Fairytale (29 page)

Adam’s eyes narrowed. He moved farther to the
left to get a better view, and when he finally did, he stood there
gaping like a fish. God Almighty, it was perfect! It was freaking
perfect!
She’d captured everything from the original. He
couldn’t spot a single flaw, except for the parts that remained
unfinished. And those, he saw with regret, were surprisingly
few.

She was a fast worker.

His gaze jumped from the painting to her face
again, and he frowned and tilted his head. She stood utterly
motionless, seemingly mesmerized by staring up at the original. The
one hanging over the mantel. For a very long time, she stood that
way, her eyes fixed and unblinking. But odd-looking. Unfocused
maybe, as if she were not just looking at the painting, but into
it. Or...or something. It seemed to Adam as he watched her that her
breathing got slower, and deeper. He could see her lungs expand and
contract in a long, drawn-out rhythm. She looked— he sought for an
apt description—like a sleepwalker. Yes, that was it, exactly. A
sleepwalker. Eyes opened, but not seeing. They seemed glazed-over,
cloudy.

And when she finally did begin to move, it
was with the slow, almost awkward motions of a somnambulist. Her
hands rose in slow motion and worked the tubes of paint and
balanced the palette. She never looked at them. And while the
movements seemed clumsy, she didn’t drop anything. It was all done
with an unconscious ease. And then she lifted the brush. And the
whole time, her eyes never left the painting on the wall.

Adam blinked, gave his head a shake, narrowed
his eyes. Her actions didn’t change, though. She painted without
looking. And for a long time, he couldn’t see what the results
might be, because he was unable to take his eyes off her face and
her hands as she worked. As he watched, she wielded the brushes
faster, and with more confidence. Never blinking, never even
peeking at the work in progress.

It was eerie. Watching the scene sent chills
right down his spine, but he couldn’t look away. Seemed he became
as immersed in staring at her as she’d become in staring at “Rush.”
The spell was only broken when her movements slowed, became more
lethargic. And her eyelids drooped, as if the entire exercise had
exhausted her. Her shoulders slumped a little. It was obvious she
was trying now. Putting forth an effort to keep going. Working at
getting it right. The frown lines between her brows appeared, where
before she’d seemed utterly relaxed. And then she gave her head a
little shake, and set the brush down.

She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips, then
finally, she surveyed what she’d done. And so did Adam. He looked
from her canvas to the one on the wall several times, and he gaped
in astonishment, not only at the sheer perfection of the work, but
at the amount she’d accomplished in a single session.

As he looked on, she conducted a similar
survey, looking anxiously from one painting to the other. From the
original to the forgery. And she nodded in apparent approval. But
her face held no joy, no excitement. It seemed sadness was all she
felt.

And finally, she began the process of
recapping the paint tubes. She gathered up the brushes and took
them away, moving off in the direction of the kitchen. Probably to
clean them.

Only then was Adam able to focus on anything
besides Brigit and what had been happening inside that room. It
occurred to him, as it no doubt should have much sooner, that he
was too warm with his light jacket on. The sun burned over his
back, heating him right through it, and when he wiped the back of a
hand across his brow, it came away damp. Frowning, he glanced down
at his wristwatch. Three hours! Three hours he’d stood here, all
but motionless, lost in watching her. Three hours she’d remained
bent over that canvas, with her eyes focused elsewhere.

It was one more thing about Brigit Malone
that defied explanation. How the hell did she do what he’d just
seen her do? He wondered how
she
explained it to herself.
Maybe she thought she was channeling the work or something. He just
didn’t see how she could do the things she did, and not realize it
was...it was magic.

And beyond all of that was the fact he had to
face. Not possible to doubt it anymore. He’d been right about
Brigit’s intentions. She’d lied to him all along, with the
intention of stealing a painting she knew meant more to him than
anything else he owned. She was going to do it despite what they’d
shared, or what
he’d thought
they’d shared. Despite what
she’d come to mean to him.

God, if she knew him at all, she’d know he
wouldn’t care about that. About her inability to be honest with
him, yes. That hurt. But “she could take the damned painting. Hell,
if the idea were to switch the forgery for the original, he’d
rather have the forgery. Because it was hers. Something she’d done.
Why couldn’t she see that?

Maybe because he was the only one who felt
that way. Maybe because this caring was all on his side. Maybe
because he didn’t mean a damn thing to her.

Brigit came back into the room, drying her
hands on a rag. She carefully lifted the canvas from the tripod,
and he almost winced. Moving it while it was still wet was
risky...and after all that work? He supposed, though, she saw that
as necessary. She had to keep what she was doing a secret, after
all. It wouldn’t do to have Adam waltz in one afternoon to see it
sitting there, big as life.

He had to crouch down low to see her head up
the stairs, and then crank his neck uncomfortably to watch her
enter her bedroom. So she kept this masterpiece hidden somewhere in
her room, then. Okay. Fine. He’d know that much at least.
Meanwhile, he decided it would be a damned good idea to mark the
original with that pen Mac had given him. Not because he wanted to
prove her guilty. Not even in hopes of recovering the work. But
just in case she disappeared from his life before he got his
answers, he’d need to know, for his own peace of mind, whether
she’d gone through with this or not. And because if all he had left
of her ended up being the painting she’d created through her own,
incredible magic, then he at least wanted to know he held her copy,
and not the original. From the looks of things, if Brigit went
ahead with her plans, the original wouldn’t be hanging there much
longer.

Finished. The painting was finished. And so
was Brigit. Done for. She wanted to save Raze. She needed to find
her sister. And she was in love, deeply, madly in love with Adam
Reid. No matter the risk, she couldn’t betray him. She
couldn’t.

Zaslow had given her three days. And that was
good, because that would give the paint plenty of time to dry. She
had no choice, the way she saw it. There was nothing else she could
do.

She’d have to leave Adam, because it wasn’t
fair to stay. But she’d tell him the truth first. Everything.
Everything. She pulled a sheet of paper from her bedside stand, and
began her letter to him.

Adam waited until he was certain she was
asleep. Then he crept out of bed and downstairs into the study. He
carefully removed his painting from its spot above the mantle, and
set it on the floor. Then he wrote a single word on the back, in
the lower right-hand corner.
Rush.
He watched as the letters
faded before his eyes, until only a trace remained.

Then nothing.

Why, he wondered, was he still doubting
Brigit’s true intent here? Why was there this one, stubborn, stupid
part of him that was hoping against hope she would change her mind?
Why did he have even a kernel of doubt she’d go through with her
plan to betray him?

But he knew why he held on to that tiny shred
of hope. He knew perfectly well why, didn’t he? He was in love with
the goddamned woman. He loved her with every part of him, and if
she’d just reconsider, if she’d just turn to him instead of away
from him, trust him enough to be honest and let him help her...

...Who was he kidding? It wouldn’t matter.
Because in order to help her, he had to try to help her find her
sister, and then he had to let her go. In the end, he’d lose her,
either way.

There was nothing left for him, was there? He
didn’t honestly think his heart would survive a single day once she
finally left him forever.

The telephone rang, and he picked it up
before it could do so again, with a weary, “Yeah?”

“I’ve found the sister,” Mac said without
preamble. “And, buddy, you’re not gonna believe it.”

The situation was dire.

Darque paused in his rooms—the ones he used
on those seldom occasions when he could be here to watch over his
captive in person—to stare through the two-way mirror at
Bridin.

She’d grown into a stunning young woman. She
sat up straight, her posture regal and proud, in the chair beside
the bed. Eyes closed, that deep, rich voice of hers as serene as
ever as she sang one of the old songs. Such a solemn woman. So
resigned to this existence.

Or so she’d convinced him. He’d only recently
become aware of what she’d done. While he’d been away seeing to
matters in Rush, trying to quell yet another of those constant
uprisings, she’d created a painting, and sent it home with her
nurse, Kate, who, in turn, had sold it to an art gallery in Ithaca.
No coincidence, that. Darque had dealt with her kind too often in
the past not to know this had some hidden meaning. And there was
only one he could think of. That the painting was meant as a
message of some sort, a message from Bridin to her missing twin. A
message which would bring that other one to him. And if he wasn’t
careful, the two of them might escape. Together—only together— they
might well make their way back to Rush, and stir a full-scale
revolt. His hold on the throne could be in serious jeopardy.

Naturally, he’d tried to nip Bridin’s attempt
in the bud, by going to this gallery himself. But he’d been unable
to so much as touch the painting. She’d placed an enchantment on
it.

As furious as he was with her, he couldn’t
help but admire her cunning. Despite the frequent tranquilizers,
and the constant confinement, she’d managed to hold on to her
magic. Gods, it must be stronger than he’d guessed.

And the painting...the painting was utterly
mesmerizing. He’d stood in that gallery—as close as he could get to
the thing—and stared at it, lost in its beauty for hours.

And then he’d decided to try another
approach. He’d hired a reputable art thief to steal it. Once the
thief did so, Darque would order him to destroy it. . . right
there, where Darque could watch, and be assured it was done.
Bridin’s sister must never see that painting.

Never.

It was only with this most recent trouble
that Darque had installed the mirror, so he could watch Bridin at
all times. He’d be aware if she tried creating any more magical
messages.

It was dangerous for him to be here, now. The
kingdom was quiet for the moment, but he knew too well it was only
a pause in the chaos that usually reigned. He ought to be
there.

And he would be, soon. Just as soon as he saw
this painting destroyed, and assured himself the sister remained
blissfully unaware of her twin and her heritage, he’d leave.

And this time, he planned to take Bridin with
him. With her life in the balance, her people would comply,
willingly and completely, at long last. When Bridin, their queen,
knelt at his feet, the rest would follow.

All he need do would be to convince her to
remove that necklace, and he’d be able to take her. Subjugate her.
Make her his servant.

And he was close...he was so close to
convincing her to remove the pendant. Each night, he went to her
while she slept, and used all the strength he had to speak to her
mind, to mesmerize it with the power of his own, to bend her to his
will. It was exhausting him. Draining him. And it was dangerous. So
dangerous, because when he entered her mind that way, he had to
open his own to her subtle influence as well.

It was a struggle of wills. But she was
beginning to weaken. He was winning. When she learned that the
painting had been destroyed, that her sister had never received the
message meant for her, her devastation should be the final blow.
Her will would be broken, and she would be his to command.

And command her, he would.

As he watched, already savoring his victory,
Bridin rose with the grace of...of a fay queen. And stood there,
with the windows at her back. The setting sun behind her cast fiery
red light through the thin nightgown she wore, so that there was
nothing of her body Darque couldn’t see.

His throat went dry. He averted his face
quickly, knowing the one weapon of the fairy female, that no man,
mortal or otherwise, could hope to fight.

But his eyes were drawn back to hers.

“I know you’re watching me, Dark Prince,” she
said slowly, and somehow, though he knew she couldn’t see him, her
eyes met and melded with his. “I know what you’re thinking right
now.”

Gods, that voice! Deep and smooth and soft.
Like velvet stroking him. He put his palms to his ears, closed his
eyes. But still he heard her.

“You think you’ll own me. That I’ll be your
slave, as well as your prisoner soon.”

“Shut up,” he yelled, turning away from the
glass.

“But you’re wrong, Dark Prince. It is I who
will own you. Body and soul. Unless you release me, my handsome,
ruthless, evil captor...
you’re doomed.”

Darque grated his teeth as he stormed out of
the room, down the stairs and out of the house. Damn her! Damn her,
she’d pay. She would pay for that impertinence, and pay dearly.

There was something on Adam’s mind. Something
important.

Adam had changed since she’d moved into his
life. He’d lost weight. His face seemed drawn and taut, and he
rarely smiled. His eyes had lost their sparkle and their life. And
they sported circles beneath them. The spring had gone from his
step, and Brigit would have been blind if she’d believed it wasn’t
because of her.