It's not fair."
Perhaps it wasn't, to use words on a woman who so obviously wasn't used to hearing them. But he shrugged. "It's just truth. And my response to you was more- acute than I'd bargained for. So I was unkind. I apologize for that, Rowan, but only for that."
She was over her head with him, and wished the terror of that wasn't quite so enjoyable. "You're sorry for being unkind, or for having a response to me?"
Clever woman, he mused, and gave her the simple truth. "For both if it comes to it. I said I wasn't ready for you, Rowan. I meant it."
It was hearing simple truth that softened her heart-and made it tremble just a little. She didn't speak for a moment, but stared down at the fingers she'd locked together in her lap while waves crashed below and gulls soared overhead.
"Maybe I understand that, a little. I'm at an odd place in my life," she said slowly. "A kind of crossroads, I suppose. I think people are most vulnerable when they come to the end of something and have to decide which beginning they're going to take. I don't know you, Liam." She made herself shift back to face him again. "And I don't know what to say to you, or what to do."
Was there a man alive who could resist that kind of unstudied honesty? he wondered. "Offer me tea."
"What?"
He smiled, took her hand. "Offer me tea. Rain's coming and we should go in."
"Rain? But the sun's-" Even as she said it, the light changed. Dark clouds slipped through the sky without a sound and the first drops, soft as a wish, fell.
His father wasn't the only one who could use the weather for his own purposes.
"Oh, it was supposed to be clear all day." She stuffed the bottle of water back into her bag, then let out a quick gasp when he pulled her to her feet with casual, effortless strength that left her limbs oddly weak.
"It's just a shower, and a warm one at that." He began to guide her through the rocks, down the path. "Soft weather, we call it at home. Do you mind the rain?"
"No, I like it. It always makes me dreamy." She lifted her face, let a few drops kiss it. "The sun's still shining."
"You'll have a rainbow," he promised and tugged her into the sheltering trees where the air was warm and wet, and shadows lay in deep green pools. "Will I have tea?"
She slanted him a look, and a smile. "I suppose."
"There, I told you." He gave her hand a little squeeze. "You don't know how to hold a grudge."
"I just need practice," she said and made him laugh.
"I'm likely to give you plenty of cause for practice before we're done."
"Do you make a habit of annoying people?"
"Oh, aye. I'm a difficult man." They strolled by the stream where damp ferns and rich moss spread, and foxglove waited to bloom. "My mother says I'm a brooder, and my father that I've a head like a rock. They should know."
"Are they in Ireland?"
"Mmm." He couldn't be sure unless he looked-and he damn well didn't want to know if they were lingering nearby watching him. "Do you miss them?"
"I do, yes. But we- keep in touch." It was the wistfulness in her voice that had him glancing down as they walked into her clearing. "You're missing your family?"
"I'm feeling guilty because I don't miss them as much as I probably should. I've never been away alone before, and I'm-"
"Enjoying it," he finished. "Enormously." She laughed a little and fished her keys out of her pocket.
"No shame in that." He cocked his head as she unlocked the door. "Who are you locking out?"
Her smile was a little sheepish as she stepped inside. "Habit. I'll put the tea on. I baked some cinnamon rolls earlier, but they're burned on the bottom. One of my misses."
"I'll take one off your hands." He wandered into the kitchen behind her.
She kept the room neat, he noted, and had added a few touches-the sort he recognized as a kind of nesting. Female making a home. Some pretty twigs speared out of one of Belinda's colorful bottles and stood in the center of the kitchen table beside a white bowl filled with bright green apples.
He remembered when she'd scouted out the twigs.
The wolf had walked with her-and had regally ignored her attempts to teach him to fetch.
He sat comfortably at her table, enjoying the quiet patter of rain. And thought of his mother's words. No, he wouldn't look that deeply. He didn't mind a skim through the thoughts, but that deliberate search was something he considered an abuse of power.
A man who demanded privacy had to respect that of others.
But he would pry without a qualm.
"Your family lives in San Francisco."
"Hmm. Yes." She had the kettle on and was choosing from one of Belinda's delightful collection of teapots. "They're both college professors. My father chairs the English department at the university."
"And your mother?" Idly, he slipped the sketchpad out of the bag she tossed on the table.
"She teaches history." After a mild debate, she selected a pot shaped like a faerie with wings for the handle. "They're brilliant," she continued, carefully measuring out tea. "And really marvelous instructors. My mother was made assistant dean last year and-"
She trailed off, stunned and just a little horrified when she saw Liam studying her sketch of the wolf.
"These are wonderful." He didn't bother to look up, but turned another page and narrowed his eyes in concentration at her drawing of a stand of trees and lacy ferns. Peeking through those airy shapes were the suggestion of wings, of laughing eyes.
She saw the faeries, he thought and smiled.
"They're just doodles." Her fingers itched to snatch the book, close it away, but manners held her back. "It's just a hobby."
And when his eyes shot to hers, she nearly shivered.
"Why would you say that, and try to believe it, when you have a talent and a love for it?"
"It's only something I do in my spare time-now and again."
He turned the next page. She'd done a study of the cottage, made it look like something out of an old and charming legend with its ring of trees and welcoming porch. "An
d you're insulted when someone calls you foolish?" he muttered. "It's foolish you are if you don't do what you love instead of wringing your hands about it."
"That's a ridiculous thing to say. I do not wring my hands." She turned back to take the kettle off the bowl and prevent herself from doing exactly that. "It's a hobby. Most people have one."
"It's your gift," he corrected, "and you've been neglecting it."
"You can't make a living off of doodles."
"What does making a living have to do with it?" His tone was so arrogantly royal, she had to laugh. "Oh, nothing other than food, shelter, responsibility." She came back to set the pot on the table, turned to fetch cups. "Little things like that from the real world."
"Then sell your art if you've a need to make a living."
"Nobody's going to buy pencil sketches from an English teacher."
"I'll buy this one." He rose and held the book open to one of her studies of the wolf. In it, the wolf stood, facing the onlooker with a challenging glint in his eyes exactly like the one in Liam's. "Name your price."
"I'm not selling it, and you're not buying it to make some point." Refusing to take him seriously, she waved him back. "Sit down and have your tea."
"Then give me the sketch." He angled his head as he looked at it again. "I like it. And this one." He flipped the page to the trees and fern faeries. "I could use something like this in the game I'm doing. I've no talent for drawing."
"Then who does the drawings for your graphics?" She asked hoping to change the subject, and as a last resort, got out the burned buns.
"Mmm. Different people for different moods." He sat again, absently took one of the rolls. It was hard and undeniably burned, but if you got past that, it was wonderfully sweet and generously filled with currants.
"So how do you-"
"Do either of your parents draw?" he interrupted.
"No." Even the thought of it made her chuckle. The idea of either of her smart and busy parents settling down to dream with pencil and paper. "They gave me lessons when I was a child and showed an interest. And my mother actually keeps a sketch I made of the bay when I was a teenager framed and in her office at the university."
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