Fire of My Heart (10 page)

The sun rose outside Ellen’s
window. She lay in her bed, with no idea how she’d gotten back to her room.
Lord. She really must do something about these blackouts. Despite having been
with Rowan and safe in his arms, she hadn’t slept all night. Every time she’d
closed her eyes, images filled her again. Unlike before, they weren’t just
faces. This time she’d dreamt she walked through the grounds of the manor.
People had run past her, frantically grabbing children and what little possessions
they could carry.

As she’d
moved amongst them, no one noticed her. They couldn’t seem to see her at all.
And although she couldn’t hear the sounds of the chaos, she didn’t have to.
Something was wrong--very wrong.

A man was
there, one she’d seen before, looking past her to the scene unfolding in a
field below, deep sadness etched in his expression. He’d turned and walked into
the manor, and she’d followed him, stepped into the great hall. She’d
recognized the room, but everything looked very different.

The man. As
he’d opened the library door and gone inside, she’d run across the hall.

Wait. The room was smaller.
No conservatory, just a large stone wall and window filled with thick, clear
lead-light glass. The fire still blazed in the hearth. Though, no photos
adorned the wall or trinkets stood on the mantle, just an oil lamp and a small
black box.

She’d felt
suspended there, as if she floated just above the ground, watching things
change all around her. The man had seated himself at the desk she worked at,
then placed his sword on the table beside him. Who was he? Lord Donegal
perhaps. His nose and eyes reminded her vaguely of her uncle Robert. He looked
suddenly up at her with concern, brow furrowed. Her heartbeat jumped. Could he
see her? No. He seemed to be looking through her, toward the doorway. Someone must
be coming, and whoever it was, they weren’t welcome.

A feeling of dread had
grabbed at her stomach. She’d turned her head to see, but the scene had
dissolved before her eyes.

That’s when
she’d awakened and been unable to get back to sleep. Rowan wasn’t in the bed. She
laid a hand on the crumpled pillow where his head must have lain. She’d rather
stay awake. Every time she began to doze, those dreadful images came flooding
back.

Rubbing her
tired eyes, she yawned and stretched. There was something at the foot of the
bed. A flower.

One pink,
perfect tea rose.

Smiling
sheepishly, she picked up the rose, inhaled its blissful aroma.

Last night.
Yes. She remembered
that
--in every satisfying, erotic detail. Meandering
lazily over to the window sill, she sat down and brushed the flower along her
cheek.

Never had
she been loved like that before. His touch was so intense. Hot and sensual, his
body had been like a smoldering volcano ready to erupt. She sighed and grinned.
A heated blush rose to her cheeks. And erupt he had. They’d been joined
together in a magical experience. With every stroke of his hand her very soul
had come alive, and his kisses had branded themselves on her heart forever.

Her insides
coiled and tingled with the memory of him entering her, and on the kitchen
table of all places. A hiccup of girlish laughter broke free.

She stood
up and went in search of her errant lover. Her lover. What a delicious thought.
What she’d ever done in her pathetic, hermit-like existence to deserve someone
like him, she didn’t know--but sent out thanks to the universe.

* *
* *

Moving
Ellen to the bedroom had taken the last of his energy, left him so weak, he was
completely drained. Collapsing down beside her, he’d smiled as he’d watched her
sleep. He’d wanted to reach out and touch her, run his hand along her arm, feel
her soft skin against his once more. But he hadn’t been able to.

Never
before had he stayed materialized for so long. He hadn’t thought it possible.
Not that he’d ever understood the how or why. He just
was
.

One thing
he did know--he’d begun to change.

Once, he
only needed to be near her, could feel her energy and craved it for himself.
Then something inside him didn’t want to just take, but give back. By holding
back he found he could touch her, caress her, each time a little longer than
the last. After every instance he was weakened, but he held no regrets.

Before
Ellen, time had no consequence or meaning. The days had rolled into years,
decades, and then centuries. In fact, until she’d come, he hadn’t even
remembered his past, nor had he cared. Bitterness and hate had been his
existence.

Purgatory?

Perhaps.

But last
night he’d felt the sweet, steady rush of air filling his lungs, the heat of
blood pumping through his veins as he watched Ellen dry herself by the fire.
He’d never seen such a beautiful woman, who had a kindness that radiated from
her soul. Suddenly, everything around him had come to life, he could smell and
touch…and feel like never before.

Taking her
in his arms had been the most incredible sensation, a sensual oasis in a desert
of despair. The warmth of her soft skin against his, the sweet taste of her
lips and the fulfillment had made any suffering he’d endured worthwhile.

Most of
all, she wanted him.

But she
didn’t know him, or what he’d done. In her search for answers to her family’s
past, sooner or later, she would discover the truth.

* *
* *

Dressed in
a pair of track pants and t-shirt, Ellen tied her matted hair into a rough
ponytail, and then headed downstairs to the kitchen. She felt so good she
really didn’t care what she looked like. But boy, some coffee would be great.

The kitchen
fire lay cold and black, the tub and candles were now nowhere to be seen. Why couldn’t
she have found a man like him long ago? He even cleaned up!

She had to
marry him.

In the
process of filling the kettle, she paused, stunned by the thought. Marriage had
always been the last thing on her mind. There was never any time, what with her
career, studies, research and field trips. Too many more important things had
needed to be seen to.

She stopped
the water and placed the kettle on the bench, staring out the window at the
bleak weather.

Why? As
much as she tried, she couldn’t remember the exact day when she’d become less
important than her career. A heavy feeling weighed down her chest. Regret?
Perhaps. All her adult life she’d hidden behind her work. She’d been safe
there, guarded against failure which was the main reason she’d let others slip
out of her life.

Besides,
plants never expected anything of her.

The men in
her life always wanted something. Her time, too much attention, or they demanded
she give up her priorities in favor of their wants. Looking back now, she
conceded some of their needs had been ignored. Why had she held back from them?

Bryant had
been the most persistent. Three years. He’d even proposed to her, given her
flowers, the romantic restaurant, a diamond ring…and she’d rejected him,
because he wanted her to move to the UK to be with him.

No. Damn
it. That hadn’t been the only reason. It wasn’t her fault. He’d gone behind her
back and tried to convince the university board she wasn’t up to going to the
Amazon. When she’d found out, she’d realized she didn’t recognize him anymore.
He’d lied to her, tried to get her fired for his own purposes.

They’d
argued all night. He’d claimed his deceit had good intentions, that he loved
her. Wanted her to be with him. How could someone who’d done that love her?

Her eyes
misted over, but she cleared her throat, brushed the unpleasant memories away. Her
insecurities might force Rowan away. A lump forming in her throat, she placed
the kettle on the hook above the hearth.

Never
having lit a fire before, she was proud when the kindling took hold and a
respectable blaze was on its way to boiling the kettle. Still no sign of Rowan.
She wasn’t sure how early he’d left, but it must have been well before sunrise.
Perhaps he’d had chores to do.

She smiled,
wandered over to the bench and took two heavy, earthenware mugs out of the cupboard
and the jar of coffee. Wait. Did he drink coffee? She didn’t know.

Apart from
the fact he could kiss her senseless, the rest she would have to find out.

A figure
passed by the kitchen window. Her heart pounded. Maybe the robbers had come back.

An iron
poker from the hearth in hand, she raced to the door. Swallowing hard, she
flung the door wide, poker raised above her head.

Eyes wide,
Daniel looked at her, stunned.

“Daniel!”

“Ellen.”

Warmth
crept to her cheeks as she lowered her archaic weapon. What an idiot. She’d
almost brained the poor man. “Sorry. Didn’t know it was you.”

“Are you
all right?”

“Yeah, I’m
fine. Just a bit jumpy. Heard some noises last night.”

“But,
you’re okay then? Good. There was talk in the pub about some break-ins lately.
Seems everyone has their suspects, but the police have no solid leads yet. Just
thought I’d drop by and see if you were okay.”

She really
didn’t deserve his kindness. “Coffee?”

He beamed.
“Love one.”

* *
* *

After
farewelling Daniel, Ellen took her coffee into the library, looked up through
the dirty glass ceiling. The sky was clearing a little. About time. It had been
like living in Atlantis, the conservatory nothing but a big glass fishbowl.

Her new
friend had kept her talking over an hour. Turned out, he’d studied history and
genealogy, which was very fortunate for her. She’d quizzed him about the local
area, events, and he’d graciously provided her with all the answers he could.
Hadn’t known too much about Banth though, but he’d promised to find out what he
could. He’d talked about his family, his love of the land and what he hoped to
achieve once he left university.

He was much
younger than she, but his infatuation with her was obvious. And not what she’d
intended. Before he left, he’d invited her to dinner in town one night. Unable
to lead him on, she’d declined.

For
increased light, she lit an oil lamp, and noticed the large volume that slipped
off the desk a few nights ago still lay on the floor. Pleased to see it wasn’t
damaged, she picked it up.

As she
placed it on the desk, it didn’t seem as heavy as it could be for a book its
size. When she’d sat down and opened the cover, she discovered why. Inside, it
had a hidden compartment.

“Holy
cripes!” She’d always thought such things only existed in movies. A real book
box.

If only
Rowan were there to see it.

She put her
mug on the desk, then reached into the cut-out of the book and removed a small satchel
bound with what looked like a dark green hair ribbon. The smell of dusty old
leather filled her nose.

The last
time she’d been this excited, she’d found that new species of meat-eating plant
in the Amazon. The fact it smelled like rotting flesh and attracted every
insect within a five mile radius hadn’t even mattered. It had been her fifteen
minutes of fame. Well, at least in botanical circles.

But this
find was amazing. So secretive. Mysterious even. As she carefully undid the
fragile ribbon and opened the pouch, she half-expected the theme music from an
adventure flick to start at any moment. That, or some sinister man in a dark
leather coat and hat with a scar on his cheek would say to her--

“Ellen,
what are you doing?”

“Huh?” She
jumped. Rowan stood next to her, looking down at the book. Engrossed in imagination,
she hadn’t noticed him come in. Not the first time to be sure. She’d probably
never get used to his stealthy ways.

Regardless,
she was glad to see him. “Hey. You startled me. Rowan, look at this!” She held up
the leather pouch for him to see. “It was hidden inside the book you gave me
the other night. Isn’t it incredible?”

“What is
it?”

“A satchel
of some kind. It looks very old. And there are letters inside it. Could be,
they were written by Lord Donegal himself. Did you know this was here? No,
sorry. Silly me. Of course you couldn’t have. Hey. I wonder if Michael does. I
can’t wait to tell him. Be great if we actually had a phone. Never-the-less, I
just know I’m going to finally get some answers in here.”

Opening the
flap of the pouch, she withdrew a small pile of neatly folded letters, and
couldn’t help smiling. “Look at the writing. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Rowan
nodded slowly.

She held
one up to the light to get a better look. “This one seems to be written in old
English. See? And this other one is in Gaelic. The lettering is elaborate but
not impossible to understand. Hmm, might take me a while though. I bought an
old dictionary from the fair the other day--”

“Who are
they from?” His tone seemed cold, a little distant. Hell. Here she was rambling
on about her find like the scientist she was. Not once had she really
acknowledged him or what happened between them last night.