Fire of My Heart (3 page)

Nothing
mattered anymore.

Except,
him. Rowan.

In her
thoughts he was holding her, caressing her body tenderly, touching her face,
kissing her cheek, her lips. Was she dreaming?

As she
wavered on the edge of mindless oblivion, something warned her to keep hold of
her senses, commanded her to fight the mysterious invader. Why? No. She didn’t
want to.

Her brow flinched and her
eyelids fluttered as her heart began beating rapidly. A sudden deep breath
caught at her lungs, forced her mouth open. She gasped for air. All the muscles
in her listless body tightened as she pulled herself free of the trance and
crumpled against his chest.

“No!”
Blindly, she forced him back.

At first he
resisted then released her from the cage of his arms and stepped back.

Shivering,
heart pounding hard, she strained to remember what had happened. She’d run into
Rowan and the lamp had been knocked from her hand, but he’d caught it--hadn’t
he? Hot blood pumped its way through her cold fingers and toes, an annoying
pins-and-needles sensation, and she rubbed her hands together.

Clutching
her torso, she stared at the light. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what…I must have blacked
out when I ran into to you.”

He held out
the lamp for her.

Dazed, she
reached out and took it from him. “Thanks,” she muttered. Concern washed across
his face. Then he turned and entered the dark kitchen.

As if
waking from a dream, she stood in the hallway. Hinges creaked, followed by a
rush of cold damp air. Gripping the lamp tightly, she entered the kitchen and
found it empty. The back door had been left ajar and swung gently in the
breeze, the rusty joints complaining from a lack of maintenance.

Hand on the
door, she peered out into the night then slowly pushed it shut. The click of
the lock echoed throughout the empty room.

He was
gone.

Within the dark solace of a
derelict barn, Rowan looked out from the loft into the cold night sky. Misty
trails of dark gray clouds drifted across the half moon, painting an eerie
picture on the barren landscape below.

At the old
stone house, a faint light glimmered from an upstairs window. Ellen. His
beautiful ‘guest’ must have found her chamber; soon she would be asleep and
forget about the event in the hallway.

Visions of
him always soon faded, quickly became a vague memory.

He hurled a
barley scythe across the room, its rusty blade embedding in the old rotting
timbers of the wall. Why had she come? He hadn’t expected her. When he’d sensed
a presence entering Banth, he’d thought it Kathleen. Who it should have been.
On her last visit she’d told him to expect her on this journey. Instead, he got
a fiery redhead with deep hazel eyes and a determined chin. Damn! He shouldn’t
have revealed himself to her. A bloody mistake. Too late to go back now though.

He’d no
right to even talk to her.

She was a
Donegal, no matter how far removed. Their tainted blood flowed like a curse through
her veins.

Kathleen
had been the only living soul he’d tolerated, a Donegal to boot. Not that he’d been
given any choice. She possessed what he called ‘the gift’ and been able to see
him from the very start. As a young child she would follow him around the
estate like a puppy, asking silly questions and demanding ‘magic tricks’. He’d
tried several times to frighten her away, but nothing had worked. She’d simply
smiled and continued her prattling. But as she grew older and her visits became
less frequent, she’d seemed concerned for his future. What future? One foot in
the past, yet immured firmly in the present, he had none. Besides, he could
never understand it--any of it.

She should
have shown more concern about her own mortality and what lay beyond, but she’d never
seemed to care.

Ellen was
different.

“Ellen.”
Her whispered name echoed through the barn, rippling along the ancient timbers like
a wave, stirring up the dust.

From the
moment he saw her, he’d been drawn by some powerful, nameless force, and helpless
against it. When he touched her, the most incredible energy sprang from her
fingertips to his. Sparks had leapt and danced like amber fireflies along his
arm and a tingling sensation rippled through him. He’d felt strange. So
unexpected, to have ‘felt’ those emotions at all. He’d only known that he
existed. Experienced neither hunger or thirst, passion or pain, joy nor sorrow.

Instead
he’d suffered bitterness, coiling, burning anger that ate at his soul.
Indifference toward mortals had been his only respite.

Until now.

Within her
he sensed something dangerous, forbidden, a destiny beyond his reach. When she took
her hand away, he’d been left with yet another unfamiliar feeling--emptiness.
The hollowness created inside only fuelled his simmering rage. He didn’t understand
what was happening to him.

For the
first time in over two hundred years, hunger stirred in him. He yearned for
something. Someone. Her.

Impossible.

The rafters
shook violently as he demanded to know what god would be so unjust as to allow him
a glimpse at such tantalizing mortality, only to deny him. Wasn’t his eternal
damnation enough torment?

He hadn’t
been able to bear staying in her presence, but been unable to de-materialize.
Had tried to escape, but she’d pursued him. The living never reacted well to
his sudden appearances, and he hadn’t wanted to frighten her. Not this one. But
why should he care?

He should
have tried harder to resist, for when she’d grabbed him in the hallway, a
lightning bolt shot through his veins, a connection between them so fierce it
consumed him entirely. Taken over by the hunger, he’d lost control.

Unlike her,
he remembered the incident. He’d been powerless to hold back from taking her, enveloped
by the energy surrounding them, binding them.

He recalled
holding her, touching her. Then he’d kissed her lips, and had surged with all
her strength and energy. She was like the sun and he’d fed from her warmth.

He wanted
her. Needed her. All of her.

It was
wrong, but the addiction had overpowered him, swept him away, made him believe nothing
else mattered.

But it did
matter.

He was
killing her.

* *
* *

Ellen lay
awake in her room, studying it with great interest in the early morning light.
It was enormous. The large, carved four-posted bed she’d slept in stood
majestically on one side and faced several arched, leadlight windows. Dark,
polished timber floors were covered with an old tapestry rug, and a gray
granite mantel surrounded a deep hearth where a fire had burned all night.

Her watch
read eleven o’clock. That couldn’t be. She held her wrist up to her ear. It had
stopped working. Perfect. God only knew what time it was.

Stifling a
yawn, she sat up, stretched and shook her hands through her long, wavy hair,
then slid her feet to the floor. Exhausted last night, she must have fallen
asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. But her rest had been
interrupted by flashes of strange events, playing out in her mind like a
preview for an old movie.

Except the
images weren’t exciting or amusing--more disturbing. People rushing about in pain
and panic. Brief dreams, but their stark realism had left her shaken.

Nonsense.
They were nightmares, that was all.

She moved
across the room to a window with thick clear glass, tucked her nightshirt under
her, and sitting on the deep wooden sill, looked out into the grounds.
Listlessly, she stared at the familiar bland view. As they had the day before,
the grounds appeared dry and desolate. No sign of crops or livestock, though
several barns and sheds littered the landscape in the distance.

Leaning
forward, the rocky outlines of what must have been once sculptured garden beds came
into view. Similar no doubt to the one she’d stubbed her toe on trying to find
a way into the wretched place. Turning her attention back to the room, she felt
strange, like there was something missing, or that she’d forgotten. Yet the
night before was only a blur. She must be still tired.

Her weird
imagination had to be the effect of jetlag and a lack of food.

She pulled
up her socks and descended the back stairs leading to the kitchen. In the lower
hallway, she reached out, touched the wall with her fingertips. Again,
something seemed familiar, but exactly what, eluded her.

Déjà vu
perhaps?

She leaned
against the jamb in the kitchen doorway. The room looked very different in the light
of day. An old square ceramic sink sat in one corner with what looked to be a
hand water pump. Terrific. No electricity, and little chance of the hot bath
she’d desired. She shuddered to think where the bathroom was--if they had one
at all.

Straightening
upright, she entered. In the center of the room stood an immense wooden table
piled high with old porcelain plates, cups and silverware that would befit any
fine antique shop. Interesting, but she’d only one thing on her mind.

Breakfast.

She’d never
felt so hungry. Coffee and toast, and some chocolate wouldn’t go astray.
Patting her stomach as it growled at the thought, she promised herself to go do
some shopping later. A village lay somewhere nearby, though she couldn’t recall
how far, having dozed on and off during the taxi ride. Hopefully it would be
within reasonable walking distance.

Raking
through the various tins lining the wall above the sink, she happened across
what smelled like tea leaves. No sugar or milk, but at least it would be hot
and wake her up a bit.

She spooned
a generous amount into an old earthenware teapot then picked a mug from the shelf
and blew away the dust. Forget the gardener, her cousin needed a maid.

Gardener? She’d met a man
last night…tall, broad-shouldered… Hadn’t she? Oh hell. She needed tea.

Using a
mitt hanging off the blackened mantle, she lifted the heavy kettle from its
hook inside the fireplace.

Carrying it
to the sink, she began to pump for water. Come on, come on. It flowed a bit
dirty at first then ran clear. She rinsed and filled the kettle, lugged it back
over to the hearth. Never one for camping, she studied the cold empty
fireplace, pondering how to get it started. No wood around and she didn’t carry
a lighter. Where was a boy scout when she needed one? Checking around the
mantle, kettle still in hand, she sought out some matches. Cripes, next she’d
be rubbing two sticks together.

At the edge
of her vision, something moved.

Someone
stood in the doorway leading outside. Startled, she dropped the kettle on the
floor. The crash echoed through the room. Water spewed from its spout like an
angry cry.

A scream
for help jumped to her throat, but was quelled just as quick. She recognized
him. At least, she thought she did--though what an astonishing sight he was.

A tall,
handsome man stood there observing her, a subtle smile on his face, his arms
filled with seasoned logs. The breath caught in her chest. Adrenaline surged
through her without warning. With his tousled honey-brown hair brushing against
broad shoulders and a powerful presence that would have made any lesser man
humble, he could have stepped out of any fairytale book she’d held dear as a
child.

“Good
morning, Miss Quinn.” Though casual, his tone commanded her attention as he
strode past her and knelt before the hearth, stacked the kindling on the floor.
“I’m sorry I haven’t the fire ready for you. I thought mayhap you’d sleep a
while because...”

Huh?

He
straightened and brushed the splinters from his hands against his tan suede
breeches. Their snug fit shamelessly displayed his firm, muscular thighs. A
lump rose to her throat.

“...you were
so tired last night after I left you.”

What had
happened last night? Who was he? Maybe she’d been drinking. Damn it, she
couldn’t remember anything clearly. Awkward panic erupted inside. Her stomach
twisted and seemed to tie into a perfect knot.

He picked
up the wayward kettle, and as he leaned past her and placed it on the table,
his arm brushed the sleeve of her nightshirt. Oh. A shiver zipped up her spine.
Goose bumps came in its wake, but were concealed by her blue flannelette shirt.
He pulled back, and his eyes met hers. A smile curled at the edge of her mouth.
“Wait. Yes, I do remember you now.”

“You do?”
His brow furrowed a little, uncertainty flickered in his eyes.

“Of course.
You’re the caretaker, aren’t you?” She tucked a lock of errant hair behind her ear,
bit on her bottom lip. “Your name is, er...”

His amazing
emerald eyes darkened with disappointment.

 “Rowan.”
That had been agony. How embarrassing. She smiled with relief. What exactly had
happened last night? “Hi. Good morning. Forgive me. I didn’t see you there just
now. Wow. You really do have a way of sneaking up on a girl, don’t you?” The
green in his eyes sparked.

Her face
grew warm.

“I didn’t
mean to frighten you, Miss Quinn.” Moving away, he picked up a small axe by the
hearth and began splitting the logs with ease. “I’m not used to having people
here.”

“Really,
don’t apologize. I live alone too. I must have been very tired last night. Did
I go to bed late? I must be a bit of a nuisance with your routine, huh? I’m
just a bit jumpy for some reason this morning. Perhaps it’s the time difference
and all that.” Snippets of last night’s nightmare returned, unwelcome, and she
flinched. “And, please call me Ellen. Miss Quinn makes me sound like some old
school teacher who couldn’t get a boyfriend.” Babbling again. This was not
good.

He paused
and looked up at her. His thick, golden eyelashes encased the emeralds within like
the fine work of a master jeweler. A wistful sigh escaped her. Gorgeous.

Blushing, she prayed she
hadn’t said the thought aloud.

She lowered
her gaze, and the soft warmth in her cheeks turned into a blazing inferno. Used
to living alone and dressing how she pleased, she’d come down stairs in an
oversized flannelette pajama shirt and a pair of long, stripy football socks.
Attractive…not! She closed her eyes and grimaced. God. No makeup, her hair was
a mess and her face never seemed at its best for at least an hour after she got
up.

It’s a
wonder he’d hung around at all. Poor guy, perhaps he was in shock.

She wished
he would just go, so she could squirrel her way back to her room and never come
out again.

He coughed.
“If I make you feel uncomfortable, Miss Ellen, I can leave.”

Had it been
so obvious? The pyre melting her face confirmed it. “No, not at all.” Liar. “In
fact, you’re just in time for tea. Can I make you a cup?” As she fumbled with a
small stack of mismatched porcelain, a cup toppled from her grasp onto the
table. Shit. She’d turned into such a klutz. And she’d dropped that oil lamp…or
had she?