It was Allena's job to keep all of Margaret's lecture notes in order, to help herd the group, to watch valuables, to haul parcels should there be any, and to generally make herself available for any and all menial chores.
For this she would be paid a reasonable salary by Margaret's definition.
But, more important, it was explained, she would receive training and experience that, her family hoped, would teach her responsibility and maturity.
Which, by the age of twenty-five, she should have learned already.
There was no point in explaining that she didn't want to be responsible and mature if it turned her into another Margaret. Here she was, four days into her first tour and already something inside her was screaming to run away.
Dutifully, she quashed the rebellion, glanced at her watch. Stared at it, dumbfounded.
That couldn't be. It was impossible. She'd only meant to slip into the shop for a few minutes. She couldn't possibly have spent an hour in there. She couldn't oh, God, she couldn't have missed the ferry.
Margaret would murder her.
Gripping the strap of her bag, she began to run.
She had long, dancer's legs and a slim build. The sturdy walking shoes
Margaret had ordered her to buy slapped pavement on her race to the ferry dock.
Her bag bounced heavily against her hip. Inside was everything ordered from the
Civilized Adventure directive and a great deal more.
The wind kicked in from the sea and sent her short blond hair into alarmed spikes around her sharp-boned face. The alarm was in her eyes, gray as the clouds, as well. It turned quickly to despair and self-disgust when she reached the dock and saw the ferry chugging away.
"Damn it!" Allena grabbed her own hair and pulled viciously.
"That's it and that's all. I might as well jump in and drown myself."
Which would be more pleasant, she had no doubt, than the icy lecture Margaret would deliver.
She'd be fired, of course, there was no doubt of it. But she was used to that little by-product of her professional endeavors. The method of termination would be torture.
Unless There had to be another way to get to the island. If she could get there, throw herself on Margaret's stingy supply of mercy, work like a dog, forfeit her salary. Make an excuse. Surely she'd be able to come up with some reason for missing the damn ferry.
She looked around frantically. There were boats, and if there were boats, there were people who drove boats. She'd hire a boat, pay whatever it cost.
"Are you lost, then?"
Startled, she lifted a hand, closed it tight over her pendant. There was a young man hardly more than a boy, really, she noted standing beside a small white boat. He wore a cap over his straw-colored hair and watched her out of laughing green eyes.
"No, not lost, late. I was supposed to be on the ferry." She gestured, then let her arms fall. "I lost track of time."
"Well, time's not such a matter in the scheme of things."
"It is to my sister. I work for her." Quickly now, she headed down toward him where the sea lapped the shore. "Is this your boat, or your father's?"
"Aye, it happens it's mine."
It was small, but to her inexperienced eye looked cheerful. She had to hope that made it seaworthy. "Could you take me over? I need to catch up. I'll pay whatever you need."
It was just that sort of statement, Allena thought the minute the words left her mouth, that would make Margaret cringe. But then bargaining wasn't a priority at the moment. Survival was.
"I'll take you where you need to be." His eyes sparkled as he held out a hand. "For ten pounds."
"Today everything's ten pounds." She reached for her purse, but he shook his head.
"It was your hand I was reaching for, lady, not payment. Payment comes when you get where you're going."
"Oh, thanks." She put her hand in his and let him help her into the boat.
She sat starboard on a little bench while he cast off. Closing her eyes with relief, she listened to the boy whistle as he went about settling to stern and starting the motor. "I'm very grateful," she began. "My sister's going to be furious with me. I don't know what I was thinking of."
He turned the boat, a slow and smooth motion. "And couldn't she have waited just a bit?"
"Margaret?" The thought made Allena smile. "It wouldn't have occurred to her."
The bow lifted, and the little boat picked up speed. "It would have occurred to you,'' he said, and then they were skimming over the water.
Thrilled, she turned her face to the wind. Oh, this was better, much better, than any tame ferry ride, lecture included. It was almost worth the price she would pay at the end, and she didn't mean the pounds.
"Do you fish?" she called out to him.
"When they're biting."
"It must be wonderful to do what you want, when you want. And to live so near the water. Do you love it?"
"I've a fondness for it, yes. Men put restrictions on men. That's an odd thing to my way of thinking."
"I have a terrible time with restrictions. I can never remember them." The boat leaped, bounced hard and made her laugh. "At this rate, we'll beat the ferry."
The idea of that, the image of her standing on shore and giving Margaret a smug look when the ferry docked, entertained Allena so much she didn't give a thought to the shiver of lightning overhead or the sudden, ominous roar of the sea.
When the rain began to pelt her, she looked around again, shocked that she could see nothing but water, the rise and fall of it, the curtain that closed off light.
"Oh, she won't like this a bit. Are we nearly there?"
"Nearly, aye, nearly." His voice was a kind of crooning that smoothed nerves before they could fray. "Do you see there, through the storm? There, just ahead, is where you need to be."
She turned. Through the rain and wind, she saw the darker shadow of land, a rise of hills, the dip of valley in shapes only. But she knew, she already knew.
"It's beautiful," she murmured.
Like smoke, it drifted closer. She could see the crash of surf now and the cliffs that hulked high above. Then in the flash of lightning, she thought, just for an instant, she saw a man.
Before she could speak, the boat was rocking in the surf, and the boy leaping out into the thrashing water to pull them to shore.
"I can't thank you enough, really." Drenched, euphoric, she climbed out onto the wet sand. "You'll wait for the storm to pass, won't you?" she asked as she dug for her wallet.
"I'll wait until it's time to go. You'll find your way, lady. Through the rain. The path's there."
"Thanks." She passed the note into his hand. She'd go to the visitors' center, take shelter, find Margaret and do penance. "If you come up with me, I'll buy you some tea. You can dry off."
"Oh, I'm used to the wet. Someone's waiting for you," he said, then climbed back into his boat.
"Yes, of course." She started to run, then stopped. She hadn't even asked his name. "I'm sorry, but_" When she rushed back, there was nothing there but the crash of water against the shore.
Alarmed that he'd sailed back into that rising storm, she called out, began to hurry along what she could see of the shore to try to find him. Lightning flashed overhead, more vicious than exciting now, and the wind slapped at her like a furious hand.
Hunching against it, she jogged up the rise, onto a path. She'd get to shelter, tell someone about the boy. What had she been thinking of, not insisting that he come with her and wait until the weather cleared?
She stumbled, fell, jarring her bones with the impact, panting to catch her breath as the world went suddenly mad around her. Everything was howling wind, blasting lights, booming thunder. She struggled to her feet and pushed on.
It wasn't fear she felt, and that baffled her. She should be terrified. Why instead was she exhilarated? Where did this wicked thrill of anticipation, of knowledge, come from?
She had to keep going. There was something,
someone, waiting. If she could just keep going.
The way was steep, the rain blinding. Somewhere along the way she lost her bag, but didn't notice.
In the next flash of light, she saw it. The circle of stones, rising out of the rough ground like dancers trapped in time. In her head, or perhaps her heart, she heard the song buried inside them.
With something like joy, she rushed forward, her hand around the pendant.
The song rose, like a crescendo, filling her, washing over her like a wave.
And as she reached the circle, took her first step inside, lightning struck the center, the bolt as clear and well defined as a flaming arrow. She watched the blue fire rise in a tower, higher, higher still, until it seemed to pierce the low-hanging clouds. She felt the iced heat of it on her skin, in her bones.
The power of it hammered her heart.
And she fainted.
Chapter 2
The storm made him restless. Part of the tempest seemed to be inside him, churning, crashing, waiting to strike out. He couldn't work. His concentration was fractured. He had no desire to read, to putter, to simply be. And all of those things were why he had come back to the island.
Or so he told himself.
His family had held the land, worked it, guarded it, for generations. The O'Neils of Dolman had planted their seed here, spilled their blood and the blood of their enemies for as far back as time was marked. And further still, back into the murky time that was told only in songs.
Leaving here, going to Dublin to study, and to work, had been Conal's rebellion, his escape from what others so blithely accepted as his fate. He would not, as he'd told his father, be the passive pawn in the chess game of his own destiny.
He would make his destiny.
And yet, here he was, in the cottage where the O'Neils had lived and died, where his own father had passed the last day of his life only months before.
Telling himself it had been his choice didn't seem quite so certain on a day where the wind lashed and screamed and the same violence of nature seemed to thrash inside him.
The dog, Hugh, which had been his father's companion for the last year of his life, paced from window to window, ears pricked up and a low sound rumbling in his throat, more whimper than growl.
Whatever was brewing, the dog sensed it as well, so that his big gray bulk streamed through the cottage like blown smoke. Conal gave a soft command in
Gaelic, and Hugh came over, bumping his big head under Conal's big hand.
There they stood, watching the storm together, the large gray dog and the tall, broad-shouldered man, each with a wary expression. Conal felt the dog shudder. Nerves or anticipation? Something, all Conal could think, was out there in the storm.
Waiting.
"The hell with it. Let's see what it is."
Even as he spoke, the dog leaped toward the door, prancing with impatience as Conal tugged a long black slicker off the peg. He swirled it on over rough boots and rougher jeans and a black sweater that had seen too many washings.
When he opened the door, the dog shot out, straight into the jaws of the gale. "Hugh! Cuir uait!"
And though the dog did stop, skidding in the wet, he didn't bound back to
Conal's side. Instead he stood, ears still pricked, despite the pounding rain, as if to say hurry!
Cursing under his breath, Conal picked up his own pace, and let the dog take the lead.
His black hair, nearly shoulder-length and heavy now with rain, streamed back in the wind from a sharply-honed face. He had the high, long cheekbones of the Celts, a narrow, almost aristocratic nose, and a well-defined mouth that could look, as it did now, hard as granite. His eyes were a deep and passionate blue.
His mother had said they were eyes that saw too much, and still looked for more.
Now they peered through the rain, and down, as Hugh climbed, at the turbulent toss of the sea. With the storm, the day was almost black as night, and he cursed again at his own foolishness in being out in it.
He lost sight of Hugh around a turn on the cliff path. More irritated than alarmed, he called the dog again, but all that answered was the low-throated, urgent bark. Perfect, was all Conal could think. Now the both of us will likely slip off the edge and bash our brains on the rocks.
He almost turned away, at that point very nearly retreated, for the dog was surefooted and knew his way home. But he wanted to go on too much wanted to go on. As if something was tugging him forward, luring him on, higher and higher still, to where the shadow of the stone dance stood, singing through the wind.
Because part of him believed it, part of him he had never been able to fully quiet, he deliberately turned away. He would go home, build up the fire, and have a glass of whiskey in front of it until the storm blew itself out.
Then the howl came, a wild and primitive call that spoke of wolves and eerie moonlight. The shudder that ran down Conal's spine was as primal as the call.
Grimly now, he continued up the path to see what caused young Hugh to bay.
The stones rose, gleaming with wet, haloed by the lightning strikes so that they almost seemed to glow. A scent came to him, ozone and perfume. Hot, sweet, and seductive.
The dog sat, his handsome head thrown back, his great throat rippling with his feral call. There was something in it, Conal thought, that was somehow triumphant.
"The stones don't need guarding," Conal muttered. He strode forward, intending to grab the dog by the collar and drag them both back to the warmth of the cottage.
And saw that it wasn't the stones Hugh guarded, but the woman who lay between them.
Half in and half out of the circle, with one arm stretched toward the center, she lay on her side almost as if sleeping. For a moment he thought he imagined her, and wanted to believe he did. But when he reached her side, his fingers instinctively going to her throat to check her pulse, he felt the warm beat of life.
At his touch her lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened. They were gray as the stones and met his with a sudden and impossible awareness. A smile curved her lips, parted them as she lifted a hand to his cheek.
"There you are," she said, and with a sigh closed her eyes again.
Her hand slid away from his cheek to fall onto the rain-trampled grass.
Delirious, he told himself, and most likely a lunatic. Who else would climb the cliffs in a storm? Ignoring the fact that he'd done so himself, he turned her over, seeing no choice but to cart her back to the cottage.
And when he started to gather her into his arms, he saw the pendant, saw the carving on it in another spit of lightning.
His belly pitched. His heart gave one violent knock against his chest, like an angry fist.
"Damn it."
He stayed crouched as he was, closing his eyes while the rain battered both of them.
She woke slowly, as if floating lazily through layers of thin, white clouds.
A feeling of well-being cushioned her, like satin pillows edged with the softest of lace. Savoring it, she lay still while sunlight played on her eyelids, cruised warm over her face. She could smell smoke, a pleasant, earthy scent, and another fragrance, a bit darker, that was man.
She enjoyed that mix, and when she opened her eyes, her first thought was she'd never been happier in her life.
It lasted seconds only, that sensation of joy and safety, of contentment and place. Then she shot up in bed, confused, alarmed, lost.
Margaret! She'd missed the ferry. The boat. The boy in the boat. And the storm. She'd gotten caught in it and had lost her way. She couldn't quite remember, couldn't quite separate the blurry images.
Stones, higher than a man and ringed in a circle. The blue fire that burned in the center without scorching the grass. The wild scream of the wind. The low hum of the stones.
A wolf howling. Then a man. Tall, dark, fierce, with eyes as blue as that impossible fire. Such anger in his face. But it hadn't frightened her. It had amused her. How strange.
Dreams, of course
. Just dreams. She'd been in some sort of accident.
Now she was in someone's house, someone's bed. A simple room, she thought, looking around to orient herself. No, not simple, she corrected, spartan. Plain white walls, bare wood floor, no curtains at the window. There was a dresser, a table and lamp and the bed. As far as she could tell, there was nothing else in the room but herself.
Gingerly now, she touched her head to see if there were bumps or cuts, but found nothing to worry her. Using the same caution, she turned back the sheet, let out a little sigh of relief. Whatever sort of accident there'd been, it didn't appear to have hurt her.
Then she gaped, realizing she wore nothing but a shirt, and it wasn't her own. A man's shirt, faded blue cotton, frayed at the cuffs. And huge.
Okay, that was okay. She'd been caught in the storm. Obviously she had gotten soaked. She had to be grateful that someone had taken care of her.
When she climbed out of bed, the shirt hung halfway to her knees. Modest enough. At her first step, the dog came to the door. Her heart gave a little hitch, then settled.
"So at least you're real. Aren't you handsome?" She held out a hand and had the pleasure of him coming to her to rub his body against her legs. "And friendly. Good to know. Where's everyone else?"
With one hand on the dog's head, she walked to the bedroom door and discovered a living area that was every bit as spartan. A couch and chair, a low burning fire, a couple of tables. With some relief she saw her clothes laid over a screen in front of the fire.
A check found them still damp. So, she hadn't been asleep unconscious for long. The practical thing to do, now that she'd apparently done everything impractical, was to find her rescuer, thank him, wait for her clothes to dry, then track down Margaret and beg for mercy.
The last part would be unpleasant, and probably fruitless, but it had to be done.
Bolstering herself for the task, Allena went to the door, opened it. And let out a soft cry of sheer delight.
The watery sunlight shimmered over the hills, and the hills rolled up green in one direction, tumbled down in the other toward the rock-strewn shore. The sea reared and crashed, the walls of waves high and wonderful. She had an urge to rush out, to the edge of the slope, and watch the water rage.
Books by Nora Roberts Page 309