Mystical Warrior (34 page)

T
race shut off his truck and stared through the windshield at the lights blazing out of every window of his upstairs apartment, and decided he wasn’t an ass or an idiot or even a gullible chump.

No, he was an outright
coward
.

He dropped his head on the steering wheel with a groan, not wanting to walk into an empty house that didn’t smell of delicious food cooking, or spend an evening in front of his brand-new television guzzling beer until he finally staggered down the hall and crawled into an empty bed.

He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d fallen in love with Fiona, only that he had.

She’d certainly gotten his heart’s attention when she’d crawled into that tunnel to save him, and then when he’d watched her firing the gun he’d given her back into the tunnel. And his heart had to have been soundly engaged when he’d run out on her that day in the safe room. What
else would have sent him running to a bar three towns away to drown his sorrows if he hadn’t been half in love with her then?

But if he had to come up with one defining moment, he’d have to say it had been when she’d told him how she’d walked halfway across Scotland, all alone and heavy with child, that his heart had started pounding with the realization that he was soundly and passionately in love with her.

So, how the hell hard would it have been to say four stupid little words last night, anyway? He’d been repeating them like a litany all day, for chrissakes, as he and Rick had hauled in trap after trap teeming with giant lobsters. He’d tried out
I love you
at first, but thinking that sounded a tad presumptuous—considering she might not feel the same way—he’d eventually settled on
Move in with me,
having decided that had a far less threatening ring to it.

Because he really didn’t want to scare her off; he just really wanted her.

Any way he could get her. If Fiona wanted him to hold her hand and steal kisses when no one was looking, then he’d live like a monk the rest of his life—just as long as he was still holding her hand on his deathbed. And if she wanted babies, then, by God, he’d give her a dozen. But if she discovered she did need a ring on her finger, he’d marry her tomorrow, just as long as he could wake up every morning with his arms wrapped around her inviting body.

How in hell could he have let her go?

Trace straightened and got out of his truck, and quietly stood staring at the empty barn before sliding his gaze to his pitch-black windows.

Christ, he was a coward.

He finally went inside and walked through the house without bothering to turn on any lights, dropping his clothes where he shed them on the way to the bathroom. After flipping on the light, he turned on the shower, then stepped under the spray without even waiting for it to heat up—figuring it had to be warmer than the ice in his veins. He stood stiffly, letting the water beat his tired muscles as he tried to decide what to have for supper other than a six-pack of beer. He felt around for the shampoo and squirted some into his palm, but he stopped with it halfway to his head when he smelled roses.

“Goddamn it,” he growled, washing it off under the spray.

There was no way in hell he was going to spend the night smelling her.

What was rose-scented shampoo doing in his shower, anyway? Had she picked up on his cue last night about girlfriends having to drop a few hints when it was time for a relationship to move to the next level, or had she sneaked in and deliberately left behind a little reminder of what his silence had cost him?

Opening one eye, he grabbed his shampoo with a snort, deciding that he hadn’t needed to save her from Mac’s father after all, since she obviously knew more about fighting dirty than all of them put together. He lathered up, washed his hair and rinsed off, and shut off the water; his blood nearly boiling now because he could
still
smell her.

But if he thought he was fired up with righteous indignation over shampoo, it was nothing compared to the feel of a knife plunging into his heart when he grabbed a towel so soft and fluffy he nearly dropped to his knees. Only half
dried off before he couldn’t stand the softness of the towel any longer, he noticed that his hand was trembling when he went to pick up his comb.

He stopped in mid-reach.

All of his toiletries had been pushed to the right side of the vanity, and on the left side, perfectly organized, was a bunch of … girly stuff—a wooden hairbrush, a tiny basket of barrettes and ribbons, a bottle of perfume, a jar of hand cream, and what appeared to be tubes of lip gloss lined up like little soldiers according to height.

He pulled open the medicine cabinet and found that it had also been reorganized, his stuff shoved to the right and more girly stuff neatly stacked on the left.

He shot out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, snapped on the light, and yanked open the closet door. Again, his stuff was shoved to the right—though mostly just piled on the floor as usual—and on the left were women’s clothes hung on hangers according to length, sweaters folded on the top shelf by color, and four pairs of shoes and a pair of slippers lined up on the floor, toes pointing out.

He spun around to the bed and found it perfectly made, with half a dozen crisp pillows stacked in descending order by size, and on the right nightstand was his alarm clock, a lamp with a ratty old shade, a dog-eared paperback, and other small items haphazardly strewn as usual. On the left nightstand was only a box of tissues and three books neatly stacked—with the smallest on the bottom and the largest on top.

Trace stiffened and slowly turned around.

If he’d thought her beautiful golden eyes had been
scared and vulnerable the day she’d become his tenant, it was nothing compared to the stark fear in them now. He watched her gaze lower and then snap back to his as two tiny flags of pink appeared on her pale cheeks, and he realized he was standing there naked, staring at her.

And still he didn’t move, afraid she might vanish.

“I can have all of my things gone in five minutes … if you want,” she whispered, going completely pale again as she clutched her hands to her stomach.

“No.”

“If I stay, my brothers are probably going to kill you.”

“They’re welcome to try.”

“You have my word of honor, I won’t mess with any of your stuff.” Her gaze darted to the pants he’d shed on the hallway floor, then back to him. “But I could wash your clothes when I wash mine, if you want.”

“I’d like that.”

“And I’ll tell Mr. Getze that I can’t watch his children anymore. Or I could rent a place in town to watch them, if I get enough children to cover the expenses.”

“This is the best place for kids, with a big yard that’s far off the road.”

A good deal of color returned to her cheeks, but he didn’t miss that her hands, still clutching her stomach, had tightened. “I saw on television that there’s a pill that prevents a woman from getting pregnant, and I intend to ask Maddy to help me find a doctor so we won’t need to … worry.”

That knife still piercing his heart twisted painfully. “The pill raises havoc with a woman’s hormones sometimes, so don’t bother asking Maddy anything.”

“Can I buy condoms at the grocery store, then, when I go shopping for food?”

“I’ll take care of the birth control. And I’ll stop swearing,” he offered, figuring he’d better cough up a few concessions of his own before she realized what a bum deal she was getting.

He saw her shoulders slump. “Does that mean I have to stop swearing, too?”

“For chrissakes, no.”

And there it was, just a hint of a smile as she shoved her hands into her pockets.

“I have only two questions,” he said quietly. “One, would you mind very much when you’re organizing your things to straighten mine up, too?” he asked, knowing that if he didn’t let her keep a perfect house, she would eventually explode. Or burn it down in sheer frustration.

“Oh yes, I’d love to do that for you. What else?” she asked eagerly.

“I want you to tell me why.”

That sure as hell dampened her mood. “Why what?”

When he said nothing, her hands shot out of her pockets and started clutching each other again, and she dropped her gaze to his feet. “I found out that being strong and brave and independent is really quite lonely.” Her eyes lifted to his. “And decided I would very much like to wake up every morning wrapped in the arms of a handsome, sexy man that I never dreamed I would fall in love with.”

The knife in his chest withdrew so suddenly that his heart started pounding even more painfully, and he had her in his arms before she could finish gasping, putting everything he couldn’t say into his kiss. Hell, who needed four
stupid words, anyway, or even three, when two were all that really mattered? He reared up before he lost the nerve to say them.

“Marry me.”

She went utterly, perfectly still, her golden eyes staring up at him for an eternity of heartbeats, and Trace realized that finding his courage had brought him right back to being an ass.

Fix it, you idiot. Say something!

No, kiss her again.

Oh, for chrissakes, just tell her you love her!

He opened his mouth, but not quickly enough.

“I’d rather not,” she whispered, her eyes still locked on his. “Because I was really looking forward to being your girlfriend,” she continued in a rush, her eyes taking on a sparkle. “So I can thumb my nose at all the jealous old fuddy-duddies. And I would also like to drive my brothers insane.” She pressed a hand to his jaw. “Can we just take this one step at a time, Trace? Just so we can be sure I don’t drive
you
insane?”

“I’ve been crazy since I met you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said—though she was smiling as she said it. She twined her arms around his neck. “There’s an open condom under your pillow,” she whispered, her cheeks turning a lovely pink again.

“No, I want to give you a baby.”

She patted his shoulder, her beautiful eyes filling with amusement again. “One step at a time, okay? It’s not like we can stuff the kid back inside if we change our minds.” Her sparkle turned mischievous. “And I was quite looking forward to seeing how a condom works.”

Was she serious?

Deciding that she wasn’t going to vanish on him—at least, not until after she saw a condom in action—Trace tilted her head back and kissed her again. And just to prove that he could also multitask, he slipped the elastic off the end of her braid while continuing to feast on her mouth. He drew in the scent of roses mixed with his own soap, and discovered that the combination turned him on almost as much as the idea of her messing with
all
his stuff did.

Apparently not having anything to do since he was already undressed, she started driving him crazy by running her delicate fingers through his damp hair. He was never going to threaten to cut hers again, he decided, remembering how it had cascaded over her shoulders and tickled his chest that day down in the safe room. But when she tried lowering her arms, presumably to go after more interesting parts of his anatomy, he also remembered how she’d taken control of their lovemaking.

Which meant that he’d better get a handle on that particular problem before this turned into a repeat performance.

“Huntsman, your door is locked!” Mac shouted just before he knocked hard enough to rattle the window. “Did Fiona come down here?”

Trace cupped her head to him when she tried to pull away. “He’ll leave.”

“Fiona! Huntsman! Come on, hurry up. Henry’s upstairs all alone.”

She relaxed into him. “He probably just has a question about heating up dinner.”

“Dammit, Huntsman, come open the door!”

Trace set her away but held on to her shoulders. “You don’t
move from this spot, you understand? Not one inch. Promise me.”

She smiled, nodding.

He started to let her go but stopped. “Don’t even finish unbraiding your hair, okay? Promise,” he growled, squeezing her shoulders when she frowned.

“Okay,” she said, giving him a quizzical look.

“For the love of Zeus, open this friggin’ door!”

He headed for the hall.

“Trace, your pants,” she said, gesturing at him.

“Screw it,” he muttered, figuring that answering the door in his birthday suit would send the bastard scurrying back upstairs quickly enough.

Trace yanked it open in mid-knock. “What?”

Mac took a step back, then finally regained his composure enough to glare at him. “Could you not have the decency to grab a towel? I didn’t mean to get you out of the shower, but I thought Fiona was down here.” He looked around the dooryard, then back at Trace, and frowned. “I didn’t hear Kenzie drive in to pick her up. She was just upstairs a few minutes ago but left shortly after you got home, and I thought …” He shrugged, turning away. “I’ll call her cell phone, then.”

“Don’t bother. She won’t be answering it the rest of the evening or all night.”

It took the idiot several seconds to catch on, and both of his brows shot into his hairline as he glanced down the porch. “All of her belongings were in boxes out here when I got home this afternoon. May I ask where they are now?”

“Unpacked in my bedroom and bathroom.”

Another several seconds went by before the wizard slowly smiled, then suddenly reached out and patted Trace’s
upper arm. “You do know that if Kenzie doesn’t kill you, de Gairn will make you wish you’d never been born.”

“They’ll have to go through their sister to get to me.”

“Then I guess congrat—” There was a sudden crash on the kitchen ceiling, and Mac’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Sweet Neptune, I forgot about Henry!” he cried, bolting down the porch and disappearing around the front of the house.

Trace softly closed the door and locked it—like the smart woman waiting in his bedroom had done earlier—and silently walked down the hall, wondering if he’d find her right where he’d left her. He stopped just short of the door and peeked around the corner, and saw her standing in the exact same spot, staring at the bed, her hair still half braided and her hands balled into fists at her sides.