Page 8 of Enchanted
But the needs were deeper, stronger and more demanding than he’d experienced before, or that he’d cared to experience. When you felt too much, control slipped. Without control, there was no choice. He’d taken this year to himself to make choices.
Yet he couldn’t stay away from her. He’d been wise enough, he considered, to keep his distance in this form—at least when she was awake and aware. Still, he was drawn through the forest to watch her, to listen to her mind. Or to sit alone here in this room, cast the fire and study her in the flames.
Love waits.
He set his teeth, set his cup down with a snap of china on wood as the whisper floated over him. “Damn it. I’ll deal with it, with her. In my own time. In my own way. Leave me be.”
In the dark window glass, his own reflection faded, replaced by a woman with tumbling gold hair and eyes of the same rich color, who smiled softly. “Liam,” she said. “Stubborn you are, and always were.”
He cocked a brow. “Mother, ’tis easy when you learn from the best.”
She laughed, eyes sparkling against the night. “That’s true enough—if you’re speaking of your Da. The storm breaks, and she’s alone. Will you leave her that way?”
“It’s best for both of us if I do just that. She’s not one of us.”
“Liam, when you’re ready, you’ll look into her heart, and into your own. Trust what you find.” Then shesighed, knowing her son would follow his own path as always. “I’ll give your father your best.”
“Do. I love you.”
“I know it. Come home soon, Liam of Donovan. We’re missing you.”
As her image faded, lightning slashed out of the sky, driving down like a lance to stab the ground. It left no mark, no burn, even as thunder roared behind it; Liam understood it was his father’s way of echoing his wife’s words.
“All right, then. Bloody hell. I’ll have a look and see how well she’s riding out the storm.”
He turned, focused, then flicked a wrist, jabbing a finger at the cold hearth. The fire leaped, though there was no log, no kindling to burn.
“Lightning flares and thunder moans. How does the woman fare alone? Chill the fire to let me see. As I will, so mote it be.”
He dipped his hands into his pockets as the flames settled, steadied. In the cool gold light, shadows shifted, parted, then opened to him.
He saw her carrying a candle through the dark, her face pale in its flickering light, her eyes wide. She fumbled through drawers in her kitchen, talking to herself, as she was prone to. And jolted like a frightened deer when the next flash of lightning broke the night.
Well, he hadn’t thought of that, Liam admitted, and in a rare show of frustration dragged a hand through his hair. Her power was out, and she was alone in the dark, and scared half to death. Hadn’t Belinda told her how to work the little generator, or where the flashlight was? The emergency lanterns?
Apparently not.
He could hardly leave her there, could he? Shivering and stumbling around. Which, he supposed with a sour smile, was exactly what his clever, meddling cousin had known.
He’d make sure she had light and heat, but that would be the end of it. He wouldn’t linger.
While he was a witch, he was also a man. And both parts of him wanted her entirely too much for comfort.
***
“Just a storm, it’s just a storm. No big deal.” Rowan all but chanted the words as she lit more candles.
She wasn’t afraid of the dark, not really. But it was sodamndark, and the lightning had struck so close to the cabin. The thunder rattled the windows until she was certain they would just explode.
And if she hadn’t been sitting outside, daydreaming while the storm blew in, she’d have had a fire built. She’d have the warmth and light from thatandthe candlelight, and it would be sort of … cozy. If she really worked on believing it.
And now the power was out, the phones were out and the storm appeared to be at its peak directly over her pretty little cabin.
There were candles, she reminded herself. Dozens and dozens of candles. White ones, blue ones, red ones, green ones. She could only think that Belinda had bought out some candle store. Some were so lovely, with odd and beautiful symbols carved into them, that she held back from lighting them. And after all, she must have fifty flaring away by now, giving adequate light and offering marvelous scents to settle the nerves.
“Okay. All right.” She set yet one more candle on the table in front of the sofa and rubbed her chilled hands. “I ought to be able to see enough to get a fire going. Then I’ll just curl up right here on the couch and wait it out. It’ll be fine.”
But even as she crouched in front of the hearth and began to arrange the kindling, the wind howled. Her door banged open like a bullet out of a gun, and half the cheery candles behind her were blown out.
