Fire of My Heart (16 page)

“Right
then. Keep your hands where we can see them,” the bigger one said.

“No. Wait.
Listen to me.”

One of the
men approached Daniel, his weapon trained on him. “Now you listen to me. If you
step any closer, I will take action.”

“The place
is locked up tight, sir.” The other lawman called out. “Miss Quinn doesn’t seem
to be home.”

“No! She’s
in the barn. He’s got her.”

“Now that’s
enough of that. We called by your house Mr. Munroe, after your phone call. Saw
the lights all on and shattered glass. We also found your study room. The walls
are covered in snippets about Miss Quinn and this house.”

Hands on
his head, Daniel tried to stand, but he pressed down on his shoulders, making
it near impossible.

“We also
found this.” The older lawman held up a bag containing a wallet and torch.
Hell. “Now what do you want to wager this has your finger prints on it?”

“No, it’s a
lie.”

He released
his grip and the bastard stood up, looking all around. Probably trying to see
him.

“Check the
bloody barn if you don’t believe me!”

The
officers looked at each other, took Daniel by the arm and walked across the
paddock to the barn. When they entered, the area was clear.

Nothing.

“No!”
Daniel cried. “She was here, on the ground, blood coming from her head.”

“Blood?”
One of the men shone his flashlight around the barn. “For your sake, we hope
not, Mr. Monroe. What kind of game are you playing?”

The second
lawman walked around the floor, checking under beams and in corners. “Nothing here,
sir. The young woman is probably in town somewhere.”

“No. I’m
telling you, she was right here. I swear it.”

“All right.
You’re coming with us. You’ve got some questions to answer. Now move it!”

The young
man kept babbling about ghosts and specters as the three moved toward the house.
He’d wanted to follow them, make the young man pay for what he did, but there
were more important matters to attend to.

Upon entering the barn, he
found rain pouring through large holes in the roof, sodden leaves and debris
littered the area. A strange, hollow sensation shot through him. He’d never
experience such panic before, even when he was alive.

Moving
aside the plank of wood and gathered leaves he’d used to hide her revealed her
still form curled up on the muddy floor. There’d been no time to help her when
Daniel had stormed into the barn. All he could was cover her, make her
disappear until the law had gone.

Hell. She
was wet, soaked through to the skin and deathly pale. Blood stained her woollen
jacket. She didn’t appear to be breathing.

“Ellen!” He
bent down and brushed the damp, clinging hair from her face. “For

God’s sake woman, talk to
me.”

Nothing.

When he
placed a hand over her heart, he could feel a very faint beat. She was alive—only
just. He lifted her gently, carried her back across the barren fields to the
manor. She seemed so small and fragile in his arms. His heart wrenched at the
sight of her blue-tinged lips. She couldn’t die. No. He’d made her promise she
wouldn’t.

After their
argument, he’d returned to the library, expecting to find her there. The room
had been cold with no sign of her anywhere. He’d told himself he didn’t care,
but the fact he’d no idea where she was had puzzled him. Once, he knew where
anything was on the estate, but lately, ‘mortal’ feelings interfered with his
senses. In an attempt to find peace, clear his head, he’d gone down to the
cellar.

He didn’t
want to care, and shouldn’t. But he did.

He’d
accused her of deceiving him, because all Donegals were liars. Striking out,
he’d hit the cellar wall hard. For the first time, pain had ripped through his
hand, up his arm. Though it was nothing compared to the anger threatening to
tear his heart apart.

He’d hated
whatever had sent her there, and should have gone with his gut, that she was
too good to be true. This was but another torture for him to endure--the
cruelest one of all. He’d given a heart he no longer possessed. Put faith in
someone he should never have trusted. He’d shouted out his rage and frustration
until dust fell from the cellar ceiling.

Hell and
damnation.

He kicked
open the back door and stepped into the kitchen with Ellen bundled safely in
his arms. Once he reached the library with her, he laid her on the rug before
the hearth and discarded her muddy, drenched clothes. Her skin felt like ice,
dredged of all warmth. He wrapped her in a thick woolen blanket then settled
her on the settee.

His
heartbeat pounded, and he couldn’t look at her. He’d seen folk before in such
dire condition. Every winter it wasn’t uncommon to lose a few villagers from
the severe wet and cold.

But, not
her. No, he couldn’t…wouldn’t let that happen.

As he
stoked the fire, all the cruel things he’d said to her returned to haunt him.
Mean, spiteful words. He’d sounded just like his father.

Easing back,
he sat on the floor next to her, touched her burning forehead. A fever. “I’m sorry,
mo chroi
. I am so sorry. You can’t go. You promised me.”

In the
silence her breathing echoed, shallow and raspy.

Over the
next hours, he sponged her face with warm water and herbs. Her temperature continued
to blaze. Sweat soaked her body. Her pale face was flushed with color from the
fever, but still she didn’t awake.

Standing
from her side, he moved to the desk and sat down. He glanced back toward her,
his chest tightening with painful regret. If she died, he would hand his soul
over to the devil himself.

The mess of
letters and notes strewn on the desk made him sigh at his own indecisiveness. Reluctantly,
he picked up one of the letters in his father’s hand. No. He didn’t want to
read them. To relive past wrongs brought too much pain and anger.

Or was it
fear, that she had been telling the truth? Perhaps his pride had driven him to
fight with her.

A glance
showed him that she still slept. He read the faded letter, and sadness leached
from his soul. Angry words screamed from the page. His father’s deranged
suspicions, accusing Donegal of chasing after his mother, even going so far he
claimed she encouraged Donegal’s attentions.

But he knew
better. Remembering her, though he smiled, his heart ached with the memory.

How he
wished he couldn’t feel again.

She’d been
so beautiful, full of life until her illness. Her thick, dark hair would be
tied up with ribbons, blossoms tucked in here and there. She’d had skin like
ivory and deep blue eyes that had always shone with kindness, even when his
father was cruel. Yes, his father had been so, though he’d long refused to see
it.

Often, even
when unwell, his mother would help with important matters in the village, lend her
talents to local women with daughters getting married. She’d been a gifted
seamstress, and loved nothing better than sitting by the fire sewing and
embroidering as he played by her feet.

But his
father had never appreciated her, cared for her as he should.

Hate welled
within him, sent adrenaline pumping through his veins.

Once, when
he’d been about eight years old, she’d returned from helping someone, been gone
all day. His father had sat there in his large wooden chair in the main hall,
waiting for her. He’d been made to sit next to his father until she returned,
the little wooden bench was so hard and uncomfortable. Yet every wriggle to
relieve the discomfort brought his father’s fist down on his back.

He must
learn patience, he’d been told, and perseverance. Men didn’t feel pain or cry.
Biting his lip, he’d held back the tears, refusing to let his father see
weakness. But when his mother had been forced to kneel down before them and beg
their forgiveness, the welts on his back seemed as nothing. As he’d done many
times before, his father then made her lie face down on the cold floor for
hours, until he decided she was worthy of his attention once more. Bastard.

All he had
wanted to do was run to her, help her up and hold her. She’d already started coughing,
and it was getting worse, though she never complained--not once.

He slammed his fist on the
desk, sending pencils and papers scattering about the place.

Damn it! And damn his father
to hell for keeping him from her. All those years, he should have helped her.
She’d needed him, but he’d been afraid.

 No, worse,
he’d acted like a stubborn coward.

Now Ellen
might suffer a similar fate. And all he could do was wait.

Reading on
through the pile of letters, his stomach twisted and turned. Lie after lie had
come from his father’s pen.

He felt
humble, ashamed. The old Lord Donegal had repeatedly denied his father’s accusations
of infidelity, as did Seamus, insisting his mother had made her choice. In one
note, Seamus Donegal claimed he’d been happy for her, that he’d found a woman
himself and was marrying. But his father had refused to believe it.

The last,
yellow-stained piece of paper said Ellen had been telling the truth. That Old
Lord Donegal had insisted his father take the herbs for his mother, but his
father had repeatedly turned them away, always suspecting an ulterior motive
for their concern.

A vengeful
sneer crept to his lips as he crushed the vile parchment in his hand.

All those
years, his father had poisoned his mind. Told him it had been Donegal’s fault
she’d suffered so much, his fault she’d died. He’d gone after Seamus and
finished what his ailing father could not--revenge for his mother--on the
convictions of a delusional man.

Murmuring
from the couch made him rise from the desk.

“Ellen?”

* *
* *

Hot. Why
was it so hot?

Opening her
eyes, she stared at the ceiling for a moment, blinking. The room seemed to be spinning,
and made her stomach roil and churn, giddiness nearly overwhelm her. Oh God.
Closing her eyes, she licked her parched lips and turned her head toward the
fireplace, feeling the flickering warmth upon her cheeks. What she wouldn’t
give for a strong coffee.

“Ellen?”
She opened her eyes again and focused on the worried features of a man
crouching next to her. Rowan. He looked sad.

“Hi,” she
whispered with a weak smile as he stroked her cheek.

“Are you
thirsty?” He sat her up and gave her a sip of water. “Slowly now,
mo chroi
.”

She tried
to straighten upright, but wriggling within the cocoon of woolen blankets was difficult.
Hell. She ached all over and her mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage.
“Where did you find me?”

“You were
in the barn, and so cold. I’d thought I’d lost you.”

“Rowan,
I--”

“I’m sorry,
Ellen.” He leaned forward and kissed her lips softly. The warm scent of his
body wrapped around her senses, soothing her to her core. “I was a fool, now
more so than even back then. I should have believed you. The poison was in my
blood it seems, not yours. An evil, bitter brew that stemmed from my father’s
bitterness and jealousy.”

She held
his hand and squeezed it tight. “You read the letters?” He nodded. “I’m so
sorry, Rowan. Everything you’d been put through.”

“I deserved
it, killing a man for no reason. Being a coward for never standing up to my
father. I’d never told you how cruel he’d been to my mother. The letters were
right. I knew what he was. Hidden somewhere in my heart, I guess I always did,
but just never let myself acknowledge it. Seamus took my wrath. Damnation is a
worthy punishment for me.”

She reached
up and touched his face, eyes blurry with tears. What could she say to make it better?
God, she felt useless. “You only knew what you were told. Your father lied to
you, can’t you see?”

He stood
and paced before her. “Seamus tried to reason with me, attempted many times to
tell me what happened between them, but I refused to listen. Even his wife
begged me not to declare war between us, for the sake of their sons. I ignored
her and then I killed him…may his soul forgive me.”

Crying out,
he clutched at his chest and grasped the mantle. A light surrounded him.
Brilliant, blazing, it engulfed the entire room.

“Rowan!”
She pushed the blanket away and rose from the couch. What was happening? Panting,
he reeled from the shock and collapsed to his knees, breathing heavily.

“I’m all
right, Ellen. It’s all right.”

“The hell
it is. What was that, what happened? Was it the same pain like the other night?
Talk to me. I saw something around you just now. An orange glow.”

He laughed
and nodded. “Aye, perhaps the devil himself has come for me now.”

“No, don’t
ever say that.” She crouched next to him, touched his face. “I love you, Rowan.
We will work something out, find out what to do.”

“It’s all
right,
tine mo chroi
. At least, now I understand why I am damned.”

“You don’t
deserve this punishment! It wasn’t your fault. Do you hear me? Look at me, tell
me you understand. I forgave you, but you have to absolve yourself. If you love
me, stop eating yourself up inside for something that a bitter old man did long
ago. How can you stop feeling hate, when all along you despised yourself for
killing Seamus? For not being strong enough to help your mother.”

Smiling, he
leaned forward, brushed his lips across her then kissed her. Like the very
first time she’d seen him, his eyes shone bright emerald green, the gold flecks
shimmering with such vibrancy it took her breath away.

“Very
well,” he whispered and kissed her softly once more. “For you…” Crying out, he dropped
to his knees again in agony.

“God,
what’s happening? Rowan!” Kneeling down beside him, she tried to hold his shoulders.
He was too hot to touch. The room around them seemed to smolder, ripple with a
haze of intense heat. Then the surroundings changed, returning to one from her
dreams.

Tears
welling, she reached out to him where he crumpled over before her, but couldn’t
touch him. Fighting the urge to hold her head in her hands, she sat there, the
blanket hugged around her.

Her head
felt as if it were being squeezed in a vice. Oh God. Like being under water the
pressure was crushing her mind. The agony was almost unbearable.

“Rowan!” She
reached out and grasped his hand. Pain shot up her arm like red hot needles,
but she refused to let go. “Answer me.”

Slowly, he
raised his head and met her gaze. He looked oddly at peace, different, like he knew
what was happening. Someone stood behind him in the swirling haze. It was him,
Seamus Donegal, sitting down at his desk, putting his sword there beside him
like he’d done so many times in her visions. He didn’t seem to notice them.

“Ellen.”
She turned back to face Rowan, who rose. Still grasping his arm, she stood as
well. “It’s all right, Ellen. You have to let go now.”