Heaven and Earth
Page 24
For a moment he could. Clear as glass, and terrifying. Harding had to force back a shudder. “Who are
‘all of them’?”
“They’re all Helen.” He began to laugh, a high, keening sound that shivered along Harding’s skin until the fine hairs on his arm stood up. “All Helen. Burn the witch. I kill her every night. Every night, but she comes back.”
He was screaming now, so that Harding, who’d seen his share of horrors, pushed away, leaped up even as the guard surged forward.
A lunatic, Harding told himself as attendants hustled him out of the room. Mad as a hatter. But. . .but. . .
The smell of the story was too strong to resist.
Some people might have been nervous at the prospect of spending an evening in the home of a witch. Being nervous, they might have stocked up on wolfsbane or carried a pocket full of salt. Mac went armed with his tape recorder and notebook and a bottle of good Cabernet. He’d waited patiently through his first week on the island, hoping for this initial invitation. He was about to dine with Mia Devlin.
It hadn’t been easy to resist driving up to her house on his own, hiking through her woods, poking around in the shadows of the lighthouse. But that would have been, by his standards, rude. Patience and courtesy had paid off, and she’d casually asked him if he would like to come up for dinner. He’d accepted, just as casually.
Now, as he drove up the coast road, he was filled with anticipation. There was so much he wanted to ask her, particularly since Ripley shut down each time he tried to question her. He had yet to approach Nell.
Two warnings by two witches made a definite point. He would wait there, until Nell came to him or the path was cleared.
There was plenty of time. And he still had that ace in the hole.
He liked the look of her place, the old stone high on the cliff, standing against time and the sea. The art of the gables, the romance of the widow’s walk, the mystery of the turrets. The white beam from the lighthouse cut through the dark like a wide blade, swept over sea, the stone house, the dark stand of trees.
It was a lonely spot, he thought as he parked. Almost arrogantly alone and undeniably beautiful. It suited her perfectly.
The snow had been neatly cleared from her drive, from her walk. He couldn’t imagine any woman who looked like Mia Devlin hoisting a snow shovel. He wondered if that was a sexist opinion. He decided it wasn’t. It had nothing to do with her being a woman, and everything to do with beauty. He simply couldn’t imagine her doing anything that wasn’t elegant.
The minute she opened the door, he was certain that he was right.
She wore a dress of deep forest green, the sort that covered a woman from neck to toe and still managed to tell a man that everything under it was perfect. Was fascinating. Stones glittered at her ears, on her fingers. On a braided silver chain a single carved disk glinted almost at her waist. Her feet were seductively bare.
She smiled, held out a hand. “I’m glad you could come, and bearing gifts.” She accepted the bottle of wine. It was her favorite, she noted. “How did you know?”
“Huh? Oh, the wine. It’s my job to dig up pertinent data.”
With a laugh, she drew him inside. “Welcome to my home. Let me take your coat.”
She stood close, let her fingertips graze his arm. She considered it a kind of test, for both of them. “I’m tempted to say come into my parlor.” Her laugh came again, low and rich. “So I will.” She gestured to a room off the wide foyer. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll open the wine.”
Slightly dazed, he walked into a large room where a fire burned brightly. The room was full of rich color, soft fabrics, gleaming wood and glass. Old, beautifully faded rugs were spread over a wide-planked floor.
He recognized wealth—comfortable, tasteful, and somehow female wealth. There were flowers, lilies with star-shaped petals as white as the snow outside, in a tall, clear vase. The air smelled of them, and of her.
Even a dead man, Mac imagined, would have felt his blood warming, his juices flowing. There were books tucked on shelves among pretty bottles and chunks of crystals and intriguing little statues. He gave those his attention. What a person read gave insight into the person.
“I’m a practical woman.”
He jumped. She’d come in silently, like smoke.
“Excuse me?”
“Practical,” she repeated, setting down the tray that held the wine and two glasses. “Books are a passion, and I opened the store so I could make a profit from my passion.”
“Your passion’s eclectic.”
“Single channels are so monotonous.” She poured the wine, crossed to him, her eyes never leaving his.
“You’d agree, since your interests are varied as well.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“To a variety of passions, then.” Her eyes laughed as she touched her glass to his. She sat on the low sofa, smiling still as she patted the cushion beside her. “Come, sit. Tell me what you think of our little island in the sea.”
He wondered if the room was overwarm or if she simply radiated heat wherever she went. But he sat. “I like it. The village is just quaint enough without being trite, and the people friendly enough without being obviously nosy. Your bookstore adds a touch of sophistication, and the sea adds glamour, the forests mystery. I’m comfortable here.”
“Handy. And you’re comfortable in my little cottage?”
“More than. I’ve gotten considerable work done already.”
“You’re a practical soul, too, aren’t you, MacAllister?” She sipped, red wine against red lips. “Despite what many would consider the impracticality of your chosen field.”
It felt as though the collar of his shirt had shrunk. “Knowledge is always practical.”
“And that’s what you seek under it all. The knowing.” She curled up, and her knees brushed his leg, lightly. “A seeking mind is very attractive.”
“Yeah. Well.” He drank wine. Gulped it.
“How’s your . . . appetite?”
His color rose. “My appetite?”
He was, she decided, absolutely delightful. “Why don’t we move into the dining room? I’ll feed you.”
“Great. Good.”
She uncurled, trailed fingertips down his arm again. “Bring the wine, handsome.”
Oh, boy, was his only clear thought.
‘all of them’?”
“They’re all Helen.” He began to laugh, a high, keening sound that shivered along Harding’s skin until the fine hairs on his arm stood up. “All Helen. Burn the witch. I kill her every night. Every night, but she comes back.”
He was screaming now, so that Harding, who’d seen his share of horrors, pushed away, leaped up even as the guard surged forward.
A lunatic, Harding told himself as attendants hustled him out of the room. Mad as a hatter. But. . .but. . .
The smell of the story was too strong to resist.
Some people might have been nervous at the prospect of spending an evening in the home of a witch. Being nervous, they might have stocked up on wolfsbane or carried a pocket full of salt. Mac went armed with his tape recorder and notebook and a bottle of good Cabernet. He’d waited patiently through his first week on the island, hoping for this initial invitation. He was about to dine with Mia Devlin.
It hadn’t been easy to resist driving up to her house on his own, hiking through her woods, poking around in the shadows of the lighthouse. But that would have been, by his standards, rude. Patience and courtesy had paid off, and she’d casually asked him if he would like to come up for dinner. He’d accepted, just as casually.
Now, as he drove up the coast road, he was filled with anticipation. There was so much he wanted to ask her, particularly since Ripley shut down each time he tried to question her. He had yet to approach Nell.
Two warnings by two witches made a definite point. He would wait there, until Nell came to him or the path was cleared.
There was plenty of time. And he still had that ace in the hole.
He liked the look of her place, the old stone high on the cliff, standing against time and the sea. The art of the gables, the romance of the widow’s walk, the mystery of the turrets. The white beam from the lighthouse cut through the dark like a wide blade, swept over sea, the stone house, the dark stand of trees.
It was a lonely spot, he thought as he parked. Almost arrogantly alone and undeniably beautiful. It suited her perfectly.
The snow had been neatly cleared from her drive, from her walk. He couldn’t imagine any woman who looked like Mia Devlin hoisting a snow shovel. He wondered if that was a sexist opinion. He decided it wasn’t. It had nothing to do with her being a woman, and everything to do with beauty. He simply couldn’t imagine her doing anything that wasn’t elegant.
The minute she opened the door, he was certain that he was right.
She wore a dress of deep forest green, the sort that covered a woman from neck to toe and still managed to tell a man that everything under it was perfect. Was fascinating. Stones glittered at her ears, on her fingers. On a braided silver chain a single carved disk glinted almost at her waist. Her feet were seductively bare.
She smiled, held out a hand. “I’m glad you could come, and bearing gifts.” She accepted the bottle of wine. It was her favorite, she noted. “How did you know?”
“Huh? Oh, the wine. It’s my job to dig up pertinent data.”
With a laugh, she drew him inside. “Welcome to my home. Let me take your coat.”
She stood close, let her fingertips graze his arm. She considered it a kind of test, for both of them. “I’m tempted to say come into my parlor.” Her laugh came again, low and rich. “So I will.” She gestured to a room off the wide foyer. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll open the wine.”
Slightly dazed, he walked into a large room where a fire burned brightly. The room was full of rich color, soft fabrics, gleaming wood and glass. Old, beautifully faded rugs were spread over a wide-planked floor.
He recognized wealth—comfortable, tasteful, and somehow female wealth. There were flowers, lilies with star-shaped petals as white as the snow outside, in a tall, clear vase. The air smelled of them, and of her.
Even a dead man, Mac imagined, would have felt his blood warming, his juices flowing. There were books tucked on shelves among pretty bottles and chunks of crystals and intriguing little statues. He gave those his attention. What a person read gave insight into the person.
“I’m a practical woman.”
He jumped. She’d come in silently, like smoke.
“Excuse me?”
“Practical,” she repeated, setting down the tray that held the wine and two glasses. “Books are a passion, and I opened the store so I could make a profit from my passion.”
“Your passion’s eclectic.”
“Single channels are so monotonous.” She poured the wine, crossed to him, her eyes never leaving his.
“You’d agree, since your interests are varied as well.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“To a variety of passions, then.” Her eyes laughed as she touched her glass to his. She sat on the low sofa, smiling still as she patted the cushion beside her. “Come, sit. Tell me what you think of our little island in the sea.”
He wondered if the room was overwarm or if she simply radiated heat wherever she went. But he sat. “I like it. The village is just quaint enough without being trite, and the people friendly enough without being obviously nosy. Your bookstore adds a touch of sophistication, and the sea adds glamour, the forests mystery. I’m comfortable here.”
“Handy. And you’re comfortable in my little cottage?”
“More than. I’ve gotten considerable work done already.”
“You’re a practical soul, too, aren’t you, MacAllister?” She sipped, red wine against red lips. “Despite what many would consider the impracticality of your chosen field.”
It felt as though the collar of his shirt had shrunk. “Knowledge is always practical.”
“And that’s what you seek under it all. The knowing.” She curled up, and her knees brushed his leg, lightly. “A seeking mind is very attractive.”
“Yeah. Well.” He drank wine. Gulped it.
“How’s your . . . appetite?”
His color rose. “My appetite?”
He was, she decided, absolutely delightful. “Why don’t we move into the dining room? I’ll feed you.”
“Great. Good.”
She uncurled, trailed fingertips down his arm again. “Bring the wine, handsome.”
Oh, boy, was his only clear thought.
