Spellcrossed (33 page)

By the time I selected a flowered skirt and scoop-necked blouse, my bedroom looked like a tornado had blown through. I left my cast-off clothes where they’d fallen, pulled on my sneakers, and threw a pair of sandals into my tote bag; no way was I ruining another outing by turning my ankle. I flew through the house, packing up additional supplies, and hurried back down the hill.

Rowan was waiting outside the barn.

“You look so pretty and summery.”

I pivoted in a circle, my skirt swirling around my thighs. “And I feel as corny as Kansas in August.”

His smile was oddly wistful. “Still in love with a wonderful guy?”

“Yeah. But you’re nice, too.” I grinned and pointed toward the road. “And…they’re off!”

Like the nineteenth-century gentleman he was, he took my tote bag, but frowned as he inspected its contents. “Do you really think we need bottled water?”

“In case you get warm.”

“Couldn’t you just spray us with this thing?” he asked, pulling out the plant spritzer.

“Sure. But that’s mostly to scare off the dogs.”

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.

“Looks like it might rain,” Rowan noted.

“I put umbrellas in the bag.”

“Ah.”

“We could take the car if you—”

“No.”

As we walked up the lane, I yapped about our dinner options. With both the Bough and the Chalet closed on Monday nights, it came down to the Chatterbox or Duck Inn.

“Duck Inn is basically pub grub. But they have a liquor license.”

“Ah.”

“If you want a strawberry milkshake, though, we should go the Chatterbox.”

“Yes.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

His anxiety prickled through me.

“No biggie,” I assured him. “Decide when we get to town. I’ll eat anywhere. I’m just happy to be going out to dinner with you.”

His power surged, laden with such apprehension that I drew up short.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Sweat popped out on his forehead, as if conjured by my words.

“Rowan? Talk to me.”

Instead, he sank onto the low stone wall.

“This isn’t going to work.”

“What isn’t going to work?”

“I’ve tried, Maggie! You have no idea how hard I’ve tried. But I can’t do this.”

He’s leaving me.

He swore he wouldn’t.

Mom was right.

You misunderstood. He wouldn’t walk out of your life again.

Oh, no? Watch him!

You know this man.

He’s not a man. He’s a faery.

He loves you.

Not enough.

Stop. Think. Don’t blurt out something you’ll regret.

I raised my eyes to heaven, hoping for some celestial guidance. All I found were thunderclouds piling up like dirty cotton balls.

I took a deep breath and asked, “What are you talking about?”

“This! Dinner!”

My breath leaked out in a shaky sigh. I sat beside him, mostly to keep my knees from buckling.

“If you didn’t want to go out…”

“I
can’t
go out!”

I shook my head, completely baffled.

“I can’t go out to dinner. I can’t even step into the road!”

“If you’re talking about the curse…”

“The curse was lifted. But I am still bound.”

Finally, I understood what must have happened on our abortive Fourth of July outing, why he was always inventing excuses to avoid going to town, why he was drenched with sweat.

I laid my hand over his clenched fist. “You know what this is, right? A classic panic attack. You were a prisoner so long that your body is going nuts at the prospect of leaving the property.”

He jerked his hand free and stalked away. “I am well aware of the nature of my…dysfunction. That has not helped to effect a cure.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. This is only the second time—”

“No, Maggie. It’s not the second time or even the twenty-second time. I tried to step into the road the first week I returned. Every night after Jack fell asleep, I walked up this lane. And every morning before dawn, I tried again—and failed again.”

That long, lonely walk, shrouded in darkness but buoyed with the determination that this time, he would break free. And then the longer, lonelier walk back to his apartment, bowed down by yet another failure. Repeating that ritual night after night. Locking away his fear and humiliation in the daytime to present a confident facade to the world.

“He’s actually leaving the grounds?”

Clearly, Janet had suspected the truth—just as Alex had picked up on Rowan’s sexual frustration. They had their Fae power to guide them. I had only my human senses. And they had failed me. Why hadn’t I looked deeper?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He whirled around. “Because I was ashamed!”

The hot flush of his humiliation roiled through me. His angry eyes met mine. Then his gaze slid away and he slumped atop the wall.

Okay, Graham. You’re the helping professional. Start helping.

He’d spent several lifetimes learning to lock away his emotions, consigning his fears and hopes and doubts to the unresponsive pages of his many journals. I had read some of those journals. Shared his bed. Heard his bitter
confessions about the willful misuse of his power. I had felt his grief and anger, longing and despair resonating inside of me. I had even experienced the agony of being bound by iron. And still, I felt pitifully unprepared for this moment and all too aware that the words I chose—or failed to choose—might change our relationship forever.

Touch had always unlocked his emotions. And humor. This sure as hell didn’t feel like a situation that humor could remedy, so I’d have to rely on touch.

I wriggled between his knees and rested my hands on his shoulders. A shudder rippled through his body, but his emotions remained carefully shielded.

“First off, I love you. And these panic attacks don’t make me love you or respect you less. We’ll deal with them. Together. But I can’t help if I don’t know what’s troubling you.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he mumbled.

“Worry me. Please. I don’t have your power. I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. I either miss the clues or feel like I’m putting together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. We have to be able to talk. To be honest. And to trust each other.”

His gaze finally rose to meet mine. “You thought I was leaving you.”

Fucking faery powers.

“Yes. And then I stepped back and decided—”

“Not to kill me?”

His small smile left me wobbly with relief. But I knew my lack of trust had wounded him, even if he was carefully shielding me from his pain.

“I’m sorry I doubted you. I wish I could say it’ll never happen again. But…”

“It will. Whenever we’re put to the test.”

“We’re going to face a lot of tests, Rowan. And if you always know what I’m feeling and I’m always in the dark, it’ll only make them harder. Just let me in. Tell me what you’re thinking. If you blame me for doubting you—”

“No. I’ve had doubts, too. When I’m with you—or when I’m working—I forget about the obstacles. But at night…the Fae only require a few hours of sleep. That leaves a lot of time to think. And the night breeds…dark thoughts.”

“But the sun is shining now.” I scowled at the lowering sky and added, “Well, it’s shining behind the clouds. And we have the whole evening ahead of us. We’ll make dinner. We’ll make love. We’ll chase away the darkness.”

His arms went around me. I cradled his head against my breast.

“Let’s go home,” I whispered.

“No.”

Gently, he freed himself from my embrace. Then he rose and turned toward the road.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I know. I have to prove it to myself.”

He took a single step forward and stopped, the toes of his boots a mere inch from the black macadam—like the night of the
Brigadoon
cast party, when he had hovered just beyond the patio of the house he had vowed never to enter.

But he had reconsidered that vow, made in the first flush of anger and hatred for the Mackenzies who had imprisoned him. If he could enter Janet’s house to comfort Helen after her heart attack, then surely, he could conquer his fear now.

He took a deep breath. Then another. A drop of sweat oozed over his eyebrow. He blinked it away.

A muscle jumped in his cheek as he gritted his teeth. A shudder racked his body. He wiped his palms on his jeans. Clenched and unclenched his hands.

And then his head drooped.

I stepped into the road and thrust out my hands.

“You can do this.”

Rowan backed away.

“Take my hands. We can do this.”

He shook his head and continued retreating.

“Rowan! Please!”

He bared his teeth. Then he threw back his head and bellowed his anger and frustration and defiance to the sky.

His unleashed power blasted through me. I staggered backward, gasping. Saliva filled my mouth, as hot and delicious as the rage scalding my body.

Like a berserker out of some ancient tale, he charged, hair streaming behind him, eyes wild and unseeing, mouth open in a roar of fury that tore an answering scream from my throat. The thunder of his footsteps shuddered through the earth, shuddered through my body.

And suddenly, I was laughing, fury banished by exultation, blood-pounding rage transformed into a light-headed giddiness that made me reel.

Hands grasped my arms, steadying me. Green eyes—still a little wild, still flashing with the echoes of his power—stared into mine.

The soft huff of his breath against my face.

The nasal blast of a horn.

We clutched each other and stared at the vehicle bearing down on us. Then Rowan whisked me into his arms and out of the road and we fell back against the stone wall, laughing and breathless.

The pickup truck eased onto the grassy berm. The driver leaned over to peer out the passenger window. I spied a familiar John Deere cap and beneath it, the frowning face of my board treasurer.

“Hi, Mr. Hamilton!”

“What the hell are you two doing? Playing chicken?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, cut it out. You’re too old for such foolishness.”

Rowan whooped. I seized his shirtfront before he toppled backward off the wall.

“He been drinking?”

“No. We’re just…we had a really good day.”

Mr. Hamilton shook his head at the unfathomable
weirdness of theatre people. “Next time you have a really good day, stay out of the road.”

“Yes, sir.”

His head withdrew into the truck, an anxious tortoise retreating into its shell. I stifled a giggle with one hand and waved good-bye with the other. Then Rowan and I exchanged grins.

“I couldn’t walk into town now to save my life,” I admitted.

“I’m not even sure I can make it to the barn.”

I shoved a hank of wet hair off his forehead. “You did it.”

“
We
did it. I’m sorry I lost control like that.”

“It worked. That’s what matters.”

He raised my hand and pressed his lips to my palm. “Have I mentioned that I love you?”

“Not for ages. An hour, at least.”

“I love you, Maggie Graham.”

“I love you, Rowan Mackenzie.”

We took a cool shower and made love. Fixed dinner and made love again. I knew I should dress and go back to the house before Daddy returned from rehearsal. Instead, I fell asleep in Rowan’s arms—and awoke in them the next morning.

It was the first time that had ever happened. Every other time I had slept in his bed, he woke long before me and only returned to the bedroom when he sensed I was waking. Maybe he had stayed with me to avoid disturbing Daddy.

Before I could ask, there was a soft knock.

So much for a clean getaway.

Rowan slipped out of bed and padded to the door.

“What is it, Jack?”

“Janet left something for Maggie.”

“Leave it outside the door, will you?”

“Okay.”

“Was there anything else?”

“I made coffee. And put out some crumb cake.”

“Thank you.”

“Rehearsal starts in an hour.”

“We’ll be there.”

“I thought…until then…maybe I’d take a walk around the pond.”

“Thank you, Jack. That’s very thoughtful.”

“See you at rehearsal. You, too, Maggie!”

“Okay!” I sang out.

Janet’s mysterious offering turned out to be a shopping bag filled with a change of clothes, my makeup bag, a toothbrush, and a note that read, “Dear Heloise. Congratulations on breaking out of the cloister. Try not to appear too saddle sore at today’s rehearsal. Janet. P.S.—please extend my congratulations to Abelard on
his
escape. It’s about time.”

I merely folded the note without reading it aloud. But Rowan said, “She sensed what I was going through, didn’t she?”

“I think so.” I gently traced the centuries-old scar at his wrist where once he had tried to kill himself to escape the degradation and agony of the iron.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”

He stretched out beside me and I let my fingers drift across his chest, marveling yet again at its smoothness.