The Parting Glass (Caitlin Ross Book 4) (9 page)

“But enough about me, aye? What about you?”

“What about me?”

He laughed. “Turnabout’s fair play. I’ve told you about myself. Now it’s your turn. I know next to nothing about you.”

“Oh, I’m not very interesting.”

“That’s not so true,” Timber remarked, almost to himself. Louder, he went on, “You’re a witch.”

“Yes.”

“Have you always been a witch?”

“I was born this way, yes.”

“Och, and you’re prickly about it, too.”

“I don’t bruit it about,” I admitted.

“Yet you keep a magic shop.”

“That’s different. You don’t have to be a witch to be a shopkeeper.”

“And you read the cards. Or so you say. I haven’t seen it for myself.”

“You don’t have to be a witch to do that, either. Talent helps, but it’s a skill anyone can learn.”

“Are all your people witches?”

I halted dead in my tracks. Timber went on a few paces before noticing, then he stopped and returned to my side. I stood in the middle of the creek path, shivering, all at once as cold as I had been hot a moment or two before.

“What is it?” he asked. He lifted a hand as if to touch me; I quickly stepped away.

“No,” I said, forcing myself to keep my voice level. Still, I thought it shook. “My people aren’t all witches. I’m the only one. My family knows. They…don’t approve.”

“Och, that’s hard. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“Spruce knows about me,” Timber offered. “She’s the only one who understands. The others, well. They know I have a way with animals, and that trees grow for me, and that Mitch saw something worth saving in me. But as to what it is…” He shook his head. “I dinna think they’d hold it against me if they knew, though.”

I gave him a tight, little nod, acknowledging what he had given me. “Please, let’s walk.”

He retreated to the edge of our four-foot safety zone and we went on. After a few minutes, he stooped and picked up a stick from the path, produced a clasp knife from his pocket and began to whittle as we went along. I was glad to have his attention focused on something other than me for a time.

“So,” he said at length. “What is it you do to upset your family so much? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Everything,” I replied. Then I thought that sounded awfully whiney and added, “I’m clairvoyant. I always knew my sisters’ secrets. They thought I was a terrible snoop.”

“Is that the worst of it?”

“Hardly. I can…manipulate energy fields, I guess you might say. I can bend them enough to hide myself or other things I want hidden. Or use them to protect myself. I can make a shield, or a shock.”

“I remember.” He gave the stick a rueful grin.

“And I can make illusions.”

Timber glanced over at me, all eager boy. “Can you? I’d like to see that. Would you make one for me?”

I looked around. The creek path was, for the moment, free from bicyclists and roller-bladers in the immediate vicinity, and we were passing through the shade of some dense trees. It should be safe enough. I concentrated, and a ball of light bloomed in my outstretched hand. It changed from blue to purple to aquamarine, then turned into a bird, flew away through the overhanging branches, and vanished. Timber watched it go, and his grin transformed into a wide smile of delight.

“That’s wonderful.”

I shrugged. “It’s pretty useless, actually. I can just do small things. At least I can defend myself with the other stuff.”

“Have you ever needed to?”

I smiled sideways at him. “Oh, once or twice.”

He colored. “I am sorry for that.”

I didn’t answer and we continued on our way, past the Hilton hotel, down to Twenty-Eighth Street. For a while we stopped at the viewing window built into the creek there, hoping to catch a glimpse of fish, but we saw nothing but murky water rolling by. From there, we followed the creek under the road, into a more open area beyond, where the path was less traveled.

I considered Timber MacDuff. How effortlessly he’d gotten me to talk about magic, even give him a demonstration of my powers. I never did such a thing. I didn’t discuss it, even with Sage. Yet it felt good, for once, to have it out in the open. My whole body seemed lighter. I wondered if he’d intended that to happen, and if he’d worked some subtle healing on me. If so, he had remarkable skill.

Timber resumed his carving. He’d stripped all the leaves and bark from the stick by this time, and had begun incising a pattern in the bare wood; circles and spirals, it looked like, though I wasn’t quite close enough to see. After a bit, he began to sing under his breath, as if his mind weren’t really on it.

“The snows they melt the soonest

When the wind begins to sing.

The corn it ripens fastest when

The frost is settling in.

And when a woman tells me that

My face she’ll soon forget,

Before it’s done, I’ll wage a crown

She’s fain to follow yet.”

At the sound of his rich baritone, my heart plunged into my stomach. I became suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the sun beating down on my head, my camisole clinging to my breasts, the friction of my thighs sliding against one another under my silk skirt.

“The snows they melt the soonest

When the wind begins to sing.

The swallow flies without a thought

As long as it is spring.

But when spring goes and winter blows

My love she will be fain

For all her pride to follow me

Across the raging main.”

I glanced over at him. Surely it would be safe enough just to look. He seemed intent on his work, frowning a little in concentration. A sheen of perspiration covered his forehead; it dampened his hair, making it curl behind his ears and against his neck. The ring on his right hand caught the light and broke it into dazzling fragments. The knife blade meandered over the slender rod between his fingers, taking out a chip here, a chunk there. Wood shavings fell about his boots as he walked. I had never seen anyone so incredibly, thoughtlessly sexy. So very, very male.

“The snows they melt the soonest

When the wind begins to sing.

The bee that flew when summer shone

In winter cannot sting.

I’ve seen a woman’s anger melt

Between the night and morn,

It’s surely not a harder thing

To melt a woman’s scorn.”

I told myself the song had no particular meaning. He’d just started up the first thing that popped into his head. So what if it happened to be about seduction? So what if it was Lithe, and the throb of my blood demanded the proper offering? And, if the recent past indicated anything, so did his.

Be sensible, Caitlin,
I ordered myself. I knew my limits. They were what had kept me from becoming involved with anyone for so long. I couldn’t tolerate casual entanglements, and whatever lay between Timber and me, it could never be anything more. When he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do here, Timber would leave. And I would be hurt. Better to keep things to business alone. It didn’t matter that we might need strong magic before the end and sexual magic was some of the strongest. It didn’t matter that looking at him turned my legs to jelly and hearing his voice made me light-headed. Keep it safe. Keep it practical.

“So don’t you bid me farewell;

No farewell I’ll receive.

For you will lie with me, my love…”

The song cut off with a sudden gurgle, as if the singer’s throat had been cut, and a weighted silence descended. I peeked at the man walking beside me. His face showed flushed discomfiture; he had realized what he sang. The air between us hummed; one touch would ignite it. Timber cleared his throat. I did the same, and wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt. When had they become so damp?

“Have you always been musical?” I asked, once more hearing the over-hearty, false note in my voice.

“Aye.” He seemed to have a hard time getting the single word out. “There’s quite a bit of music on Skye. And in the Northwest, too. I used to busk some, earn a bit of coin. You?”

“Since I can remember. My mother is a concert harpist. Was; she’s got arthritis in her hands so badly she can’t play anymore.” With the resumption of innocuous conversation, the atmosphere thinned a little. I could breathe again without difficulty, and I didn’t feel quite as hot.

“A shame.”

“Yes, she was very good. Anyway, we always had music about the house. But my interest in traditional forms didn’t go over well. My mother wanted me to play flute with the symphony. Another black mark against me.”

“With a name like Ross? You’re Scots too, aye?”

“Several generations back. And Welsh, on my mother’s side.” I gave him an impish smile. “And they say we have Fairy blood, way back. But that’s another story.”

His eyebrows leapt up to his hairline. “Fairy blood! Well, you were born to music and magic, then. Why didn’t you go for the symphony?”

“Classical music bores me. Jigs and reels are much more fun.”

We crossed the creek on a footbridge far above the water, Timber’s boots and my sandals loud and hollow-sounding on the wood. Another little silence fell, but this one wasn’t as charged; I could bear it without sweating and getting short of breath. We drifted closer together. Then Timber shut his pocket knife with a “snap,” making me jump.

“There. That’s done.”

“May I see?”

He stopped and showed me the stick he had been carving, completely transformed. A pale, slender wand, a little curved, he had covered it all over with a complex pattern of rings and spirals. He’d left about six inches at the bottom of the wand bare, for a grip, but he’d smoothed the wood somehow and it looked soft.

“A couple coats of paste wax would finish it better.” He turned the wand over in his hands, measuring it with an expert eye.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s rowan. Very magical.” He held it out to me. “You can have it, if you like.”

“Really?”

He shrugged. “I’ve dozens of sticks. And there are always more.”

Eagerly, I reached for it; I didn’t have a good wand. As I took it, our fingers brushed. Sudden fire leapt at the contact and I felt a rush of warmth between my thighs. We stood utterly still, both of us holding the wand, linked by it and one minute patch of skin. Timber’s eyes blazed into mine. We both knew what would happen, right there on the creek path, if either of us moved, if the brush of our fingers turned into anything like a caress.

Business
, I reminded myself, not caring overmuch.

Then Timber, with enormous determination and self-control, let go of the wand and backed away a step. His color was high as he turned his face from mine and brushed his hair from his forehead. I clutched the wand to my breast with both hands, and my heart started to beat again.

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what I meant.

“Let’s walk, aye?” His voice was harsh.

We went on.

We wandered up the creek path all the way to Fifty-Fifth Street and all the way back downtown over the course of the afternoon, and I never knew how we made it, except that we kept well apart and did not touch. I took on the role of tour guide, pointing out to Timber various birds and wildlife sign, like the droppings of a deer or the mark a raccoon had made on the creek bank. He had to know more about such things than I did, but it seemed safe enough. Timber paused here and there to converse with a tree. Sometimes he told me about his exchanges; more often, he did not. We limited our own talk to inanities about the scenery and the weather. No more personal topics, however innocent they might seem; we didn’t know where they might lead. Timber did not sing again.

It was nearing six when we found ourselves back on the Pearl Street Mall, where the summer crowd forced us closer together. A couple of passing kids jostled me. Timber reached out as if to take my arm and hastily withdrew his hand before making contact. We were both sweating by that time, and breathing heavily as if we had run a race.

“May I take you to dinner?” he said.

“You took me to lunch,” I reminded him.

“I did. Still…”

“No thank you. I’m not hungry.” In point of fact, I was starving, but I didn’t think I could make myself eat a bite in his presence. I needed to get away from him, fast, and I thought he needed to get away from me, too.

“I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t…”

“Aye, I do.”

Still not touching, we wound our way through the mob. No more than two feet remained between our bodies and I felt every inch of him along my side like a burn. My breasts ached. I wanted to loosen the camisole that hugged them so tightly, but I made myself clasp my hands behind my back instead. The swish of silk against my thighs almost drove me mad.
A cold shower,
I thought. I would go home, and Timber would leave, and I would take a very cold shower and have something to eat. The sun would go down; the Solstice would be over and tomorrow we would get back to business. Business.