My Familiar Stranger (43 page)

She flashed on the image of Ram battling a vampire seconds before making a decision to sacrifice himself for people he didn’t know and would never meet. She saw the resemblance between his blonde hair and the lion’s mane. Accompanying that fanciful association was the thought that an electric guitar is a simply modern day lyre.
True Irish royalty.

Against the foot of the bed was a worn leather sofa the color of wine. Near the fire sat a matching chair and ottoman showing even more wear. In front of the sofa was a table fashioned from a large tree trunk, the top polished smooth and waxed with rings in irregular patterns representing nature’s own art. The floor was made of dark, wide planks - also worn to a perfection that said, “Boots have walked these floors many thousands of days.”

At the far end of the cottage, opposite the front door, was a kitchen with an extra large wooden hutch to the right of the sink and a waist high butcher block that served as a precursor to modern day kitchen islands. There was a large copper bath tub in the left corner. It appeared to be serviced by a pump with a stationary arm. Next to that was another pump on a hinged arm that could swing either to the sink or the tub. Over the copper sink a small window with thick, wavy glass opened to a view of the dense forest beyond. It was winged with heavy shutters to close in the event of extreme cold or leave open to allow more light.

Between the tub and the sink was a small fireplace, waist high, with a cast iron pot hung on a swinging arm. Underneath the stone hearth, was a two foot indention with an outside hatch at the rear, providing convenient access to restock fire wood. On the other side of the hutch, in the corner opposite the tub, there was a cabinet designed for storing perishables. It had some sort of filtered vent on the back for adjusting the temperature, cold enough to keep milk fresh, but not frozen in winter.
Ingenious.

The butcher block was picturesque enough to photograph. Strawberry and blackberry preserves in glass jars beckoned the beholder to ladle some sweet goodness on a chunk of the half loaf of uncut bread. Or to slice a bit of cheese kept fresh under a glass dome, and wash it down with a hardy, red ale from a pewter pitcher with hinged top. It was as appetizing as any feast she had ever seen. A still life ready to be painted.

The overall impression of the hunting cottage in the woods was comfortable elegance. Rusticity and luxury do not marry easily, but this was the lair of a decidedly masculine personality who understands quality and treasures nice things even more when they began to show age and wear.

Liam built a cheerful fire and replenished the stack of firewood by the hearth. He told Elora to make herself at home and then let himself out saying it was a pleasure to meet her.

Through the window she watched Liam untie the gelding and lead him away. After some time he returned, boarded the cart, and drove away whistling.

Left alone, Elora continued to stand in the middle of the cottage for a time feeling like an intruder and second guessing her decision to come unannounced. When the room grew warmer, she removed her coat along with the gloves, hat and scarf and gravitated toward the kitchen where she poured herself a little of the red ale to help drive the chill away from her bones. If it could also help with the unease she was feeling, all the better.

Alone in the cottage she walked around slowly, taking inventory of what was precious enough to Ram to keep in the place he called “home”. She read titles of books, then picked up the acoustic guitar and smiled to see that it was in perfect tune which meant he had probably played that very morning. She had never heard him play acoustic which meant there were probably many things about him she didn’t know. Like that he’s an Irish prince.

Only two items would qualify as artwork or pictorial features: the tapestry and a single picture on the massive mantel. It was an enlarged, framed photo of the two of them in front of the tree at Rockefeller Center snuggled close, looking happy and so right for each other.

There was only one thing left unsnooped - a large, antique armoire that held the clothes he kept on hand. When she opened the doors, without thinking her hand immediately, impulsively, reached for a hanging sleeve and brought it to her nose. She supposed that impulse meant she had even missed his smell and thought, "What madness made me think I could make a life without him?"

She tried to cozy up in a corner of the sofa and get comfortable. But as the day wore on, alone in the cottage that was silent except for the crackles and pops of the fire, the phrase “palace life” began looping through her mind over and over, growing in volume to match her anxiety.

After a couple of hours had passed, the threat of being returned to a life of oppressing restriction simmered to a boil. No matter how well appointed, a locked tower is still locked. And her fear of that, even though irrational, was so consuming that it overcame both love and logic. She concluded that it was a mistake to come.

The cup of ale was returned to the kitchen, emptied and placed in the sink. She pulled her black coat over the white cashmere sweater she had worn because she knew Ram liked seeing her in winter whites. The scarf and hat were thrown on hastily as she was heading for the door planning to follow the cart path back to the village, footwear be damned. Luggage be damned. Near panic, she had to flee and couldn’t even wait to get her gloves on.

As she passed the window she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She froze, took one step backward, and looked out. Across the clear running creek a fantasy come to life was emerging from the shadows on the edge of the forest. There she saw a striking blonde elf with hair pulled back behind his ears and tied at the nape of his neck, wearing a long black coat split up the back seam for ease of movement and a generous length of wool, Black Watch tartan with gold thread weave gathered around his neck and shoulders, held in place by a kilt pin with the same crest as that in the tapestry and the thick leather strap of a quiver. The long bow he carried was so beautifully curved and crafted that she could recognize its quality even from that distance.

She knew the instant he realized that something was unexpected. The smoke coming from his chimney caused him to go statue still like a freeze frame, exactly like a wild animal does when it senses something amiss. Snow had begun coming down; huge, fluffy flakes were hanging in the air, defying the laws of physics, taking their time in falling as if enjoying the downward glide.

After a moment he proceeded toward the cottage with purpose, jumping the stream with the grace of a dancer, then resuming the powerful, athletic stride that she would recognize anywhere. Having become unsettled by an over active imagination run amuck, she was not thinking clearly or she would have known that Ram would not simply let her say hello and dash away unaccompanied.

Just as he reached the door, she opened it. And there, on the other side of the threshold, stood an elf whose features formed harsh planes, whose face was a mask of utter stillness with eyes the image of unfathomable emptiness. He was barely recognizable. Without changing expression or taking his vacant eyes from her, he slowly set the bow on its end, leaning it against the door’s casement. Seeming to be considering whether she was real or illusion, he pulled the strap of his quiver over his head and set it next to the bow.

After she recovered from the initial shock of seeing her Ram so changed, so unanimated, so decimated, she mustered a bright smile and effervescent tone for her greeting even if she didn’t have the authenticity of cheerful emotion to put behind it. She was offering a silent prayer to the gods, "Please don’t let me have destroyed what I most treasure."

“Hi.” She gave a little, chest high wave with her gloved right hand.

His head turned toward the hand she had just waved. His eyes lingered there for a few heartbeats, fixated, before returning to her face. She could tell the moment he decided she was not a hallucination. Elora was there! In the flesh. In his cottage. Come halfway round the world. And that could mean only one thing. She was his.

The visual transformation that followed that realization was miraculous. Like the explosion of fire that follows putting a match to a pilot light when a surplus of gas has first escaped, the flame leaped back into his eyes. His face regained its familiar fluidity as it spread into a smile that was half proprietary and half predatory.

Elora’s heart kept time with the transformation as she watched Ram’s true essence reclaim his body, settle in and take up residence. Not too late.

As he advanced slowly, he backed her into the cabin and shut the door behind him never taking his eyes away from her face. His natural scent of musk and wild tree fern filled the space between them. She had forgotten that it could be sensually overpowering when encountered in person, easily causing someone such as herself to forget everything else.

“Um, nice place.” Suddenly nervous, she was talking faster than usual. “I just dropped by to say Happy Holidays and was on my way out. Liam brought me. Very nice man. Talks a lot. We came in a cart drawn by the biggest horse I ever saw. He built the fire and brought in more wood.” She gestured toward the hearth. “I had some of your ale to help warm up after the ride through the woods.. I hope you don’t mind. It was very good.”

While she was talking, he pulled the knit hat away and ran his hand slowly over her head wondering how he could have already forgotten just what a marvel was the color of that hair. He was thinking she looked bewitching in the winter whites they had bought on their day in New York.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” he said with a wolfish smile and a quiet tone that dripped honey.

“I, ah, want to be back in the village before dark. Great to see you. Gotta go.”

He was slowly unwinding the scarf from around her neck and blocking her path to the door. “There’s plenty of time and you’ve come such a very long way. Why do you no’ stay for tea? And tell me the true reason for your visit? After that I will take you to the village if you still want to go.”

He had started undoing the buttons on her coat, deliberately allowing the backs of his fingers to leisurely brush the cleavage beneath. She shivered in response to his touch and the look of pure masculine smugness he was wearing; the look some men get when they’re certain they’re about to enjoy a memorable coupling. “And did I mention how very glad I am to see you?”

He pushed her coat back from her shoulders and draped it over a bare limb of the sculptured tree, coat rack that stood by the door. He was staring at her partially bare clavicle as he reached up and took the prim collar of her white, Angora sweater to rub gently between his fingers. “Soft,” he said raising his eyes to lock with hers in unmistakable sexual innuendo.

She felt her breath becoming shallow and her resolve unraveling. Maybe she could stand being locked in a tower if it was with this elf. She gave herself a sound inward shake and forced herself to sound unaffected.

“I can’t stay for tea unless you make tea, Rammel.”

He dropped his hand resuming his wolfish smile, and started removing his own outerwear. When he was done, he was left in boots, black sileather pants, and a soft, teal blue, knit pullover that did dazzling things to the color of his eyes in that light. He poked the fire making room to add a log, turned to make sure she was still there, and went to the kitchen to make tea. He noticed Elora was standing exactly where he left her by the door, now having gone from uncharacteristically chatty to uncharacteristically quiet.

Doing his best to disarm her, he motioned to the couch, “Sit down. Please. Tea standin’ up is no’ nearly as good.”

She looked at the couch like it was a trap. In her mind, deciding where and how to sit became an equation to be solved.

“How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know. Couple of hours?” she said absently, still studying the couch like a puzzle.

Ram pumped water into a tea kettle and brought it to the hearth where he hung it on a large iron hinge which swung to suspend over the open flames.

“How was the trip?”

“It was… liberating, the first time I’ve traveled without people I know. It made me feel… free. Independent. Even though the details were skillfully worked out by Ms. Farnsworth.”

He saw that Elora was still trying to decide where to sit. “Are you cold?”

When she looked up and saw his expectant expression she felt butterflies stirring in her stomach all over again and scolded herself for behaving like a timid schoolgirl. She silently repeated the mantra, "I am a fearless knight of The Order of The Black Swan. Even if I am on probation." She shook her head no and smiled.

Ram returned to the kitchen to assemble a tea service.

Every second he was gone amplified her anxiety. She forced herself to sit and decided to calm herself with conversation.

“So, partner, in all the time we spent together, you never got around to telling me you’re a royal? A prince even? Liam was worried about having ‘spoke out of turn’.”

Ram had his back to her, but the question made his head come up and he momentarily froze in place before returning to the task of assembling tea.

“As far as I’m concerned, I’m Sir Hawking, no’ Prince Hawking. I’ve earned my knighthood a dozen times over. I did nothin’ to become a prince except have the dubious fortune to be born royal. I never wanted people I work with to think of me as different, probably for the same reason you do no’ like it when Storm calls you Princess.”