A Little Magic (11 page)

C
ONAL
wasn’t in the cottage when she came out again, but Hugh sat by the fire as if waiting for her. He got up as she came through and pranced to the door, turning his big head so that his eyes met hers.

“Want a walk? Me, too.”

It was a pity about the gardens, Allena thought as she paused between them. She’d have enjoyed getting down into them, yanking out those choking weeds, pinching off deadheads. An hour’s pleasant work, she thought, maybe two, and instead of looking wild and neglected, those tumbling blossoms would just look wild. Which is what was needed here.

Not her job, she told herself, not her home, not her place. She cast an eye at the little outbuilding. He was probably in there doing…whatever the hell he did. And doing it, she imagined, angrily.

Why was there so much anger in him?

Not her problem, she thought, not her business, not her man.

Though for a moment, when their hands and mouths were joined, he had seemed to be.

I don’t want this. I don’t want you
.

He’d made himself very clear. And she was tired of finding herself plopped down where she wasn’t wanted.

The wind raced in off the sea, driving thick, black-edged clouds toward the island. As she began to walk, she could see the pale and hopeful blue being gradually, inevitably consumed.

Conal was right. A storm was coming.

Walking along the shoreline couldn’t do any harm. She wouldn’t climb the hills, though she longed to. She would just stick to the long curve of surf and sand and enjoy the jittery thrill of watching the fierce waves crash.

Hugh seemed content to walk at her side. Almost, she thought, like a guard.

Eight kilometers to the nearest village, she remembered. That wasn’t so very far. She could wait for the weather to clear, then walk it if Conal wouldn’t drive her. There’d been a truck parked between the cottage and the outbuilding, a sleek and modern thing, anachronistic but surely serviceable.

Why had he kissed her like that?

No, that wasn’t right. It hadn’t been his doing. It had simply happened, to both of them. For both of them. There’d been a roar in her head, in her blood, that she’d never experienced before. More than passion, she thought now, more than lust. It was a kind of desperate recognition.

There you are. Finally. At last
.

That, of course, was ridiculous, but she had no other way to explain what had spurted to life inside her. And what had spread from that first hot gush felt like love.

You couldn’t love what you didn’t know. You couldn’t love where there was no understanding, no foundation, no history. Her head told her all these sensible, rational things. And her heart laughed at them.

It didn’t matter. She could be conflicted, puzzled, annoyed, even willing to accept. But it didn’t matter when he didn’t want her or what had flamed to life between them.

She stopped, let the wind beat its frantic wings over her, let the spray from the waves fly on her. Overhead a gull, white as the moon, let out its triumphant scream and streamed off in the current of electric air.

Oh, she envied that freedom, for the heart of flight was inside her. To simply fly away, wherever the wind took her. And to know that when she landed, it would be her place, her time, her triumph.

But you have to live in the present, don’t you, Lena?
Her mother’s patient and puzzled voice murmured in her ear.
You have to apply yourself, to pay attention. You can’t keep drifting this way and make something of yourself. It’s time you focused on a career, put your considerable energy into making your mark
.

And under that voice, unsaid, was
You disappoint me
.

“I know it. I’m sorry. It’s awful. I wish I could tell you how awful it is to know I’m your only failure.”

She would do better, Allena promised herself. She’d talk Margaret into giving her a second chance. Somehow. Then she’d work harder, pay more attention, be responsible, be practical.

Be miserable.

The dog bumped his head against her leg, rubbed his warm fur against her. The small gesture comforted her and turning away from the water, she continued to walk along its verge.

She’d come out to clear her head, she reminded herself, not to fill it with more problems. Surely there couldn’t be a more perfect spot for easing heart and mind. Under those threatening skies, the rough hills shone, the wicked cliffs gleamed. Wildflowers, dots and splashes of color, tangled in the green and gray, and she saw a shadowy spread of purple that was heather.

She wanted to gather it, fill her arms with it, bury her face in the scent. Delighted with the idea, she turned to scramble over rocks where sprigs of it thrived in the thin soil, then higher to mounds bumpy and thick until the fragrance of it overpowered even the primitive perfume of the sea.

When her arms were full, she wanted more. Laughing, she hurried along a narrow path. Then stopped dead. Startled, she shook her head. She heard the oddest hum. She started to step forward again, and couldn’t. Simply couldn’t. It was as if a wall of glass stood between her and the next slope of rock and flowers.

“My God, what is this?”

She lifted a trembling hand, sending sprigs of heather falling, then flying free in the wind. She felt no barrier, but only a kind of heat when her hand pressed the air. And try as she might, she couldn’t push through it.

Lightning burst. Thunder rolled. Through it, she heard the sound of her name. She looked down to the beach, half expecting to see dragons or sorcerers. But it was only Conal, standing with his legs spread, his hair flying, and his eyes annoyed.

“Come down from there. You’ve no business clambering up the rocks when a storm’s breaking.”

What a picture she made. He’d come after her out of responsibility, he liked to think. But he’d been dumbstruck when he’d seen her walking the cliff path in the eerie light, her hair fluttering, her arms overflowing with flowers. It made him want to climb after her, to whirl her and her flowers into his arms, to press his mouth to hers again while the wind whipped savagely over them.

Because he wanted it, could all but taste her, his tone was blade-sharp when she met him on the beach. “Have you no more sense than to pick flowers in such weather?”

“Apparently not. Would you walk down there?”

“What?”

“Just humor me, and walk down the beach five more feet.”

“Maybe you did rattle your brains.” He started to grab her hand, pull her away, but she took a nimble step aside.

“Please. It’ll only take you a minute.”

He hissed out an oath, then strode off, one foot, two, three. His abrupt halt had Allena closing her eyes, shivering once. “You can’t do it, can you? You can’t go any farther than that. Neither could I.” She opened her eyes again, met his furious ones when he turned. “What does it mean?”

“It means we deal with it. We’ll go back. I’ve no desire to find myself drenched to the skin a second time in one day.”

He said nothing on the way back, and she let him have his silence. The first fat drops of rain splattered as they reached the cottage door.

“Do you have anything to put these in?” she asked him. “They’ll need water, and I’d like to keep my hands busy while you explain things to me.”

He shrugged, made a vague gesture toward the kitchen, then went to add more turf to the fire.

It was a downpour. The wind rose to a howl, and she began to gather vases and bottles and bowls. When he remained silent, scowling into the fire, she heated up the tea.

He glanced over when she poured the cups, then went into the kitchen himself to take out a bottle of whiskey. A healthy dollop went into his own tea, then he lifted a brow, holding the bottle over hers.

“Well, why not?”

But when it was laced, she picked up the flowers instead of the cup and began to tuck them into vases. “What is this place? Who are you?”

“I’ve told you that already.”

“You gave me names.” The homey task calmed her, as she’d known it would. When her gaze lifted to his again, it was direct and patient. “That’s not what I meant.”

He studied her, then nodded. Whether she could handle it or not, she deserved to know. “Do you know how far out in the sea you are?”

“A mile, two?”

“More than ten.”

“Ten? But it couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes to get here—and in rough weather.”

“More than ten miles out is Dolman Island from the southwest coast of Ireland. Here we straddle the Atlantic and Celtic Seas. Some say the silkies come here, to shed their hides and sun on the rocks in human form. And the faeries come out of their rafts under the hills to dance in the moonlight.”

Allena slipped the stems of shorter blossoms into a squat bottle. “Do you say it?”

“Some say,” he continued without answering, “that my great-grandmother left her raft, her palace under the hill, and pledged herself to my great-grandfather on the night of the summer solstice while they stood by the king stone of the dance on the cliffs. One hundred years ago. As a hundred years before, another with my blood stood with his woman in that same place to pledge. And a century before that as well, and always on that same night in that same place when the star shows itself.”

She touched her pendant. “This star?”

“They say.”

“And in two days it’s the solstice, and your turn?”

“If I believed my great-grandmother was other than a simple woman, that I have elfin blood in my veins and could be directed to pledge to a woman because of the way a star shines through the stones, I wouldn’t be in this place.”

“I see.” She nodded and carried one of the vases into the living room to set it on a table. “So you’re here to prove that everything you’ve just told me is nonsense.”

“Can you believe otherwise?”

She had no idea what she believed, but had a feeling there was a great deal, a very great deal, that she
could
believe. “Why couldn’t I walk away from here, Conal? Why couldn’t you?”

She left the question hanging, walked back into the kitchen. She took a sip of her tea, felt the hot flow of whiskey slide into her, then began to select her other arrangements and put them where she liked. “It would be hard for you, being told this story since you were a child, being expected to accept it.”

“Can you accept it?” he demanded. “Can you just shrug off education and reason and accept that you’re to belong to me because a legend says so?”

“I would’ve said no.” Pleasing herself, she set bottles of heather on the narrow stone mantel over the simmering fire. “I would have been intrigued, amused, maybe a little thrilled at the idea of it all. Then I would have laughed it off. I would have,” she said as she turned to face him. “Until I kissed you and felt what I felt inside me, and inside you.”

“Desire’s an easy thing.”

“That’s right, and if that had been it, if that had been all, we’d both have acted on it. If that had been all, you wouldn’t be angry now, with yourself and with me.”

“You’re awfully bloody calm about it.”

“I know.” She smiled then, couldn’t help herself. “Isn’t that odd? But then, I’m odd. Everyone says so. Lena, the duck out of water, the square peg, the fumbler always just off center. But I don’t feel odd or out of place here. So it’s easier for me to be calm.”

Nor did she look out of place, he thought, wandering through the cottage placing her flowers. “I don’t believe in magic.”

“And I’ve looked for it all my life.” She took a sprig of heather, held it out to him. “So, I’ll make you a promise.”

“You don’t owe me promises. You don’t owe me anything.”

“It’s free. I won’t hold you with legends or magic. When I can leave, if that’s what you want, I’ll go.”

“Why?”

“I’m in love with you, and love doesn’t cling.”

Humbled, he took the heather, slipped it into her hair. “Allena, it takes clear eyes to recognize what’s in the heart so easily. I don’t have them. I’ll hurt you.” He skimmed his fingers down her cheek. “And I find I’d rather not.”

“I’m fairly sturdy. I’ve never been in love before, Conal, and I might be terrible at it. But right now it suits me, and that’s enough.”

He refused to believe anything could be so simple. “I’m drawn to you. I want my hands on you. I want you under me. If that’s all, it might not be enough for you, or for me in the end. So it’s best to stand back.”

He walked to the peg, tugged down his slicker. “I need to work,” he said, and went out into the rain.

It would be more than she’d had, she realized, and knew that if necessary, she could make it enough.

T
HE
storm was only a grumble when he came back. Evening was falling, soft and misty. The first thing he noticed when he stepped inside, was the scent. Something hot and rich that reminded his stomach it was empty.

Then he noticed the little changes in the living room. Just a few subtle touches: a table shifted, cushions smoothed. He wouldn’t have noticed the dust, but he noticed the absence of it, and the faint tang of polish.

She’d kept the fire going, and the light, mixed with that of the candles she’d found and set about, was welcoming. She’d put music on as well and was humming along to it as she worked in the kitchen.

Even as he hung up his slicker, the tension he’d carried through his work simply slid off his shoulders.

“I made some soup,” she called out. “I hunted up some herbs from the kitchen bed, foraged around in here. You didn’t have a lot to work with, so it’s pretty basic.”

“It smells fine. I’m grateful.”

“Well, we have to eat, don’t we?”

“You wouldn’t say that so easy if I’d been the one doing the cooking.” She’d already set the table, making the mismatched plates and bowls look cheerful and clever instead of careless. There were candles there, too, and one of the bottles of wine he’d brought from Dublin stood breathing on the counter.

She was making biscuits.

“Allena, you needn’t have gone to such trouble.”

“Oh, I like puttering around. Cooking’s kind of a hobby.” She poured him wine. “Actually, I took lessons. I took a lot of lessons. This time I thought maybe I’d be a chef or open my own restaurant.”