Fire of My Heart (17 page)
Authors: Erin Grace
Her stomach
twisted. “No. Rowan, no! Why? This is just a dream, a vision, you’ll see.
I’ll-I’ll wake up any moment and…” Sobs reached up from her throat. She wanted
to scream, but the words refused to come.
“Ellen.” He
placed his hand on hers and squeezed it gently. “You can’t come with me. I have
to go back. I have to make things right.”
“Make
things...” Through the haze, everything was as it had been just before Rowan
had killed Donegal. Oh God. No. He couldn’t leave her!
Lifting her
hand from his arm, he brought it to his lips, kissed it then let it go.
“Rowan--”
“You’ll be
all right. I know you will. I promise. I love you,
tine mo chroi
…forever.”
Lead seemed
to weight her muscles so she couldn’t move, and her stomach fell away. Her heart
turned into ash. As he stepped into the wall of heat, his body rippled with it
then he joined the image beyond.
“No,
Rowan!” She lunged, tried to grab him.
A tremendous
jolt flung her backward. Light flooded the space and blinded her.
“Hello. Ellen?” With a
start, she opened her eyes, and gasping, tried to breathe through lungs that
seemed hard and heavy.
“No!” she
screamed, and looked up. A pair of vibrant emerald eyes stared into hers
belonging to a male figure who leaned over her. “Don’t leave me.”
She clasped
the figure’s neck and pressed her lips fiercely to his. The return kiss was
hesitant, oddly unfamiliar.
Wait.
Something was wrong.
“Who are
you?” She pulled back. An enormous ache pounded her head. “God. They’re back,
the robbers. Rowan. Where’s Rowan?”
“Miss?
Ellen? Are you all right?”
No, she
wasn’t. Where the hell was Rowan? And what was she doing in front of the back door.
The burglars were back, and her head…God, it was killing her.
The room
began to spin. She was going to be sick.
“Rowan.” She
got to her knees, struggled to get to her feet. Her suitcase was back
downstairs for some reason and the computer bag strap had tangled around her
ankle. “What in the hell? Rowan!”
“Take it
easy. There’s no one else here.” The man put a firm hand under her elbow.
“Get away
from me.” As she pushed the man away, pain shot through her, so fierce it left her
dazed. Searching with her fingers, she felt a graze on the side of her head.
She couldn’t see straight, but all she could think was, she needed to find
someone.
Dragging
herself down the hallway, she headed for library. Things looked different, everything
covered with dust cloths.
“Hello?”
she cried out.
Following
her into the grand hall, the man tried to grab her arm. What did he want?
“I think
you’ve hit your head, Ellen. Please let me help you.”
She shoved
his arm away and struck out with her palm, colliding with his chin. “Get away from
me!” Pain vibrated through her hand and up her arm. “Hell.” She clasped her
sore hand, turned and stumbled into the library.
The
conservatory looked like new. Shiny, clear glass glinted in the last rays of
evening light. Plants and flowers were growing wild and in abundance. White
dust cloths lay draped over everything. And, the furniture had changed. The
scratchy old leather settee was replaced by a long burgundy leather
chesterfield. The worn desk now gleamed with polish and had been set with a rich
green blotter.
That wasn’t
how it should be, was it?
“What the
hell is going on here?” She stumbled over to the fire and reached for the
mantle. “Rowan, where are you? Please answer me, please.” She ran a hand
through her hair, wiped the tears blurring her vision. “This is all just a
dream. I’ll wake up and you will be here.”
Her throat
tightened and head pounded. She dropped to her knees, loud sobs escaping from her
chest.
“Ellen,
please, let me help you.”
Exhausted,
too numb to resist, she let the man usher her to the lounge, where she
collapsed. She lay there staring into the empty fireplace, dozing in and out of
consciousness. Or was she? Too hard to tell anymore. And, she didn’t care.
“Don’t
leave me,” she whimpered as a cool compress was lowered to her forehead. The gentle
scent of rosemary and lavender wafted around her.
“I won’t,”
said the man in a steady, masculine voice. “Never.”
She opened
her eyes, put her hand to the compress and sat up slowly. Then, for the first
time, she looked upon the man from hallway. He was tall with shoulder length
dusky brown hair, and wore blue jeans and a gray woolen jumper. She didn’t know
him.
“Who are
you?” Her voice was hoarse and shaky from crying. Her mind was so fuzzy, which
made it damn hard to concentrate. “What are you doing in here?”
The
headache now hammered. She reached around and rubbed her sore neck with the washcloth.
The
stranger sat down beside her and held out a small glass. His eyes were deep
green with flecks of gold. There was something familiar about them.
With a
trembling hand, she took the glass. “I must warn you, whoever you are. If you
try anything, I can defend myself.”
Touching
his swollen lip, the man smiled ruefully. “Ahem. Yes. Well, I will not argue
with you there.”
“What is
this?” She waved the glass under her nose.
“Just some
Irish whiskey. But sip it slowly. It’s twenty-five years old.”
“I’ve had
older.” She had? When?
A tiny
mouthful had her wincing. It burned its way down her sore throat. Oh, cripes.
Though she attempted to
focus on his face, every thought became hazy. “You haven’t answered my
question. Who are you?”
“Sorry. I’m
Cameron. Cameron O’Connell. I feel terrible about what happened. You must have
tripped over your luggage coming in. The catch on the door is a bit rusty.
Michael was held up in London a few more days, but will be down in time for the
village fair. He called me and asked if I could meet you here instead, but
there was a small emergency back at the house, so I left you his key under the
doormat. I’m very sorry. He’ll probably phone you later himself to make sure
you got in all right.”
“What
phone? He never bothered…Cameron O’Connell?” The name had a familiar ring, and
she tried to think, but her head hurt too much. She must have a concussion.
“There are no O’Connells in these parts though, I was told, I think.”
“Well.”
Head tilted, he smiled at her, a warm, friendly expression. “That would be
strange, considering my family has lived next door for over four hundred
years.”
“They’ve
what?” She dropped the glass. “Shit. Now I’ve broken a glass as well.”
Damn. She must have one hell
of a case of jet lag.
“It’s okay,
Ellen. Don’t worry about it.”
Wiping the
liquor from her pants, she reached down as Cameron did. Their hands brushed as
they both tried to pick up the broken glass. The soft sensation of his touch
startled her and she looked into his eyes, mesmerized for but a moment.
A deep
breath in, and a sudden calm came over her, like everything was going to be all
right.
What on
earth? She’d forgotten what she was going to say, lost her train of thought.
Those eyes again. They were
so much like…someone she knew. And his smile.
Wishful thinking perhaps.
She looked
at her watch. Six thirty. Lord, she must have lain there in the hallway for
over an hour, and must look a mess.
“I need to
wash my face.” Standing up from the couch, her body wavered. She needed to wash
her brain, more like it. That jet lag had obviously played havoc with her head.
Maybe she needed some sleep.
And food. God she was hungry. There were peanuts in her
bag, she’d thought. Wait.
Wasn’t there supposed to be a hamper coming?
“Of course,
Ellen. The bathroom is to the left, just off the main hall.”
She
stopped, turned and glared at him. “What bathroom?”
“Bathroom.
You know, toilet, shower, that sort of thing.”
“Since
when?” Okay, why did she ask that?
Cameron
scratched his head and stood up. Gosh, he was tall and…that smile. Pure sunlight.
Warmth rush raced from her toes to her ears, leaving her skin tingling all
over. God, she better not be blushing.
“Well, from
what I recall, we had our manor done just after the First World War. Pretty
sure the Donegals did as well.”
She nodded,
turned toward the library door and headed into the bathroom. “Right. Sure. Why not?
I’ll be right back.” Dear lord, she was babbling like an idiot.
While
washing some cold water over her face, she leaned on the side of the basin,
trying to put together what happened. The more she tried to remember the harder
it became. She recalled getting off the plane, then the taxi. Walking up the
long driveway then kicking her bloody toe on the old rock garden. Something
about a key…
Shit, she
must have tripped as Cameron said. She reached up and rubbed the bruise
swelling on her grazed skin. God, her head ached.
She looked
up at the mirror, and her jaw dropped.
Cameron.
Mr. O’Connell. She’d hit the poor man. Cripes. What had she been thinking? Drying
her face with a soft green towel, she looked in the mirror again and groaned.
No makeup, and her hair was a mess. Boy. She really knew how to make an
impression. “Okay, what now, Ellen?”
Cameron.
She’d never met him before, but there was something about him, something familiar.
And, whatever it was, it made her smile. She liked that. Lately she hadn’t had
much luck with men. But there had to be someone out there for her.
Returning
to the library, she paused in the doorway. Kneeling by the hearth, reading what
looked like an old letter was Cameron O’Connell. He looked up at her and smiled
warmly, then screwed the yellowed paper up and tossed it into the budding fire.
The flames leapt, taking it.
The room
looked so comfortable, welcoming even. Perhaps on her way to Banth, she’d imagined
what it would be like so much, it all felt familiar now.
She blushed
as he stood, motioned for her to join him on the lounge for another drink.
Smiling to herself, she prayed he wouldn’t leave too soon.
“That
document. Nothing you needed I hope.” She glanced at the fireplace as she sat
down.
He shook
his head, dusted his jeans and lowered himself opposite her.
“No,
mo
chroi
.” Smiling, he leaned forward and brushed a lock of hair from her
eyes. “Not anymore.”
Erin
Grace’s love of collecting and reproducing antique lace led to a deep
connection with the past. She felt every snippet of the precious fabric held a
unique story – one Erin longed to tell.
But, as no two pieces of
lace are the same, neither are Erin’s stories. Escaping from her ‘real world’
of sales and marketing, she immerses herself in unfolding tales of dire
circumstance, brave heroines, unscrupulous villains and, of course, passionate
hot-blooded men.
When not writing, Erin
indulges in her love of home-style food by teaching her children to cook. Erin
lives with her husband and three sons in the beautiful Blue Mountains of
Australia.
