Fire of My Heart (5 page)

He walked
around the trough.

She gasped
and sank down further. “That’s close enough, mate.”

His
curiosity piqued. “Is it customary where you come from, to bathe in such a way?
You’ll become ill with cold soon enough.”

She smiled
at him, warm and bright. Like basking in sunlight. He shook his head. What a strange
woman.

“Oh, I’ve
had plenty of cold showers before, but I’m not a huge fan. Sometimes I would
have to go into rainforests for weeks at a time for research and that’s all
there was. Besides, I figured anything was better than smelling like a pig.”

“A pig?”

“Long
story. I couldn’t find you this morning when I came back down to the kitchen.”
She held up her fingertips and frowned. “Starting to prune. Anyway, I decided
to walk into town and get a few things. I figured you must have been busy, so I
went alone. I hope you didn’t mind?”

Why should
he? In fact, having no real sense of time, if she hadn’t cried out he could
have remained in the barn for a very long while. Lowering his gaze from her
moving lips, he found himself studying the way the water swirled around the
plump tops of her bosom. Little waves, lapping at her flesh.

The
sensation burning inside him blazed into an eruption of heat and need. What in
hell was happening to him?

“…and, by
the way, I got lots of goodies, but, damn. I did forget to get some wine. Oh,
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to prattle on.”

Lost in his
turmoil, he stared at her expectant face. “Wine?” He knew of a place. “There is
a cellar beneath the manor. I will be sure to bring up a few bottles for you.”

“Really?
That would be great, because I...” She gazed down at the water, a look of bewilderment
on her face. What was wrong? “I think you should go now Rowan, the, er, the water
is freezing, so I’d better get out. You don’t want me to catch my death, do
you?”

Giving her
a stern frown for joking about such a thing, he walked to the door then glanced
back at her. “No. I don’t.”

Drying her hair with a thick
blue towel, Ellen walked into the library. A fire blazed warmth and several
large oil lamps burned brightly. Yes! Heat. Rowan was a champion.

Although it
must have been mid-afternoon, the room seemed quite dark already. Through the
conservatory glass, the once pale gray rainclouds now looked heavy and
threatening. Just what she needed. Another storm.

Didn’t this
place ever get the sun?

Standing
before the fire, she threw her hair forward. Gentle steam rose from the damp
locks as the heat began to dry them. Although cold after her glacial bath--make
that very cold--she felt better. Wouldn’t attempt it again anytime soon though,
the weather being too unpredictable. The water had suddenly begun to freeze as
Rowan talked to her. Ice crystals had formed along the surface of the tub.
Never before had she experienced such a dramatic drop in temperature. She must
be sure never to get locked out at night.

A sudden
chill shook her as she flicked her hair back and attempted to smooth it down
with her hands.

How in the
hell did people survive with no indoor plumbing? No wonder the life expectancy had
been so short long ago. They’d probably all died from exposure, their bums
frozen solid to the outside toilet seat.

The first
heavy drops of rain fell upon the conservatory roof as she picked up one of the
oil lamps and made her way over to a large wooden book shelf. It took up the
entire wall. And that was just one of them. Around the room, the walls stood
lined with all manner of tomes, books and satchels crammed in here and there.

The
question was now, where to begin?

A loud
growl from her stomach answered her. “I’m hungry so soon? You’ve got to be kidding.
Wasn’t it just lunch time not long ago?”

Mmm. A
piece of Mr. Grady’s fruitcake would go well about now. Saliva pooled in her mouth.

A glance at
her watch showed the hands had stopped moving again. Crap. Some days, she hated
technology.

* *
* *

A long,
high-pitched sound whirred into life and echoed throughout the kitchen as Ellen
wound up the old gramophone she’d lugged in from the library and balanced on a
chair in the corner.

Though
without power, some music was still in order, and she’d found several Bakelite albums
tucked away on a shelf near the conservatory. Hmm, big-band. Could be worse.

As the
warbled strains of a saxophone came to life, she began humming along to the old
tune, unpacked the hamper and sorted the groceries she’d bought in town.

To thank
Rowan for trying to make her feel at home, she’d cook him a meal. Though far from
being a fabulous cook, she could throw together a respectable spaghetti
Bolognese without burning down the kitchen.

Hopefully
he would agree to join her, especially after her pathetic effort that morning.
Oh, those socks. Besides, she wanted to get to know him better.

Much
better.

* *
* *

Rowan gazed
into the smoky kitchen from the doorway. Ellen seemed oblivious to his presence,
bopping around the room filling up pots of water, stopping only to cut up an
onion.

He was
breaking his own rules, but couldn’t help a wry smile creeping to his lips as
she moved, wiggling and swaying in time with the strange music.

She dusted
two old crystal goblets then filled each with a generous serving of the red
wine he’d brought her from the cellar. Shiraz. Her favorite, she’d said.

The sight
of her happy caused pleasant warmth to fill his chest, made him smile.

There they were
again--feelings, pouring through him like a waterfall that couldn’t be stopped.
He’d never paid the music much mind over the decades, but her bold and fetching
movements were like nothing he’d seen before. He wanted to hold her, feel her
shift against his body.

And just by
thinking it, he materialized right behind her. Too close. Where was his
control?

A loud
knock sounded at the back door.

“Hell.”

“Rowan.”
She coughed and looked up. “Hey, didn’t hear you come in. Hope the noise didn’t
bother you.” The knock came again. She turned away from him, to the door. “Hold
on. Someone’s there. I’ll get it.”

He
dematerialized, but stayed close beside her while she undid the bolt and swung
the door open. She didn’t know anyone from around here, so who could it be?

“Daniel.”

Daniel?

A young man
stood outside, a paper package in hand, and leaned against the brickwork, grinning
at her. He didn’t like that smile.

“Hello,
Ellen. Good to see you again.”

“Hey, you
too. Didn’t expect to see you again, quite so soon. What brings you here?”

“You left
this behind. I told Mr. Grady I’d be only too happy to drop it by for you.”

As she took
the parcel from this Daniel fellow--a stranger no less, paying too much
attention to her--hot, simmering anger almost most made him appear there and
then.

Could he be
jealous?

“Thanks,
that was nice of you. Is that your motorbike? I didn’t hear it pull up. The
music must have drowned it out.”

“Yeah. In
fact, I didn’t know at the time you needed a lift yesterday, or I would have
been happy to offer. Maybe next time.”

“Sure.
Maybe.”

“Hmm,
something smells delicious. You must be a good cook.”

She
blushed.

“No, not
really. I’ll be lucky if I don’t burn the place down. Oh! I’d like you to meet
a friend of mine.” She glanced back into the room, but she wouldn’t find him
there. “That’s odd. Maybe he went back down to the cellar.”

“You’ve
company? Well, perhaps we’ll meet another time, then?”

Daniel
walked over to his contraption, put on a strange helmet and smiled at her.
“Next time you’re in town, I’d love to buy you a drink.”

“Sure, that
would be great.” Hell. She liked this man?

The
motorbike started, a thundering noise which echoed across the field. She
watched as he rode away, then closed the door, and looking at the package,
smiled.

He moved
away to the hallway and materialized, then entered the kitchen.

“Who was
there?” He fought to hide his feelings from showing.

“Just some
guy I met in town. Brought me something I’d left at the grocery store. Kind of him,
huh?”

He crossed
his arms. “A real gentleman.”

She smiled
and sipped a deep red sauce from a spoon. “So he would seem.”

Her deep
hazel eyes looked up at him through thick brown lashes.

“Aye.” He
watched her every action with great interest. “It’s good to see you’ve settled
in.”

Blushing,
she moved toward the table where two steaming pots waited and scooped ladlefuls
of long, worm-like strands onto two plates then covered them in a dark red
sauce that smelled of garlic and herbs.

“I hope you
don’t mind, but I made us dinner.” A smudge of the sauce adorned her cheek. “I
hope you like spaghetti.”

“Spa-ghe-tti,”
he echoed, reaching out and wiping the spot away, her face turning bright pink
as he did so.

Forcing his
hand back, he averted his eyes from her fixated stare, looked down at the
plates. Using every ounce of restraint he could muster, he slowly began taking
control, denying his growing need to hold her. He could not drain her precious
warmth. “You’ve no need to cook for me.”

She frowned.

“Oh, it’s
no trouble really,” she replied, a strange quiver in her voice, and proceeded
to sprinkle a handful of shredded cheese over the laden plates. “Would you like
to sit in the library? It’s the warmest part of the house at night.”

Without
waiting for his response, she clasped her plate, a glass of the wine and led
the way out of the kitchen into the darkening hall. Pausing at the library
door, she glanced back and smiled shyly. Plate in hand, he followed her. But
what would he do with it?

He placed
his plate on a small side table, while she sat down on the worn leather lounge,
tucking her legs underneath her. She seemed so relaxed and at ease.

Then again,
she knew nothing of his past. Once she did, he had little doubt of her
reaction. She would fear him. Despise him. And then she’d leave.

Why did he
care?

A Donegal,
his blood enemy. He’d no right feeling anything but hate for her, but as he
basked in her radiant smile, his resolve was slowly crumbling. She had nothing
to do with his feud, and it had happened so long ago. Yet he couldn’t change
his past. It was what drove him, kept his angry spirit burning, his need for
revenge ever consuming him.

“You’re not
eating?” The hopeful glimmer in her eyes had dimmed.

“I’m sorry.
I’m not very hungry.” He’d lied. He was indeed hungry, just not for the odd
bits of string on his plate.

“That’s
okay. I’m not a very good cook anyway.”

She set her
plate down on the other sidetable, picked up her glass of wine and sipped at
it, staring into the fire.

The silence
grew.

She seemed
angry with him. He sat next to her, her warmth pulling him as though she wanted
him to acknowledge her, wanting her so badly. Yet he’d spent his accursed
existence hating Donegals.

Her tongue
slipped out, licked the dark red wine from her full, pouting lips. Heat blazed through
him. His hands tingled so, he stared down at them. He felt desire, need.

He felt
alive.

She put
down her glass, rose from the settee and attempted to walk by him, but he
wasn’t letting her go anywhere.

He clasped
her hand and pulled her to him. The thought of her leaving made the feeling within
him churn. Couldn’t let her go.

She glanced
down at his hand then looked into his eyes, brow furrowed a little. Her glassy hazel
gaze betrayed her hopes and fears, the passion he’d always suspected simmered
just beneath the surface. He stood, wrapped his arm around her waist. Her
incredible warmth ignited tiny spurs of fire across his skin.

This moment
alone was worth everything he’d been through.

Tracing
every curve of her beautiful face, he ran his hand across her cheek and along
her jaw. He cupped her chin, tilted her face to meet his. A smudge of red sauce
clung to her lower lip.

“Perhaps, I
should try your cooking after all.” Slowly, he leaned in and nipped at her
mouth. Giving into his burning need, he took her mouth in a deep, searching
kiss, drinking her in like a man who’d been thirsting for water.

And, indeed
he had been--for over two hundred years.

* *
* *

Ellen
stirred on the couch, cocooned in the wonderful sensations that had sent her
mind reeling. Curling around a pillow, she drew in a deep breath and gradually
opened her eyes. God, couldn’t she ever stay awake? Stifling a yawn, she rose
and walked over to the fire, poked it gently with a rod.

The glowing
embers littering the hearth sparked back into life, and the rain pelting
against the conservatory roof became like a mere hum.

Where had
Rowan gone? She smiled sheepishly as she reached up and touched her lips--She
could still taste him there. He’d kissed her. That was no figment of her
imagination. But what happened then? She remembered him leaning in toward her,
his strong arm reaching around her waist, pulling her to him. A familiar thrill
raced along her spine, and delicious heat pulled her, coiled in her groin.

Exhilarating.
Like nothing she’d ever felt before, his every touch had sent ripples of giddy pleasure
cascading over her body.

And, when
he’d kissed her...when he’d kissed her...damn. That must have been a hell of a kiss!
She wanted so much to recall it. His lips had been full and determined, his
need deep and devouring. Only fragments remained, and a sense of euphoria and a
lighter-than-air feeling. Hell.

She must
have passed out. He’d think her such a goose!

She sat
back down, grabbed hold of a cushion, crushed it to her breast and grinned.
Despite the overload of common sense trying to prevail in her scientific mind,
she couldn’t deny the situation was without precedent for her. Never before had
she been enveloped in the incredible feeling that had settled over her like a
soft warm blanket.

She was in
love.