Page 57 of Captivated
She shook her head. “Whatever we inherit, we have the choice of using it, or discarding it. You’re nothinglike the people you came from.”
He took her by the shoulders then, his fingers tense. “More than you think. I’ve made my choices. Maybe I stopped running away because it never got me anywhere. But I know who I am. That’s someone who does best alone. There’s no Henderson family in my future, Morgana. Because I don’t want it. Now and again, I write out a check. Then I can close that all off so it’s just me again. That’s the way I want it. No ties, no obligations, no commitments.”
She wouldn’t argue with him, not when the pain was so close to the surface. Another time she could show him how wrong he was. The man holding her now was capable of tenderness, of generosity, of sweetness—none of which had been given to him. All of which he’d found for himself.
But she could give him something. If only for a short time.
“You don’t have to tell me who you are, Nash.” Gently she brushed his hair from his face. “I know. There’s nothing you can’t give that I’ll ask for. Nothing you don’t want to give that I’ll take.” She lifted her amulet, closed his hand over it, and hers over his. Her eyes deepened as they stared into his. “That’s an oath.”
He felt the metal grow warm in his hand. Baffled, he looked down to see it pulsing with light. “I don’t—”
“An oath,” she repeated. “One I can’t break. There’s something I want you to take, that I can give. Will you trust me?”
Something was stealing over him. Like a shadow cast by a cloud, it was cool and soft and weightless. His tensed muscles relaxed; his eyes grew pleasantly heavy. As from a great distance, he heard himself speak her name. Then he glided into sleep.
When he awakened, the sun was warm and bright. He could hear birdsong, and the babbling music of water running over rock. Disoriented, he sat up.
He was in a wide, rolling meadow of wildflowers and dancing butterflies. A few feet away, a gentle-eyed deer stopped her peaceful walk to study him. There was the lazy drone of bees and the whisper of wind through the high, green grass.
With a half laugh, he rubbed a hand over his chin, half expecting to find a beard like Rip Van Winkle’s. Butthere was no beard, and he didn’t feel like an old man. He felt incredible. Standing, he looked out over the acres of flowers and waving grass. Above, the sky was a rich blue bowl, the deep blue of high spring.
Something stirred in him, as gently as the wind stirred the grass. After a moment, he recognized it. Serenity. He was utterly at peace with himself.
He heard the music. The heartbreaking beauty of harp song. The smile was already curving his lips as he followed it, wading through the meadow grass and flowers, startling butterflies.
He found her on the bank of the brook. Sun flashed off the water as it tumbled over smooth, jewel-colored rocks. The full white skirts of her dress pooled over the grass. Her face was shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, tipped flirtatiously over one eye. In her lap was a small golden harp. Her fingers caressed the strings, coaxing out music that floated over the air.
She turned her head, smiled at him, continued to play.
“What are you doing?” he asked her.
“Waiting for you. Did you rest well?”
He crouched beside her, then lifted a hesitant hand to her shoulder. She was real. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the silk. “Morgana?”
Her eyes laughed up at his. “Nash?”
“Where are we?”
She stroked the harp again. Music soared, spreading like the wings of a bird. “In dreams,” she told him. “Yours and mine.” After setting the harp aside, she took his hands. “If you want to be here, we can stay a while. If you want to be somewhere else, we can go there.”
She made it sound so easy, so natural. “Why?”
“Because you need it.” She brought his hand to her lips. “Because I love you.”
He didn’t feel the scrabble of panic. Her words slid easily into his heart, making him smile. “Is it real?”
She rubbed her cheek over his hand, then kissed it again. “It can be. If you want it.” Her teeth grazed lightlyover his skin, sparking desire. “If you want me.”
He drew the hat from her head, tossing it aside as her hair rained down over her shoulders and back. “Am I spellbound, Morgana?”
“No more than I.” She cupped his face in her hands to bring his lips to hers. “I want you,” she murmured against his mouth. “Love me here, Nash, as though it were the first time, the last time, the only time.”
How could he resist? If it was a dream, so be it. All that mattered was that her arms welcomed him, her mouth tempted him.
She was everything a man could want, all silk and honey, melting against him. Her body seemed boneless as he laid her back on the soft green grass.
There was no time here, and he found himself pleased to linger over little things. The velvet flow of her hair under his hands, the teasing flavors at the corners of her mouth, the scent of her skin along her jaw. She yielded to him, a malleable fantasy of silks and scents and seduction. Her quiet sigh sweetened the air.
