woods.
“Chocolate chip.” She managed a smile of her own. “Is there another kind?” She busied her hands by opening the container. “They’re pretty good. I’ve eaten two dozen at least already.”
“Then sit. You can wash them back with tea. You’ll have gotten chilled wandering about. The wind’s brisk today.”
“I suppose.” She sat at the little kitchen table, just big enough for two. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been out,” she began, shoving at her tangled hair as he brought the pot to the table. “I was distracted by—” She broke off as he skimmed his thumb over her cheek.
“You’ve scratched your face.” He said it softly as the tiny drop of blood lay warm and intimate on his thumb.
“Oh, I … got tangled up. Some thorns.” She was lost in his eyes, could have drowned in them. Wanted to. “Liam.”
He touched her face again, took away the sting she was too befuddled to notice. “You were distracted,” he said, shifting back, then sitting across from her. “When you were in the forest.”
“Ah … yes. By the white doe.”
He lifted a brow as he poured out the tea. “A white deer? Were you on a quest, Rowan?”
She smiled self-consciously. “The white deer, or bird, or horse. The traditional symbol of quest in literature. I suppose I was on a mild sort of quest, to find you. But I did see her.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said mildly. His mother enjoyed traditional symbols.
“Have you?”
“Yes.” He lifted his tea. “Though it’s been some time.”
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Aye, that she is. Warm yourself, Rowan. You’ve bird bones and you’ll take a chill.”
“I grew up in San Francisco. I’m used to chills. Anyway, I saw her, and couldn’t stop myself from following her. I ended up in this clearing, with a stone circle.”
His eyes sharpened, glinted. “She led you there?”
“I suppose you could put it that way. You know the place? I never expected to find something like it here. You think of Ireland or Britain, Wales or Cornwall—not Oregon—when you think of stone dances.”
“You find them where they’re wanted. Or needed. Did you go in?”
“No. It’s silly, but it spooked me a little, so I went around. And got completely lost.”
He knew he should have felt relieved, but instead there was a vague sense of disappointment. But of course, he reminded himself, he’d have known if she’d stepped inside. Instantly. “Hardly lost, since you’re here.”
“It seemed like I was lost. The path disappeared and I couldn’t get my sense of direction. I probably have a poor one anyway. The tea’s wonderful,” she commented. It was warm and strong and smooth, with something lovely and sweet just under it.
“An old family blend,” he said with a hint of a smile, then sampled one of her cookies. “They’re good. So you cook, do you, Rowan?”
“I do, but the results are hit-and-miss.” All of her early-morning cheer was back and bubbling in her voice. “This morning, I hit. I like your house. It’s like something out of a book, standing here with its back to the cliffs and sea and the stones glittering in the sunlight.”
“It does for me. For now.”
“And the views …” She rose to go to the window over the sink, and caught her breath at the sight of the cliffs. “Spectacular. It must be spellbinding during a storm like the one we had last night.”
Spellbinding, he thought, knowing his father’s habit of manipulating the weather for his needs, was exactlywhat the storm had been. “And did you sleep well?”
She felt the heat rise up her throat. She could hardly tell him she’d dreamed he’d made love to her. “I don’t remember ever sleeping better.”
He laughed, rose. “It’s flattering”—he watched her shoulders draw in—“to know my company relaxed you.”
“Hmm.” Struggling to shake off the feeling that he knew exactly where her mind had wandered, she started to turn. She
“Chocolate chip.” She managed a smile of her own. “Is there another kind?” She busied her hands by opening the container. “They’re pretty good. I’ve eaten two dozen at least already.”
“Then sit. You can wash them back with tea. You’ll have gotten chilled wandering about. The wind’s brisk today.”
“I suppose.” She sat at the little kitchen table, just big enough for two. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been out,” she began, shoving at her tangled hair as he brought the pot to the table. “I was distracted by—” She broke off as he skimmed his thumb over her cheek.
“You’ve scratched your face.” He said it softly as the tiny drop of blood lay warm and intimate on his thumb.
“Oh, I … got tangled up. Some thorns.” She was lost in his eyes, could have drowned in them. Wanted to. “Liam.”
He touched her face again, took away the sting she was too befuddled to notice. “You were distracted,” he said, shifting back, then sitting across from her. “When you were in the forest.”
“Ah … yes. By the white doe.”
He lifted a brow as he poured out the tea. “A white deer? Were you on a quest, Rowan?”
She smiled self-consciously. “The white deer, or bird, or horse. The traditional symbol of quest in literature. I suppose I was on a mild sort of quest, to find you. But I did see her.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said mildly. His mother enjoyed traditional symbols.
“Have you?”
“Yes.” He lifted his tea. “Though it’s been some time.”
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Aye, that she is. Warm yourself, Rowan. You’ve bird bones and you’ll take a chill.”
“I grew up in San Francisco. I’m used to chills. Anyway, I saw her, and couldn’t stop myself from following her. I ended up in this clearing, with a stone circle.”
His eyes sharpened, glinted. “She led you there?”
“I suppose you could put it that way. You know the place? I never expected to find something like it here. You think of Ireland or Britain, Wales or Cornwall—not Oregon—when you think of stone dances.”
“You find them where they’re wanted. Or needed. Did you go in?”
“No. It’s silly, but it spooked me a little, so I went around. And got completely lost.”
He knew he should have felt relieved, but instead there was a vague sense of disappointment. But of course, he reminded himself, he’d have known if she’d stepped inside. Instantly. “Hardly lost, since you’re here.”
“It seemed like I was lost. The path disappeared and I couldn’t get my sense of direction. I probably have a poor one anyway. The tea’s wonderful,” she commented. It was warm and strong and smooth, with something lovely and sweet just under it.
“An old family blend,” he said with a hint of a smile, then sampled one of her cookies. “They’re good. So you cook, do you, Rowan?”
“I do, but the results are hit-and-miss.” All of her early-morning cheer was back and bubbling in her voice. “This morning, I hit. I like your house. It’s like something out of a book, standing here with its back to the cliffs and sea and the stones glittering in the sunlight.”
“It does for me. For now.”
“And the views …” She rose to go to the window over the sink, and caught her breath at the sight of the cliffs. “Spectacular. It must be spellbinding during a storm like the one we had last night.”
Spellbinding, he thought, knowing his father’s habit of manipulating the weather for his needs, was exactlywhat the storm had been. “And did you sleep well?”
She felt the heat rise up her throat. She could hardly tell him she’d dreamed he’d made love to her. “I don’t remember ever sleeping better.”
He laughed, rose. “It’s flattering”—he watched her shoulders draw in—“to know my company relaxed you.”
“Hmm.” Struggling to shake off the feeling that he knew exactly where her mind had wandered, she started to turn. She
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