Captivated (24 page)

But after three days his heart yearned for home, for the rustle of wind and the whoosh of water. And for her.

He went back to the shop, interrogating Mindy ruthlessly enough to have customers backing off and
murmuring. She wouldn’t budge.

At his wits’ end, he took to parking in her driveway and brooding at her house. It had been nearly a month, and he comforted himself with the thought that she had to come back sometime. Her home was here, her business.

Damn it, he was here, waiting for her.

As the sun set, he braced his elbows on the steering wheel and rested his head in his hands. That was just what he was doing, he admitted. Waiting for her. And he wasn’t waiting to have a rational conversation, as he’d tried to convince himself he was over the past weeks.

He was waiting to beg, to promise, to fight, to do whatever it took to put things right again. To put Morgana back in his life again.

He closed his hand over the stones he still wore around his neck and wondered if he could will her back. It was worth a shot. A better idea than putting an ad in the personals, he thought grimly. Shutting his eyes, he focused all his concentration on her.

“Damn it, I know you can hear me if you want to. You’re not going to shut me out this way. You’re not. Just because I was an idiot is no reason to . . .”

He felt a presence, actually felt it. He opened his eyes cautiously, turned his head and looked up into Sebastian’s amused face.

“What is this?” Sebastian mused. “Amateur night?”

Before he could think, Nash was shoving the car door open. “Where is she?” he demanded, taking Sebastian’s shirt in his fists. “You know, and one way or the other you’re going to tell me.”

Sebastian’s eyes darkened dangerously. “Careful, friend. I’ve been wanting to go one-on-one with you for weeks.”

The notion of a good, nasty fight appealed to Nash enormously. “Then we’ll just—”

“Behave,” Anastasia commanded. “Both of you.” With delicate hands, she pushed the men apart. “I’m sure you’d enjoy giving each other bloody noses and black eyes, but I’m not going to tolerate it.”

Nash fisted his frustrated hands at his sides. “I want to know where she is.”

With a shrug, Sebastian leaned on the hood of the car. “Your wants don’t carry much weight around here.” He crossed his feet at the ankles when Anastasia stepped between them again. “You’re looking a little ragged around the edges, Nash, old boy.” And it pleased him no end. “Conscience stabbing at you?”

“Sebastian.” Ana’s quiet voice held both censure and compassion. “Don’t snipe. Can’t you see he’s unhappy?”

“My heart bleeds.”

Ana laid a hand on Nash’s arm. “And that he’s in love with her?”

Sebastian’s response was a short laugh. “Don’t let the hangdog look twist your feelings, Ana.”

She shot Sebastian an impatient glare. “For heaven’s sake, you only have to look.”

Reluctantly, he did. As his eyes darkened, he clamped a hand on Nash’s shoulder. Before Nash could shrug it angrily away, Sebastian laughed again. “By all that’s holy, he is.” He shook his head at Nash. “Why the devil did you make such a mess of it?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Nash muttered. Absently he rubbed a hand over his shoulder. It felt as though it had been sunburned. “What I have to say, I’ll say to Morgana.”

Sebastian was softening, but he didn’t see any reason to make it easy. “I believe she’s under the impression that you’ve already had your say. I don’t know that she’s in any condition to listen to your outrageous accusations again.”

“Condition?” Nash’s heart froze. “Is she sick?” He grabbed Sebastian by the shirtfront again, but the strength had left his hands. “What’s wrong with her?”

A look passed between the cousins, so brief, so subtle, that it went unnoticed. “She’s not ill,” Ana said, and tried not to be furious with Morgana for not telling Nash about the child. “In fact, she’s quite well. Sebastian meant that she was upset by what happened between you the last time.”

Nash’s fingers loosened. When he had his breath back, he nodded. “All right, you want me to beg. I’ll beg. I have to see her. If after I’ve finished crawling she boots me out of her life, I’ll live with it.”

“She’s in Ireland,” Ana told him. “With our family.” Her smile curved beautifully. “Do you have a passport?”

*  *  *

Morgana was glad she’d come. The air in Ireland was soothing, whether it was the balmy breeze that rolled down from the hills or the wild wind that whipped across the channel.

Though she knew it would soon be time to go back and pick up her life again, she was grateful for the weeks she’d had to heal.

And for her family.

Stretched out on the window seat in her mother’s sitting room, she was as much at home, and at peace, as she could be anywhere in the world. She felt the sun on her face, that luminous sun that seemed to belong only to Ireland. If she looked through the diamond panes of glass, she could see the cliffs that hacked their way down to the rugged beach. And the beach, narrow and rough, stretching out to the waves. By changing the angle, she could see the terraced lawn, the green, green grass scattered with a profusion of flowers that stirred in the wind.

Across the room, her mother sat sketching. It was a cozy moment, one that reminded Morgana sweetly of childhood. And her mother had changed so little in the years between.

Her hair was as dark and thick as her daughter’s, though she wore it short and sleek around her face. Her skin was smooth, with the beautiful luster of her Irish heritage. The cobalt eyes were often dreamier than Morgana’s, but they saw as clearly.

When Morgana looked at her, she was washed by an intense flood of love. “You’re so beautiful, Mother.”

Bryna glanced up, smiled. “I won’t argue, since it feels so good to hear that from a grown daughter.” Her voice carried the charming lilt of her homeland. “Do you know how wonderful it is to have you here, darling, for all of us?”

Morgana raised a knee and linked her hands around it. “I know how good it’s been for me. And how
grateful I am you haven’t asked me all the questions I know you want to.”

“And so you should be. I’ve all but had to strike your father mute to keep him from badgering you.” Her eyes softened. “He adores you so.”

“I know.” Morgana felt weak tears fill her eyes again, and she tried to blink them away. “I’m sorry. My moods.” With a shake of her head, she rose. “I don’t seem to be able to control them.”

“Darling.” Bryna held out both hands, waiting until Morgana had crossed the room to link hers with them. “You know you can tell me anything, anything at all. When you’re ready.”

“Mother.” Seeking comfort, Morgana knelt down to rest her head in Bryna’s lap. She gave a watery smile as her hair was stroked. “I’ve come to realize recently how very lucky I am to have had you, all of you. To love me, to want me, to care about what happens to me. I haven’t told you before how grateful I am for you.”

Puzzled, Bryna cradled her daughter. “Families are meant to love and want and care.”

“But all families don’t.” Morgana lifted her head, her eyes dry now and intense. “Do they?”

“The loss is theirs. What’s hurting you, Morgana?”

She gripped her mother’s hands again. “I’ve thought about how it must feel not to be wanted or loved. To be taught from childhood that you were a mistake, a burden, something only to be tolerated through duty. Can
anything be colder than that?”

“No. Nothing’s colder than living without love.” Her tone gentled. “Are you in love?”

She didn’t have to answer. “He’s been hurt so, you see. He never had what you, what all of you, gave me, what I took for granted. And, despite it all, he’s made himself into a wonderful man. Oh, you’d like him.” She rested her cheek on her mother’s palm. “He’s funny and sweet. His mind is so, well, fluid. So ready to test new ideas. But there’s a part of him that’s closed off. He didn’t do it, it was done to him. And, no matter what my powers, I can’t break that lock.” She sat back on her heels. “He doesn’t want to love me, and I can’t—won’t—take what he doesn’t want to give.”

“No.” Bryna’s heart broke a little as she looked at her daughter. “You’re too strong, too proud, and too wise for that. But people change, Morgana. In time . . .”

“There isn’t time. I’ll have his child by Christmas.”

All the soothing words Bryna had prepared slipped away down her throat. All she could think was that her baby was carrying a baby. “Are you well?” she managed.

Morgana smiled, pleased that this should be the first question. “Yes.”

“And certain?”

“Very certain.”

“Oh, love.” Bryna rose to her feet to rock Morgana against her. “My little girl.”

“I won’t be little much longer.”

They laughed together as they broke apart. “I’m happy for you. And sad.”

“I know. I want the child. Believe me, no child has ever been wanted so much. Not only because it’s all I might ever have of the father, but for itself.”

“And you feel?”

“Odd,” Morgana said. “Strong one moment, terrifyingly fragile the next. Not ill, but sometimes light-headed.”

Understanding, Bryna nodded. “And you say the father is a good man.”

“Yes, he’s a good man.”

“Then, when you told him, he was just surprised, unprepared . . .” She noted the way Morgana glanced away. “Morgana, even when you were a child you would stare past my shoulder when you were preparing to evade.”

Wincing at the tone, Morgana met her mother’s eyes again. “I didn’t tell him. Don’t,” she pleaded before Bryna could launch into a lecture. “I had intended to, but it all fell apart. I know it was wrong not to tell him, but it was just as wrong to hold him to me by the telling. I made a choice.”

“The wrong choice.”

Morgana’s chin angled as her mother’s had. “My choice, right or wrong. I won’t ask you to approve, but I will ask you to respect. And I’ll also ask you not to tell anyone else just yet. Including Father.”

“Including Father what?” Matthew demanded as he strode into the room, the wolf that was Pan’s sire close at his heels.

“Girl talk,” Morgana said smoothly and moved over to kiss his cheeks. “Hello, handsome.”

He tweaked her nose. “I know when my women are keeping secrets.”

“No peeking,” Morgana said, knowing Matthew was nearly as skilled at reading thoughts as Sebastian. “Now, where’s everyone else?”

He wasn’t satisfied, but he was patient. If she didn’t tell him soon, he would look for himself. He was, after all, her father.

“Douglas and Maureen are in the kitchen, arguing over who’s fixing what for lunch. Camilla’s rousting Padrick at gin.” Matthew grinned, wickedly. “And he’s not taking it well. Accused her of charming the cards.”

Bryna managed a smile of her own. “And did she?”

“Of course.” Matthew stroked the wolf’s silver fur. “Your sister’s a born cheat.”

Bryna sent him a mild look. “Your brother’s a poor loser.”

Morgana laughed and linked arms with them both. “And how the six of you managed to live in this place together and not be struck by lightning is a mystery to me. Let’s go down and make some more trouble.”

*  *  *

There was nothing like a group meal with the Donovans to lift her mood. And a mood lift was precisely what Morgana needed. Watching with affection the squabbling, the interplay between siblings and spouses, was better than front-row seats at a three-ring circus.

She was well aware that they didn’t always get along. Just as she was aware that, whatever the friction, they would merge together like sun and light in the face of a family crisis.

She didn’t intend to be a crisis. She only wanted to spend some time being with them.

They might have been two sets of triplets, but there was little physical resemblance between the siblings.
Her father was tall and lean, with a shock of steel-gray hair and a dignified bearing. Padrick, Anastasia’s father, stood no higher than Morgana, with the husky build of a boxer and the heart of a prankster. Douglas was nearly six-four, with a receding hairline that swept back dramatically into a widow’s peak. Eccentricity was his hobby. At the moment, he was sporting a magnifying glass around his neck that he peered through when the whim took him.

He’d only removed his deerstalker hat and cape because his wife, Camilla, had refused to eat with him otherwise.

Camilla, often thought of as the baby of the brood, was pretty and plump as a pigeon, and she had a will of iron. She matched her husband’s eccentricities with her own. This morning, she was trying out a new hairstyle of blazing orange curls that corkscrewed around her head. A long eagle feather dangled from one ear.

Maureen, as skilled a medium as Morgana had ever known, was tall and stately and had an infectious, bawdy laugh that could rattle the rafters.

Together with Morgana’s serene mother and dignified father, they made a motley crew. Witches all. As she listened to them bicker around her, Morgana was nearly swamped with love.

“Your cat’s been climbing the curtains in my room again,” Camilla told Maureen with a wave of her fork.

“Pooh.” Maureen shrugged her sturdy shoulders. “Just hunting mice, that’s all.”

Camilla’s massive curls jiggled. “You know very well there’s not a mouse in this house. Douglas cast them out.”

“And did a half-baked job,” Matthew muttered.

“Half-baked.” Camilla huffed in her husband’s defense. “The only thing half-baked is this pie.”

“Aye, and Doug made that, as well,” Padrick interjected and grinned. “But I like my apples crunchy.”

“It’s a new recipe.” Douglas peered owlishly through his magnifying glass. “Healthy.”

“The cat,” Camilla insisted, knowing very well she’d lose control of the conversation.

“Cat’s healthy as a horse,” Padrick said cheerfully. “Isn’t that right, lamb chop?” He sent his wife a lusty wink. Maureen responded with an equally lusty giggle.

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the cat’s health,” Camilla began.

“Oh, now, now . . .” Douglas patted her chubby hand. “We don’t want a sick cat around, do we? Reenie will brew him up a nice remedy.”

“The cat’s not sick,” Camilla said in a strangled voice. “Douglas, for heaven’s sake, keep up.”