Fire of My Heart (11 page)

Maybe he
thought she was avoiding the subject, and him.

She placed
the letters on the desk, rose, and rested a hand on his chest. The long white
cord tying his shirt together beckoned, so she twisted it around her finger.
“Forgive me, Rowan. I guess good morning is in order.” She leaned forward and
dropped a soft kiss on his lips. They were cool, not hot and moist like last
night. It must be chilly outside.

He reached
up and clasped her hand, pulling away from her advance.

“You…you
remember last night?”

Stupid
question. “Of course.” A heated blush rose to her cheeks. “As if I could
forget. You do have a way of making a girl remember, you know.”

The hint of
a smile creased his lips.

“There.”
She smiled back. “That’s better. I must say, I missed you this morning. Where
did you go?”

He gently
tugged her close and crushed her mouth with his, clasped her around her neck as
though the kiss meant life itself to him. Wow. Hot tingles rippled along her
skin and her knees trembled. She wouldn’t get any work done like this.

“Rowan.”
She’d so much to do…and now she had these letters…and he was such an incredible
kisser. Oh God. Her legs were swept from under her, and he carried her to the
settee. Gently, he laid her down, not taking his lips from hers for a second.
Whoa. Lowering himself to cover her with his body, he slid a hand around her
waist.

Wait. No.
She needed to talk to him. God, his hands could do magic. A shudder of delight swept
through her as he reached up under her t-shirt and cupped one of her breasts.

“Rowan,”
she said, when she finally managed to come up for air. “Slow down. I want to talk
to you, just for a moment.”

His mouth
reclaimed hers in an insatiable kiss. He obviously wasn’t listening.

“Rowan.”
She giggled as he nipped at her earlobe. “Please.”

Sighing, he
sat up and rested against the settee. Just like a man. She adjusted her t-shirt
and pushed a lock of hair from her face. “I’m sorry, it’s just I never seem to
get to talk with you.”

“What did
you wish to talk about?”

Good
question. “Well, how long have you worked here? At the manor, I mean.”

“Since I
can remember.”

Okay, that
wasn’t much of a reply. But, a start. “Then, how about your family? Are your parents--”

“Dead.”

Shit. Not
quite the answer she’d expected. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.
It happened a long time ago.”

“What
happened to them?” Yes, she was being nosy, but something in his voice told her
he hurt deeply. She wanted to help him. “Look, if you don’t want to talk about
it--”

“My mother
had been ill for a long time, ever since I was very young. Most days she would languish
in bed and I would bring her fresh water with herbs to wash her face. She would
always touch my cheek, smile and tell me what a good son I was.”

“Oh,
Rowan.”

“As I grew,
she steadily got worse. Pain…so much pain. We’d prepare her a bath, put in the herbs
from the healer to ease her discomfort, but some days, she couldn’t walk even
to the kitchen.” His expression grew dark and stormy, his eyes became the
deepest green. Her throat tightened with his sadness. He suffered still. She
reached out and stroked his hair.

“But nothing I did helped
for very long. Then one rainy night, she finally got her peace.”

She fought
to hold back the sobs clutching at her aching chest. “Your father must have
been devastated.”

“He was…and
so was I.”

Easing
away, he stood up from the settee and approached the desk, took one of the old
letters.

“Why do you
want to bring back the past? There is nothing but sadness there, surely.”

“I’m sorry
about your mother. I should never have brought up the subject, but these
letters may give me a clue about who killed my ancestor. They could give us the
first real insight into what happened so long ago. Aren’t you interested? I
mean, don’t you want to know?”

“Sometimes,
things are best left buried, Ellen.”

He turned
and left the room.

Great.
She’d turned what could have been the second most sensual night of her life
into a complete disaster. Why did she always need to get to the bottom of
things?

Frustrated,
she got up threw a pillow across the room. She should have just left good
enough alone. Why would he be interested in her past? It had nothing to do with
him. Now she had him miserable about his own family history.

Idiot.

Walking
back to the desk, she noticed something strange, in the conservatory. Stepping into
the room, she approached a cobweb covered shelf holding an array of tiny
terracotta pots.

Something
was different.

“Will you
look at that?” Reaching in between the dried up specimens, she picked up a
small pot with a painted emblem on the front. Peeping out from the dry soil was
a tiny plant bud, its curly green sprout ready to unfurl as it reached toward
the light.

She held it
for a moment--stunned.

“Now,
little one. How in heaven’s name did you get here?” On inspection, the glass
above her showed no cracks to let water drip in on it. But perhaps some
moisture had reached an old seed and caused it to germinate. Stranger things
had happened in the plant world.

That
precious, fragile new life in such a dead and dismal place brought a smile to
her face.

There was
hope here yet.

Like most small towns,
gossip travelled fast. Breymar had been no exception. The shy botanist from
Australia was the talk of the town.

Daniel rode
his bike along the narrow country roads, thinking about the village’s latest
resident.

Ellen.

Beautiful,
whether she knew it or not. And intelligent. He respected that. Unlike the
preened, pretentious girls who haunted the university pubs and discos, she was
mature, sophisticated and very sexy.

From the
moment he’d laid eyes on her in the store, there’d been a connection. Surely
she felt the same. She’d smiled at him after all. Even invited him in for
coffee when he’d called in to see if she was okay. He would take it slow with
her, let her see he too was a sophisticated man, a gentleman worthy of her
distinguished affection.

He imagined
their future together. They would share intimate dinners, discussing issues of the
world and how they would play their part in solving them. She would be amazing,
discover the latest plant-life that would benefit mankind, and he would be by
her side, documenting it for posterity.

He could
see it now.

Yet she’d
rejected his offer of dinner.

No. Merely
postponed, surely. She’d only arrived here, after all, and needed time to
settle in, relax, before she began her research task. Work came first.

He could
help her. Definitely.

He’d
already answered so many of her questions about the area. Irish history had
been his major at university. Why, he’d even wager she’d be delighted to see
more of him. He’d give her vital information for her project, and she’d be
grateful to him for his time. He could almost feel her breasts in that soft
wool sweater pressed against him, smell the scent of her hair, see the glisten on
her lips before he kissed her.

Stopping on
the crest of a hill, he gazed at Banth Manor in the distance. She was there.
Not so far away. He would watch over her. Protect her.

Whether she
knew it or not, she needed him.

* *
* *

From the
loft of the old barn, Rowan sat perched on the edge of a half-rotted beam and looked
across to the manor.

More
changes. The pain he’d felt last night had been like nothing he could describe.
After making love with Ellen, crippling bolts of white-hot lightning had surged
through him and sent him to the floor. From the cold stone floor, he’d watched
her sleep, curled up on the table. He couldn’t leave her there, but his
abilities had been severely diminished. After a while he’d managed to get her
to the room. Muscles he hadn’t felt in centuries had ached with the effort.

 In his
weakened state, he couldn’t de-materialize from the bedroom, so had been forced
to walk out then nearly collapsed down the back stairs.

For all he
knew, he could have been dying, except for the fact he was already dead. It
wasn’t until he’d reached the kitchen that he’d managed to return to the barn
loft to rest. But he was exhausted, drained by the slightest movement. Should
strangers threaten Ellen again, he would be near helpless to defend her.
Useless, by God. What was happening to him?

Denying
himself her strength weakened him somehow, which could mean his ultimate destruction.

The notion
didn’t frighten him. Not for one moment did he regret being with her. Just
thinking about her soft body under his sent shivers throughout his being. If
that had been his one taste of mortality, then he’d spend eternity a happy man,
even if it were in this damnable purgatory. But was it?

All he knew
was now every time he saw her, he wanted to hold her, kiss her and more. She’d penetrated
his being like a wild vine that refused to be moved. Somehow, she’d touched his
soul-- he was certain of it.

Yet in the
library, something had disturbed him, threatened his fragile happiness.

* *
* *

Blinking
heavy eyelids, Ellen wiped away the sleepy dust and yawned. The letter she’d
been deciphering lay open on the desk in front of her. Groaning, she shook her
head. She still had so much deciphering to do and it seemed like she had been
getting nowhere.

The lamp light made her eyes
tired, and she must have dozed for a moment. If she wasn’t careful, she’d need
glasses before long. Wouldn’t
that
complete her uptight, insensitive
professor look?

Crap. Why
did she have to argue with Rowan?

Okay, five
more minutes. Then she would go look for him, maybe offer him a coffee or something.
Lame perhaps, but she needed to say sorry. More than that, she wanted to hold
him. Kiss him. If he’d talk to her.

She reached
for the satchel to take another letter. A small wooden box, an ink well and several
quills sat next to the one on the desk. They hadn’t been there before. As she
tried to touch them, her hand passed right through them.

Shit!

She must be
dreaming again. Movement flickered at the edge of her vision, and she turned her
head. People ran past the window.

Wait. What
window? Goosebumps breaking out over her trembling body, she rose, moved toward
a wall that stood where the entrance to the conservatory should be.

“What in
hell is going on?” In its place was a large, lead-trimmed window. She’d seen this
before, she was sure of it. Her heartbeat raced. The rest of the room had
changed as well. The settee was gone, replaced by two heavy wooden chairs
either side of the fireplace. There were only a few books on a shelf, no
elaborate racks or ladders. The furnishings consisted of some simple pieces, and
no pictures hung over the fireplace.

Come on,
wake up.

Though
there was no sound, she felt something was happening outside. Passing the desk,
she went to the open door and into the great hall.

Candelabra
now lined the sides along the stone walls. The once faded and chipped mosaics
on the floor shone rich with color. Something was pulling her toward the front
door. But she couldn’t exit that way. It was chained and padlocked and…

The heavy
oak doors before her opened.

Chaos
reigned outside.

As she
moved through the crowd of people running by, she reached out to try and stop someone
to ask what the hell was going on, but her hand passed right through them.

This
couldn’t be a dream. She pinched her arm. “Ouch.”

She
followed a young family fleeing around the side of the house and stopped.
Horses were being led out of the old shed where she’d had her icy bath. Men
loaded carts and wagons. Armed men stomped past her toward the front of the
property. She trailed them back, determined to discover what was going on.

At the
courtyard in front of the manor, a group of warriors faced the gates. Following
their gaze, she turned. A wave of marauders ran from the walls and cut down
those in their path, destroyed anything that stood in their way.

She stood
there frozen, her stomach clenching. Near to her a toddler wandered around
crying, his parents nowhere in sight. Crying out for others to help her, she
lunged for him, tried to pick him up, but her hands passed through him.

No one
heard her pleas.

Lurching to
her feet, she looked back. A group of assailants ran right at her. Gathering
her courage, she stood ready to defend herself, shaking. As they raised their
weapons to strike, she lashed out at one of the men’s faces with an
anger-fuelled punch and collided with something hard.

“Argh!” she
screamed.

Pulling her
throbbing fist back, she prepared to strike again. Hands grabbed at her
shoulders, and she thrashed about wildly, trying to break free. As the grip
tightened, she twisted her body, kicked out with force such as she’d never felt
before.

“Help! For
God’s sake, someone help me!” Sound. Thank God. She could hear herself out loud
now.

The scene
around began to blur as she continued with her struggle.

“Ellen,”
someone called.

Finally she
pushed free of her attacker and skidded to the ground. “Get away from me!” She
stumbled to her feet, tried to focus on the attacker. She felt dazed, confused.

Pushing her tangled hair
from her clammy face, she looked up. Rowan stood there.

What in
hell had happened?

There was
no one else now, just the two of them. Pain throbbed in her hand. Her knuckles,
grazed and bloodied, felt like they were on fire. Rowan’s lips were red and
swollen.

She held
her hands over her mouth, gasping and shaking her head. “No!” Rowan. Oh God, she’d
hit him.

What had
she done?

Unable to
speak, she bolted down the driveway, ran out of the accursed estate as fast as
she could. She kept going until her chest hurt with the effort to breathe, her
heartbeat pounded in her ears.

Further
along on the roadside, she bent over, rested her hands on her knees and tried
to catch her breath. Her stomach writhed in twisted knots and her legs nearly
buckled under the strain.

She was
going mad.

A glance
back showed the road winding to the horizon, Banth Manor nowhere in sight. She must
have run halfway to town. Rowan. Oh God. She should go back. But to what? He
must think her a lunatic. She’d punched him. Hit and kicked him, made his lips
bleed.

Tears welled. Sobs heaved in
her chest, making her hiccup. She kicked at the ground. “Why?

Why can’t I just get a break
for once, damn it! Is it too much to ask?”

Swallowing,
she hiccupped again and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Something had to be done
before the men in little white coats came to carry her away, proclaiming her as
nutty as the gypsy. But what, she had no clue.

The gypsy.
Crazy or not, the old woman seemed to know something.

It was
worth a shot. Dragging her sleeve over her face, she dried her tears then
rubbed her hand. Damn, it was sore from where she’d punched him. She wouldn’t
let it happen again.

* *
* *

“No, Mr.
Grady, the gypsy woman. You know. The one who had been at the fair on the weekend.
Don’t you remember?” Ellen asked, pacing the grocery shop floor before the
counter.

The old man
scratched his head and smiled. “Of course I do, miss. Very busy weekend it was
too. Sold out of most things. Hope you don’t need no butter.”

She ran a
hand through her hair. “What? No. No, I don’t need any butter. I just need to
know where they are now.”

“Who?”

“Oh, for
the love of…the bloody carnival people!”

The
customers in the shop stopped and stared at her. Great, now all she needed was
a public lynching. “Look, I’m sorry Mr. Grady. It’s just a very urgent matter.
I have to speak to one of the stall holders. Can you please tell me which way
they went?”

Placing a
large jar of jam on the counter, Mr. Grady rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“’Course I
can.”

“Thank God.
Where?”

“Well, now
if I’m not mistaken, after Breymar they usually move on to Lyndon. That is unless
it’s been raining, which of course we all know it has been. Then they would go
on to

Donnaugh--”

“
Please
,
Mr. Grady.”

“They’re in
Lyndon,” piped up a little old lady by the counter holding a packet of soda crackers.
Looking at her through her thick, horn-rimmed glasses, she smiled.

She blinked
at her. “They are? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Saw
the sign yesterday, I did, on the way back from town.”

Mr. Grady
turned to the woman. “What were you doing in Lyndon, Mary?”

“We was
just passing through. My blood pressure had been acting up again, so my
daughter drove me to see the specialist in town for a check-up and…”

She stood
there as the two began their own mindless banter. “Great,” she interrupted.
“Hate to be rude, but could either of you please tell me how I can get to
Lyndon?”

They both
stared at her.

“Well.” Mr.
Grady paused. “You just keep going on the main road out of town.”

“That’s it?
Right through town?”

“Aye.” The
old woman nodded. “You can’t miss the sign. It says Lyndon--ten miles.”

“Ten
miles?” Her heart sank. She didn’t even want to think about how far that was in

kilometers.

“Are you
going to walk all that way, dear?” The old woman placed her biscuits upon the counter.

“It
certainly seems that way.” Moving toward the doorway, she paused and glanced
back. “After all, I’m sure Mr. Grady would have offered me a lift, but you see,
his van is broken and his missus has got the Morris, who has gone down south to
see her sister with the gout.”

Leaving the
grocer standing open-mouthed, she pursed her lips in a smile and exited through
the door.