Captivated

  Though her chin came up, he wavered. She looked so damn fragile just then. Like glass that would shatter at his touch. “I let my emotions rule my judgment. If I was wrong, as it’s obvious now I was, I apologize.”

  “Oh, fine. Sorry I took you for a ride, Nash.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “What about the rest?”

  She lifted a shaky hand to her hair. “The rest of what?”

  “Are you going to stand there and tell me you didn’t cause all of this, manipulate my feelings? Make me think I was in love with you, that I wanted to start a life with you? God, have children with you?” Because he still wanted it, still, his anger grew. “I know damn well it wasn’t my idea. No way in hell.”

  The hurt sliced deep. But, as it cut, it freed something. His anger, his sense of betrayal and confusion, was nothing compared to what bubbled inside her. She reined it in with a light hand as she studied him.

  “Are you saying that I bound you to me with magic? That I used my gifts for my own gain, charmed you into loving me?”

  “That’s just what I’m saying.”

  Morgana released the reins. Color flooded back into her face, had her eyes gleaming like suns. Power, and the strength it brought, filled her. “You brainless ass.”

  Indignant, he started to snap back. His words came out like the bray of a donkey. Eyes wide, he tried again while she swooped around the room.

  “So you think you’re under a spell,” she muttered, her fury making books fly through the room like literary missiles. Nash ducked and scrambled, but he didn’t manage to avoid all of them. As one rapped the bridge of his nose, he swore. He felt a moment’s dizzy relief when he realized he had his own voice back.

  “Look, babe—”

  “No, you look. Babe.” On a roll now, she had a gust of wind tossing his furniture into a heap. “Do you think I’d waste my gifts captivating someone like you? You conceited, arrogant jerk. Give me one reason I shouldn’t turn you into the snake you are.”

  Eyes narrowed, he started toward her. “I’m not going to play along with this.”

  “Then watch.” With a flick of her hand she had him shooting back across the room, two feet above the floor, to land hard in a chair. He thought about getting up, but decided it was wiser to get his breath back first.

  To satisfy herself, she sent the dishes soaring in the kitchen. Nash listened to the crashing with a resigned sigh.

  “You should know better than to anger a witch,” she told him. The logs in his fireplace began to spit and crackle with flame. “Don’t you know what someone like me, someone without integrity, without scruples, might do?”

  “All right, Morgana.” He started to rise. She slapped him back in the chair so hard his teeth rattled.

  “Don’t come near me, not now, not ever again.” Her breath was heaving, though she was struggling to even it. “I swear, if you do, I’ll turn you into something that runs on four legs and howls at the moon.”

  He let out an uneasy breath. He didn’t think she’d do it. Not really. And it was better to take a stand than to whimper. His living room was a shambles. Hell, his life was a shambles. They were going to have to deal with it.

  “Cut it out, Morgana.” His voice was admirably calm and firm. “This isn’t proving anything.”

  The fury drained out of her, leaving her empty and aching and miserable. “You’re quite right. It isn’t. My temper, like my feelings, sometimes clouds my judgment. No.” She waved a hand before he could rise. “Stay where you are. I can’t trust myself yet.”

  As she turned away, the fire guttered out. The wind died. Quietly Nash breathed a sigh of relief. The storm, it appeared, was over.

  He was very wrong.

  “So you don’t want to be in love with me.”

  Something in her voice had his brows drawing together. He wanted her to turn around so that he could see her face, but she stood with her back to him, looking out the window.

  “I don’t want to be in love with anyone,” he said carefully, willing himself to believe it. “Nothing personal.”

  “Nothing personal,” she repeated.

  “Look, Morgana, I’m a bad bet. I like my life the way it was.”

  “The way it was before you met me.”

  When she said it like that, he felt like something slimy that slithered through the grass. He checked his hands to make certain he wasn’t. “It’s not you, it’s me. And I . . . Damn it, I’m not going to sit here and apologize because I don’t like being spellbound.” He got to his feet gingerly. “You’re a beautiful woman, and—”

  “Oh, please. Don’t strain yourself with a clever brush-off.” The words choked out of her as she turned.

  Nash felt as though she’d stuck a lance in his heart. She was crying. Tears were streaming out of her brimming eyes and flowing down her pale cheeks. There was nothing, nothing, he wanted more at that moment than to take her in his arms and kiss them away.

  “Morgana, don’t. I never meant to—” His words were cut off as he rapped into a wall. He couldn’t see it, but she’d thrown it up between them, and it was as solid as bricks and mortar. “Stop it.” His voice rose on a combination of panic and self-disgust as he rammed a hand against the shield that separated them. “This isn’t the answer.”

  Her heart was bleeding. She could feel it. “It’ll do until I find the right one.” She wanted to hate him, desperately wanted to hate him for making her humiliate herself. As the tears continued to fall, she laid both hands on her stomach. She had more than herself to protect.

  He spread his own impotent hands against the wall. Odd, he thought, he felt as though it was he who had been closed off, not her. “I can’t stand to see you cry.”

  “You’ll have to for a moment. Don’t worry, a witch’s tears are like any woman’s. Weak and useless.” She steadied herself, blinking them away until she could see clearly. “You want your freedom, Nash?”

  If he could have, he’d have clawed and kicked his way through to her. “Damn it, can’t you see I don’t know what I want?”

  “Whatever it is, it isn’t me. Or what we’ve made together. I promised I wouldn’t take more than you wanted to give me. And I never go back on my word.”

  He felt a new kind of fear, a rippling panic at the thought that what he did want was about to slip through his fingers. “Let me touch you.”

  “If you thought of me as a woman first, I would.” For herself, she laid a hand on the wall opposite his. “Do you think, because of what I am, that I don’t need to be loved as any man loves any woman?”

  He shoved and strained against the wall. “Take this damn thing down.”

  It was all she had—a poor defense. “We crossed purposes somewhere along the line, Nash. No one’s fault, I suppose, that I came to love you so much.”

  “Morgana, please.”

  She shook her head, studying him, drawing his image inside her head, her heart, where she could keep it. “Maybe, because I did, I somehow drew you in. I’ve never been in love before, so I can’t be sure. But I swear to you, it wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t done to harm.”

  Furious that the tears were threatening again, she backed away. For a moment she stood—straight, proud, powerful.

  “I’ll give you this, and you can trust what I say. Whatever hold I have on you is broken, as of this instant. Whatever feelings I’ve caused in you through my art, I cast away. You’re free of me, and of all we made.”

  She closed her eyes, lifted her hands. “Love conjured is love false. I will not take, nor will I make. Such cast away is nothing lost. Your heart and mind be free of me. As I will, so mote it be.”

  Her eyes opened, glittered with fresh tears. “You are more than you think,” she said quietly. “Less than you could be.”

  His heart was thudding in his throat. “Morgana, don’t go like this.”

  She smiled. “Oh, I think I’m entitled to at least a dramatic exit, don’t you?” Though she was several feet away, he would have sworn he
felt her lips touch him. “Blessed be, Nash,” she said. And then she was gone.

  Chapter 12

  He had no doubt he was going out of his mind. Day after day he prowled the house and the grounds. Night after night he tossed restlessly in bed.

  She’d said he was free of her, hadn’t she? Then why wasn’t he?

  Why hadn’t he stopped thinking about her, wishing for her? Why could he still see the way she had looked at him that last time, with hurt in her eyes and tears on her cheeks?

  He tried to tell himself she’d left him charmed. But he knew it was a lie.

  After a week, he gave up and drove by her house. It was empty. He went to the shop and was told by a very cool and unfriendly Mindy that Morgana was away. But she wouldn’t tell him where, or when she would be back.

  He should have felt relief. That was what he told himself. Doggedly he pushed thoughts of her aside and picked up the life he’d led before her.

  But when he walked the beach, he imagined what it would be like to stroll there with her, a toddler scampering between them.

  That image sent him driving down to L.A. for a few days.

  He wanted to think he felt better there, with the rush and the crowds and the noise. He took a lunch with his agent at the Polo Lounge and discussed the casting for his screenplay. He went alone to clubs and fed himself on music and laughter. And he wondered if he’d made a mistake in moving north. Maybe he belonged in the heart of the city, surrounded by strangers and distractions.

  But after three days his heart yearned for home, for the rustle of wind and the whoosh of water. And for her.

  He went back to the shop, interrogating Mindy ruthlessly enough to have customers backing off and murmuring. She wouldn’t budge.

  At his wits’ end, he took to parking in her driveway and brooding at her house. It had been nearly a month, and he comforted himself with the thought that she had to come back sometime. Her home was here, her business.

  Damn it, he was here, waiting for her.

  As the sun set, he braced his elbows on the steering wheel and rested his head in his hands. That was just what he was doing, he admitted. Waiting for her. And he wasn’t waiting to have a rational conversation, as he’d tried to convince himself he was over the past weeks.

  He was waiting to beg, to promise, to fight, to do whatever it took to put things right again. To put Morgana back in his life again.

  He closed his hand over the stones he still wore around his neck and wondered if he could will her back. It was worth a shot. A better idea than putting an ad in the personals, he thought grimly. Shutting his eyes, he focused all his concentration on her.

  “Damn it, I know you can hear me if you want to. You’re not going to shut me out this way. You’re not. Just because I was an idiot is no reason to . . .”

  He felt a presence, actually felt it. He opened his eyes cautiously, turned his head and looked up into Sebastian’s amused face.

  “What is this?” Sebastian mused. “Amateur night?”

  Before he could think, Nash was shoving the car door open. “Where is she?” he demanded, taking Sebastian’s shirt in his fists. “You know, and one way or the other you’re going to tell me.”

  Sebastian’s eyes darkened dangerously. “Careful, friend. I’ve been wanting to go one-on-one with you for weeks.”

  The notion of a good, nasty fight appealed to Nash enormously. “Then we’ll just—”

  “Behave,” Anastasia commanded. “Both of you.” With delicate hands, she pushed the men apart. “I’m sure you’d enjoy giving each other bloody noses and black eyes, but I’m not going to tolerate it.”

  Nash fisted his frustrated hands at his sides. “I want to know where she is.”

  With a shrug, Sebastian leaned on the hood of the car. “Your wants don’t carry much weight around here.” He crossed his feet at the ankles when Anastasia stepped between them again. “You’re looking a little ragged around the edges, Nash, old boy.” And it pleased him no end. “Conscience stabbing at you?”

  “Sebastian.” Ana’s quiet voice held both censure and compassion. “Don’t snipe. Can’t you see he’s unhappy?”

  “My heart bleeds.”

  Ana laid a hand on Nash’s arm. “And that he’s in love with her?”

  Sebastian’s response was a short laugh. “Don’t let the hangdog look twist your feelings, Ana.”

  She shot Sebastian an impatient glare. “For heaven’s sake, you only have to look.”

  Reluctantly, he did. As his eyes darkened, he clamped a hand on Nash’s shoulder. Before Nash could shrug it angrily away, Sebastian laughed again. “By all that’s holy, he is.” He shook his head at Nash. “Why the devil did you make such a mess of it?”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Nash muttered. Absently he rubbed a hand over his shoulder. It felt as though it had been sunburned. “What I have to say, I’ll say to Morgana.”

  Sebastian was softening, but he didn’t see any reason to make it easy. “I believe she’s under the impression that you’ve already had your say. I don’t know that she’s in any condition to listen to your outrageous accusations again.”

  “Condition?” Nash’s heart froze. “Is she sick?” He grabbed Sebastian by the shirtfront again, but the strength had left his hands. “What’s wrong with her?”

  A look passed between the cousins, so brief, so subtle, that it went unnoticed. “She’s not ill,” Ana said, and tried not to be furious with Morgana for not telling Nash about the child. “In fact, she’s quite well. Sebastian meant that she was upset by what happened between you the last time.”

  Nash’s fingers loosened. When he had his breath back, he nodded. “All right, you want me to beg. I’ll beg. I have to see her. If after I’ve finished crawling she boots me out of her life, I’ll live with it.”

  “She’s in Ireland,” Ana told him. “With our family.” Her smile curved beautifully. “Do you have a passport?”

  * * *

  Morgana was glad she’d come. The air in Ireland was soothing, whether it was the balmy breeze that rolled down from the hills or the wild wind that whipped across the channel.

  Though she knew it would soon be time to go back and pick up her life again, she was grateful for the weeks she’d had to heal.

  And for her family.

  Stretched out on the window seat in her mother’s sitting room, she was as much at home, and at peace, as she could be anywhere in the world. She felt the sun on her face, that luminous sun that seemed to belong only to Ireland. If she looked through the diamond panes of glass, she could see the cliffs that hacked their way down to the rugged beach. And the beach, narrow and rough, stretching out to the waves. By changing the angle, she could see the terraced lawn, the green, green grass scattered with a profusion of flowers that stirred in the wind.

  Across the room, her mother sat sketching. It was a cozy moment, one that reminded Morgana sweetly of childhood. And her mother had changed so little in the years between.

  Her hair was as dark and thick as her daughter’s, though she wore it short and sleek around her face. Her skin was smooth, with the beautiful luster of her Irish heritage. The cobalt eyes were often dreamier than Morgana’s, but they saw as clearly.

  When Morgana looked at her, she was washed by an intense flood of love. “You’re so beautiful, Mother.”

  Bryna glanced up, smiled. “I won’t argue, since it feels so good to hear that from a grown daughter.” Her voice carried the charming lilt of her homeland. “Do you know how wonderful it is to have you here, darling, for all of us?”

  Morgana raised a knee and linked her hands around it. “I know how good it’s been for me. And how grateful I am you haven’t asked me all the questions I know you want to.”

  “And so you should be. I’ve all but had to strike your father mute to keep him from badgering you.” Her eyes softened. “He adores you so.”

  “I know.” Morgana felt weak tears fill her eyes again, and she tried t
o blink them away. “I’m sorry. My moods.” With a shake of her head, she rose. “I don’t seem to be able to control them.”

  “Darling.” Bryna held out both hands, waiting until Morgana had crossed the room to link hers with them. “You know you can tell me anything, anything at all. When you’re ready.”

  “Mother.” Seeking comfort, Morgana knelt down to rest her head in Bryna’s lap. She gave a watery smile as her hair was stroked. “I’ve come to realize recently how very lucky I am to have had you, all of you. To love me, to want me, to care about what happens to me. I haven’t told you before how grateful I am for you.”

  Puzzled, Bryna cradled her daughter. “Families are meant to love and want and care.”

  “But all families don’t.” Morgana lifted her head, her eyes dry now and intense. “Do they?”

  “The loss is theirs. What’s hurting you, Morgana?”

  She gripped her mother’s hands again. “I’ve thought about how it must feel not to be wanted or loved. To be taught from childhood that you were a mistake, a burden, something only to be tolerated through duty. Can anything be colder than that?”

  “No. Nothing’s colder than living without love.” Her tone gentled. “Are you in love?”

  She didn’t have to answer. “He’s been hurt so, you see. He never had what you, what all of you, gave me, what I took for granted. And, despite it all, he’s made himself into a wonderful man. Oh, you’d like him.” She rested her cheek on her mother’s palm. “He’s funny and sweet. His mind is so, well, fluid. So ready to test new ideas. But there’s a part of him that’s closed off. He didn’t do it, it was done to him. And, no matter what my powers, I can’t break that lock.” She sat back on her heels. “He doesn’t want to love me, and I can’t—won’t—take what he doesn’t want to give.”

  “No.” Bryna’s heart broke a little as she looked at her daughter. “You’re too strong, too proud, and too wise for that. But people change, Morgana. In time . . .”

  “There isn’t time. I’ll have his child by Christmas.”

  All the soothing words Bryna had prepared slipped away down her throat. All she could think was that her baby was carrying a baby. “Are you well?” she managed.

  Morgana smiled, pleased that this should be the first question. “Yes.”

  “And certain?”

  “Very certain.”

  “Oh, love.” Bryna rose to her feet to rock Morgana against her. “My little girl.”

  “I won’t be little much longer.”

  They laughed together as they broke apart. “I’m happy for you. And sad.”

  “I know. I want the child. Believe me, no child has ever been wanted so much. Not only because it’s all I might ever have of the father, but for itself.”

  “And you feel?”

  “Odd,” Morgana said. “Strong one moment, terrifyingly fragile the next. Not ill, but sometimes light-headed.”

  Understanding, Bryna nodded. “And you say the father is a good man.”

  “Yes, he’s a good man.”

  “Then, when you told him, he was just surprised, unprepared . . .” She noted the way Morgana glanced away. “Morgana, even when you were a child you would stare past my shoulder when you were preparing to evade.”

  Wincing at the tone, Morgana met her mother’s eyes again. “I didn’t tell him. Don’t,” she pleaded before Bryna could launch into a lecture. “I had intended to, but it all fell apart. I know it was wrong not to tell him, but it was just as wrong to hold him to me by the telling. I made a choice.”

  “The wrong choice.”

  Morgana’s chin angled as her mother’s had. “My choice, right or wrong. I won’t ask you to approve, but I will ask you to respect. And I’ll also ask you not to tell anyone else just yet. Including Father.”

  “Including Father what?” Matthew demanded as he strode into the room, the wolf that was Pan’s sire close at his heels.

  “Girl talk,” Morgana said smoothly and moved over to kiss his cheeks. “Hello, handsome.”

  He tweaked her nose. “I know when my women are keeping secrets.”

  “No peeking,” Morgana said, knowing Matthew was nearly as skilled at reading thoughts as Sebastian. “Now, where’s everyone else?”

  He wasn’t satisfied, but he was patient. If she didn’t tell him soon, he would look for himself. He was, after all, her father.

  “Douglas and Maureen are in the kitchen, arguing over who’s fixing what for lunch. Camilla’s rousting Padrick at gin.” Matthew grinned, wickedly. “And he’s not taking it well. Accused her of charming the cards.”