by R. F. Long
This had been a mistake, he told himself, from the moment she had given him the energy in the woods that first time, especially allowing her to do so again. Even giving it back to her. And to be here now, alone… It was wrong.
Stepping onto the landing, he heard the sound of humming coming from above him. At the end of the landing a door stood ajar. Beyond it, he found a staircase leading up into the attic of the cottage. He followed the sound of Rowan’s voice, snatches of songs and hummed notes.
He took each step slowly. Ozone ran over his skin in shivering waves. He could feel the power building all around him. The world swirled with energy as he ascended, swamping his senses. He paused, closing his eyes so he could concentrate and centre himself. He drew a shield around himself, but it started to falter almost immediately. Above him, the air was alive, afire. It crackled when he entered the room, stinging his skin, raising the sensitive hairs like static electricity. He reinforced his shield, pouring his own energy into it.
Rowan stood with her back to him. Two windows set into the roof allowed sunshine to cascade over her. Her skin was sun-kissed gold, her hair bright as an autumn chestnut shell, shining with vitality, with life. It shimmered as she moved. Her hand held a paintbrush and she had taped a large sheet of heavy cream paper to a board on the easel. Colour blended with water, layers of light and vibrant pigments.
The fire of creation enveloped her slender body. It appeared as a nimbus of light all around her, like a halo to his fae eyes. Her skin, her hair, every part of her glowed with that light and she captured it, all unknowing, and transformed it to an image on the paper, the image of his own face.
Daire could only stare. He felt nothing like the person she depicted. There was nobility in that face, and a compassion he was sure he had lost long ago. He recognised loyalty and the deepest regret. The eyes, his eyes, ached with heartbreak, and yet he appeared strong, determined. There was no sign of fear or of the bewilderment he now experienced afresh. There was no sign of despair or the dark worm of the Unseelie rage deep inside him. He knew it was there. It was only a matter of time. He could feel it growing, the temptation making it stronger all the time. The temptation Rowan embodied.
Rowan stood by, unaware of his presence, tilting her head to one side to examine her work, scratching her temple with the other end of the paintbrush. Her breath escaped in a loud harrumph and Daire was surprised to find amusement flood through him. The last emotion he expected.
She added another brushstroke, maybe two in quick succession, and stepped back again. The pain in the eyes was somewhat lessened, and he thought he saw instead, the faint stirrings of…what? Desire?
One of the emotions that could push a Sidhe over the edge and lead them to actions which would drive them out of the Summer Court forever. Desire, rage, despair, and the temptation to succumb to any one of them completely.
“Rowan,” he murmured.
She jumped like a startled cat, turning on him, her eyes wide and afraid. “Daire!” she gasped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” She fell still and blushed.
It was the same flush which had filled her skin last night. He had never known anyone to have so strong a physical reaction to sharing energy. For both of them, if the truth be told. He had given more than he should have, just to complete the experience for her. And that of course had made his own abstinence harder to bear. But he had to refrain. He knew that.
She would make him fall. He understood now that she was the greatest danger of all.
The irony was, though he had given her as much as he dared last night, more than he should have, this morning she bled creativity from her whole body, soul fire pouring out of her and swirling in the air around her. She drew pictures which spoke to the soul, moved like a court-trained dancer and hummed symphonies as if they were of no consequence.
Rowan Blake was a revelation.
Daire couldn’t take his eyes off the portrait. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”
“Me? Oh no! I mean, I wanted to be once, but I was never good enough. This is just…” She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes lingering on the picture. “It’s just fun.”
“Fun?” He approached it with respect, as all Sidhe, Light and Dark, approached a work of art. Reverence, awe, that mankind could create such works from nothing, from their own minds, from their souls. “It is magnificent, Rowan. Truly.”
She started to protest, modesty and self-doubt blinding her. “If you saw the stuff I was up against in London, Peter’s work, for example. He taught me so much, but in the end even he couldn’t get me to…”
Daire caught her hand, smoothed his fingers across her paint-splattered palm and drew her towards the picture. “I’ve never seen myself before now. My reflection perhaps, the image I present to the world, but not myself. Do not doubt you are an artist, Rowan.”
He didn’t expect her to kiss him, so the warmth of her velvet lips on his cheek startled him. It was surprisingly welcome too. Despite his self-imposed rules, his promises to himself, she just discovered any barriers he had and walked right through them in the most charming way possible. His body’s reaction to her gesture was so immediate and complete that his head lurched dizzily.
Daire forced himself to take a step backwards, retreating from her where he would never retreat from an enemy, recognising the temptation again. It was too much. He couldn’t do this, stay here. He would damn himself for her. He would do it in a heartbeat. And he could not. He could not become that which he hated. Not even for her.
Her face dimmed, as if a cloud had passed over the sun illuminating her. Disappointment marred the light he had seen in her before. He hated himself for taking that away. But it was for the best, wasn’t it?
“I’ll let you finish.” He bowed courteously.
“I just need to tidy up,” she replied in deadened tones. “Like I said, it’s nothing special.”
He studied the room, checked every wall, every corner. Folders and framed pictures leaned against the sloping walls of the attic, all the pictures turned face down, hidden from prying eyes. He couldn’t count them all, not at a glance.
“How many nothing specials do you have up here?”
Rowan rewarded him with a shy smile. “Three years’ worth.”
She washed her brushes and fussed around the picture while he watched her, trying to work out why she could not see her own gift. He circled her warily, letting her work away. Three years’ worth of work, three years of glorious creation, hidden away from the eyes of the world, a world which would appreciate it, a world which needed it.
Daire cursed whatever it was that made her think she was not good enough. Rowan Blake surprised him at every turn.
Chapter Eleven
Rowan couldn’t recall the last time she had felt this alive, nor when a picture had flowed so perfectly formed straight from her mind onto the paper. The paintbrush danced for her, the watercolours flowing with a life of their own. Not since she quit painting for gallery management. Peter had been right about that, really. She loved her gallery, loved filling it with life and beauty. For all she missed moments like this, painting purely for pleasure, she knew her ability to present the works of others at their absolute best was a gift as well. It was just that she had forgotten how wonderful a feeling like this could be.
“Soul fire,” Daire had said. The divine energy of creation instilled in every mortal. It danced beneath her skin and warmed her heart through and through. Despite Daire’s interruption, while she tidied up, her eyes were drawn back to the portrait and just seeing it warmed her once again. She smiled at Daire and saw that light reflected in his chiselled features. But he didn’t smile back. His eyes scanned the forgotten paintings leaning up against the wall.
“You shouldn’t leave them here, Rowan,” he said at last. “They deserve to be seen.”
She laughed and laid the brushes back on her worktable. “You haven’t seen them yet. I’d reserve judgement if I was you.” She ruffled out her ha
ir with her hands, belatedly remembering the paint on her skin. Ah well, it would all wash off in the rain, as Grams used to say, or the shower in her case. “Are you hungry, Daire? I’m famished.”
But looking at him, a different hunger rose with gradual insistence and a knot of restraint in her stomach dissolved. Memories of what he had done to her, the incredible experience of being so filled with his energy, filled and fulfilled. She could still feel the traces of his magical touch on her flesh, her body pressed along the length of his sleeping form. She pressed her thighs together and tried to push the combination of images and sensations from her mind. It didn’t work. If anything, it made things worse.
Daire brushed her cheek, the pad of his finger drawing a line of gilding heat after it.
“To think I worried about your recovery. You are aglow with your creativity.” A teasing grin tweaked the corner of his mouth. “But it doesn’t really go with blue paint.”
Her hand shot up to cover his and she blushed, her face uncomfortably warm against his cool skin. Despite her embarrassment, the urge to kiss him flared once more. Not just kiss him. To push him to the floor right here and now, to straddle his body and—
A gasp burst from between her lips and Rowan disentangled herself as a matter of self preservation. “Daire…what we did last night… Should…should there be any side effects?”
“Side effects? No. It is but a sharing. Had it gone further you might experience an infatuation, or simple lust. If we were both Sidhe, of course, it would be far stronger, but…” His voice trailed off and he studied her face. No, it was more intense than that. He examined her, every feature, and every pore. Hunger drenched his eyes. In that moment she knew what prey felt like. His mouth parted, his teeth bared and he snarled, veering back from her. “That’s impossible.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter. You are not Sidhe. I am not mortal.”
“If I was Sidhe,” Rowan insisted, “what would it mean?”
“That we were bonded. But as I said, it is impossible.”
“Because I’m not Sidhe.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.
“And because we have not been together as mates. And because a Sidhe bonds only once.” His anger bled away and shame replaced it. She knew what was coming somehow, but that still didn’t stop it feeling like an icy blade sliding into her abdomen. “I was bonded to Aynia. We were together for eighty-five years. She was my mate, in every way. That bond could only have been stronger if she had borne me a child.”
Rowan stepped back from him, distancing herself. She couldn’t be hearing this. The same images were welling up in her mind again, but this time the woman had hair as dark as the deepest shadows, skin the colour of moonlight. Rowan became aware of tears filling her eyes. Daire’s image swam before her and she turned away, trying to hide from him and put him from her mind. Unfortunately she found herself looking instead at the freshly painted portrait and somehow that was worse.
Daire’s hand closed on her shoulder, warmth seeping through the thin material of her T-shirt. She could feel him standing close, his body inches from hers, his breath playing on her hair. His scent encircled her and all she could think of were his hands, his mouth, on her, in her.
Rowan sucked in an unstable breath. “Don’t,” she whispered, not entirely sure what she was asking for.
Daire sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she replied, pulling a cocoon of resignation around her. Why did she turn into a fool every moment he came close? He’d promised her nothing. What had happened last night had been…what? An act of charity? Anger felt cold and hard. It tasted of iron.
“You need to start looking for the key,” she told him firmly. “I need to shower and go to work.” What work? A snide little voice whispered inside her. You don’t have anything to do, no exhibition to set up now. You’ve got nothing. Especially not him.
The happiness of the early morning turned to cold ashes inside her.
“What are you thinking?” Daire asked, his voice cautious.
“None of your business.”
“Your gallery is empty.”
“I’m well aware of that!” She rounded on him, her hands balled to fists.
Daire stood before her, distinctly unthreatened by her rage. That just fuelled the fire. Her nails bit into her palms.
To her amazement, he spread his arms wide, indicating her pictures. “Then why not fill it?”
“With my pictures? Who’d come to see me? The London mob probably won’t even turn up. Or maybe they would, but just to laugh. And everyone else will be at—”
Rowan froze, staring at him. He frowned back, as if she was a puzzle for him to solve. Well, he could try that on his own time instead of looking for his precious key. She had her own problems to solve. And maybe, just maybe, she finally had a way of doing it. She ran downstairs, taking them two at a time, inspired, galvanized, reborn.
No car! Rowan muttered a curse and ran for the phone. She had to search through the list of calls received, had to go back quite a long way, but she found it. She punched the call button and waited, her heart pounding at the base of her throat.
“Maggie? It’s Rowan, listen. I have an idea. Will you hear me out?”
–—
Her change of impetus was so sudden that in anyone else Daire would have suspected an enchantment. After ten minutes of watching Rowan pace and jabber into her phone, he left her to it and went to investigate the kitchen. He could hardly understand her, the speed at which she was talking, but he recognised the tones of negotiation and knew he needed to leave her alone.
Twenty minutes later, she came in after him, her skin aglow, her eyes bright again.
“I’m going to have to go to the gallery. Maggie’s picking me up. We’re going to open it to the art group. Local artists, local custom. It won’t break any boundaries, but the gallery will be open and that’s what counts.”
“The art group?” He swallowed down the immediate response that she should use her own work, not hide behind someone else again. Perhaps she was not ready for that yet. Perhaps she still needed to hide. Instead, he steered her into a chair and made her sit down. His strength made certain that she couldn’t fight him, though he made sure that he kept his touch gentle. And as brief as possible.
“It’s never been a local gallery. This could change everything for me as well as the group. It’s a break for them, a step on from the village hall, a professional show, or as much as we can make it in so short a time. And you never know, if I can get at least a couple of the—what’s this?”
He slid a plate onto the table right under her nose containing scrambled eggs and delicately scented wild mushrooms. Then he put a knife and fork on either side of the plate.
“Eat,” was all he said, and stood back, his arms folded.
Rowan existed on nervous energy, he decided. That was the only explanation. Too much of that lifestyle had left her vulnerable to Sidhe magic, to him. And after all she had been through in the last couple of days, she was vulnerable indeed. Until this morning he had not realised how vulnerable. Last night had been a wonder, but the morning was even more. It was his fault and he knew enough to be responsible for his own actions. He should have guessed, should have held back or handled it all in a more restrained manner. Ah, but her sighs had been so sweet.
Rowan ate a forkful tentatively, the second with more enthusiasm. “This is amazing! Where did you get these mushrooms?”
“At the edge of the forest, along your fence.”
“Just now?”
Daire nodded. He had noticed them while searching yesterday. It had been but the work of minutes and yet watching her he found it more rewarding than anything else he had done since coming to the iron world. Well, almost anything. All but last night.
He swallowed a growl of frustration that his thoughts had already turned back to the impossible physical attraction between them.
He watched her eating
like someone who had not seen food in weeks. Rowan was hungrier than she knew.
“What do you normally eat to break your fast?” he asked.
She pointed at a box of dried-out wheat flakes and Daire wrinkled his nose. They looked about as wholesome as the box which held them.
Rowan let the fork fall with a clatter. “What about you? Aren’t you going to eat?”
Daire smiled his regret. “One of those fae things, I’m afraid.”
“You have to eat. If you didn’t, you couldn’t cook like this. How did you do these eggs?”
“In a pan. With some butter.”
“This came from my fridge? Maybe the Sidhe do work miracles after all.” She laughed. “But why not eat?”
“You’ve heard the folktales, have you not? When a human comes to the halls of the Sidhe and is told not to partake of food or wine, but they do and become trapped? Well, it is the same for us here. Not exactly the same. I could still go home as I intend, but I would carry the iron of this world with me. It would gnaw inside my body. All I can drink is cows’ milk. My people long ago perfected the art of cattle raiding. It’s a delicacy that, when we are here, becomes a necessity.”
Her eyes darted to the fridge. “There’s…not a lot of milk in there, is there?”
Daire shook his head, trying to ignore the hunger that was his constant companion now.
“You should take what there is,” Rowan insisted.
He was ashamed to admit he didn’t need a second invitation. He grabbed the milk carton and drained it. Nothing but Rowan could have tasted as sweet.
“Wow,” she murmured. “You were thirsty.” Her skin reddened and she avoided his eyes. “I’m sorry. I should have thought to offer you something before. I should have—”