Maybe This Time, page 39
Fingering his crystal amulet, she fell silent. “Dear God. Your—your eyes . . .”
She looked deep into them, captured, mesmerized by all that she saw. Flecks of gray. Wisdom. Purpose. Authority.
Memories of another place, another time, washed through her in a great flood. In a hospital bed—alone and dying. A dark tunnel. Light. A crystal platform. A huge bird and barbaric savages. A silver-streaked cave and a bed of fur. Scotland. Her beloved Scotland and a battle of wills—then loving. Elder. “Oh, God . . . Oh, God . . .” Tears streamed down her face. “Prophet!”
He captured her in his embrace, buried his face in her hair, and squeezed her to his length. “Angel.”
Twenty-nine
“PROPHET,” Alyssa muttered against his neck, “let go of me!”
“No,” he refused, keeping her pressed to his chest. “I’ve a need to hold you.”
“And I’ve a need to wring your blasted neck.”
He reared back, his voice boomed. “You dare to threaten me?”
She glared at him until he loosened his grip, then scooted to the edge of the bed. “Where’s that damn gun?”
“Teaching you to shoot might have been a mistake.” Smiling, Prophet grabbed her arm and tugged her back. With a swoosh of breath, she fell against him. “But wringing my neck doesn’t require a gun, Angel. Unless . . .” He gave her an inquisitive look. “Have you decided to shoot me instead?”
She glared harder. “Don’t you dare start with those literal deductions of yours. I’ll not have it.”
“You were about to make love to me,” he reminded her. “To share with me all you feel in your heart.”
The blasted man. Taunting her. At a time like this. “You kidnapped me,” she accused. “I should do both. Wring your neck and shoot you.”
“Ah, but I rescued you too,” he said. “Did you forget that?”
Grudgingly, she admitted that he had. His fingertips swirled on her bare back. She stifled a groan. Why did he have to touch her now? His fingertips inched around her sides and up her arms, and she silently begged him not to touch her breasts. They were already anticipating his attention, tingling, growing full. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to hold onto her anger. “You had Meg spy on me. Did you forget that?”
“To protect you,” he whispered, his warm breath fanning her temple. “Angel, look at me.”
“No,” she said, keeping her eyes shut. His fingers cupped her tingling flesh, his thumb swirled around her nipple, his nail softly scraping. Her breath caught. “Well, flip,” she complained, losing the battle to her body.
“You are not being whimsical, are you?”
Alyssa opened one eye to peek at him, and frowned. His eyes were hot, molten silver. “No, I’m not being whimsical. If I wanted you to flip, I’d flip you. Chow Ling taught me how.”
He laughed at her. She grunted her displeasure at that. Concentrating was becoming so difficult. “Did you have to make my father a murderer?”
Kneading her flesh, he traced the hollow beneath her breast with his fingertips. His voice grew husky. “I did not make your father anything. He is not a murderer, Angel. He is an accomplice because he did not attempt to prevent Hedwig’s murder, though I doubt he could have. But for his crime he’s been transported, not executed. The Prince Regent saw to that.”
Alyssa smiled, her brows rising and falling in a telling way. “A charming rogue, our prince of pleasure.”
Prophet frowned. “A scapegrace who’d sell his royal soul for a woman like you.”
“His soul?” Alyssa guffawed. “Oh, Prophet, you are afflicted.”
He slid his big hand around her ribs to span her back, then let it drift down her spine to her buttocks. Was he jealous of the prince? She stroked Prophet’s bare chest, rested her cheek against his shoulder. “Maybe I won’t shoot you after all.”
He reared and slid her a look that melted her bones. “Thank you for your consideration. Perhaps I am afflicted. I know exactly how the prince feels.”
Something in Prophet’s tone frightened her. Alyssa sat up, her hip at his side. “You mean about selling his soul, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer; she didn’t need one. “What have you done, Prophet? Have you sold your soul for me?”
“No,” he whispered, rolling onto his side. His fingers laced with hers and rested on her thigh.
“But you’ve risked it,” she suggested, innately certain he had done exactly that. She sensed it. Just as she’d sensed his signet ring, his crystal amulet, held significance. Fear tasted bitter on her tongue. “Kevan—”
“Prophet, love,” he corrected her. “Cease your frowning.”
He’d not answer her questions. She looked at his amulet, then at the sweet curve of his lips. “Should I kiss you, or shoot you?” Oh, she wanted to kiss him so much. A memory tugging at her had her adding, “And don’t you dare say it’s of no consequence. God, I hate it when you say that.”
He smiled. “I prefer the kiss. And I’ve been patient long enough. Come love me, Angel. I’ve a need to hold you.”
She leaned over him, half-draping his chest. “Do you love me? I know Kevan loves me but, when you’re Prophet, do you?”
“I do,” he said softly.
Pleasure rippled to waves inside her. She stacked her hands on his chest and looked up at him. “Why?”
He cupped her face in his hands, rubbed circles in the little hollows of her cheeks with his thumbs. “You are my destiny, Angel.”
The heat in his eyes had the muscles contracting low in her belly. “And are you my destiny?”
His chest rumbled against her ribs. “I cannot answer that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” she asked, stiffening against him. “I know how you are about that ‘a guide must lead, not divulge’ business.”
“I’m pleased you recall my words,” he said, not answering her question.
She worried her lip with her teeth. “Do you, um . . .” She couldn’t do it, she decided. She could not ask the man his opinion.
“Angel, there are no barriers between us here. You must be honest with your husband.”
“Well pity, Prophet. I guess I’m a wee bit confused. All the levels are mixing together on me. I married Kevan—twice, actually—but I’ve not married you.”
“We are one in the same man. You are my wife.”
“I am?” She gave him a wary look. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he answered in a tone that had her hackles rearing.
“Fine,” she said, letting him see her annoyance.
“Fine,” he repeated, looking mildly amused.
“Well?” She thrust up her chin.
He arched a brow. “Well?”
The blasted man. He was going to make her ask. She drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. The urge to shoot him had returned with force. “Well, do you want my love or not?”
He laughed at her. “Want it? Nay, wife. I don’t want your love. I demand it.”
“Afflicted.” She rolled her gaze heavenward. “You can’t demand love, Prophet.” As she nodded negatively, her chin rubbed back and forth on his chest. Then she lowered her forehead, and muttered into his skin. “I tried to tell you not to swim underwater so long. I warned you that your brain would get damp. That was wrong, of course, but—”
“Of course,” he agreed. “A damp brain is—”
“Don’t get too cocky. You certainly sound oxygen-deprived. Demanding love. How utterly ridiculous.”
“It is not ridiculous. I’m your husband. It’s my right to demand your love, and I do. You know that it’s a wife’s duty to love her husband, Angel. And you did boast to me that you always do your duty.”
He was teasing her! Alyssa felt stunned. Prophet never teased. Kevan, yes. But not Prophet. She sought his eyes for confirmation and found it. Her heart soared. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
Alyssa smiled down at him. “I do believe that love is what I feel for you, Prophet. In Scotland, too, I suspected as much.” Feeling mischievous, she nursed her lips with her tongue. “But how does one know for certain? What are the symptoms of this affliction?”
“Were you a man,” he warned her, “I would take that remark as an insult and demand repayment.”
“You once thought me a man,” she said, her voice husky. “Remember?”
He nodded and nipped her shoulder with his teeth. “I remember. My little warrior in Scotland. What a hellion you were. You fought well.”
He didn’t sound displeased with thinking her a hellion, he sounded amused. “I did fight ably. Duncan trained me well.”
“I’m glad you asked me to marry you then.”
Her pleasure faded and heat scorched her face. “I didn’t.”
“You did,” he insisted. “But I forgive your faulty memory.”
“Oh, all right. So I did. I must have been out of mind.”
“On occasion,” he said, agreeing with her.
“Prophet,” she warned.
He slid her a wicked smile.
“It’s most unkind of you to remind me that I had to ask you to marry me. You’re no gentleman, milord.”
He shrugged. “I know.”
She gave him a good frown. “Actually, you’re a pain in—”
“Actually,” he interrupted, his eyes hot, heavy-lidded with desire, “I’m in pain. Unbearable pain.” With his tongue, he trailed a path up her neck to the tiny soft shell of her ear and lifted her on top of him. “Come, Angel. Be loving to your husband. My arms wait.”
Far from disgruntled by his arrogance, Alyssa melted into Prophet’s embrace, gave herself totally to his kiss. Kevan she cared for as much as she cared for herself. But Prophet, oh, there was something irresistible about Prophet that drove her beyond caring about herself. He riled her temper, robbed her of the ability to think, and twisted her into an emotional being that tossed logic out with the trash and focused only on feeling. He nibbled at her lips, sent her spiraling off to that magical place only he could take her, and she imagined his smile. Dear God, his smile made her boneless, made her feel as though the sun had burst its warmth inside her and melted her into a hot, steaming pool of liquid love.
“I can’t wait, Angel,” he whispered, harsh and grating, from between his teeth. “It’s been too long.”
“I don’t want you to.”
He took her swiftly, thoroughly, completely. Their passion raged, wild and abandoned, and quickly fired. And lying replete, deeply satisfied and content in her husband’s arms, Alyssa drifted to sleep.
Prophet remained awake, waiting, unwillingly to forfeit a scant moment of his time with Angel. When she recognized him in this level, he knew that two of the original three glimpses of the future seen in his contemporary level vision had come to pass. In Scotland, when the back wall had been scaled by the Raiders and Innes’s men had dropped into the lower bailey from the trees, Alyssa had accused Innes. Kevan had ordered her to return to her women’s work. She’d gone, but not before she’d glared down at him from the back of her white mare, the Buchannan plaid draping on her shoulder. Here in England, Kevan had kidnapped her from the church he’d seen in his vision. She’d worn the eighteenth century wedding gown and had been about to marry the English lord she did not love.
Only one vision remained unfulfilled. Alyssa, sitting in her sterile office, absorbed by her computer and refusing to marry him. And if she’d failed, it too would come to pass. If she’d succeeded in her discoveries, that history would be altered. Their love, and his soul, would be safe.
Prophet shuddered at the uncertainty of their future and looked at his wife, sleeping curled to his side. Her silver-tipped lashes shadowed her cheeks, and a tide of tenderness flowed through him. Had she learned, made all of her discoveries? Had she become universal, capable of loving? Or would she again refuse to marry him?
The Elder summoned.
PROPHET UNTANGLED his limbs from Alyssa’s, eased from the bed, then stepped into his adjoining chamber. His right hand crossing his chest, his head inclined, he greeted the Elder.
“Prophet.”
The Elder’s left eye was fully lit, but his shoulders sagged. He looked weary, worn, and bent. Prophet frowned. “Your grace, what troubles you? Each time I see you, your health seems to have further deteriorated.”
“It is of no consequence,” the Elder said in his gravelly voice. “Your woman has succeeded in this level.”
“She has.” Prophet smiled.
“The Council is pleased with her progression.”
“And surprised, I imagine.”
The Elder nodded. “Pleasantly, though.” His expression grew grave, etching deep lines in his forehead. “You must proceed to the last level without delay. Time grows short, Prophet. Very short.”
Warning signals fired like shots in Prophet’s mind, setting off tiny explosions of fear that rocked his body. Stiffening against them, he lifted his chin, squared his shoulders. “My woman has conquered pride. What must she discover in this final level?”
The Elder looked weaker, more weary. “I am instructed by the Council not to disclose what will next follow. But know this: your courage and strength and that of your woman—even your love for her—will be sorely tested. Of all the learning levels, the coming one is most critical.”
Gooseflesh raised up on Prophet’s arms. “Why?”
“It is the consummation, the culmination of your efforts. Your woman must prove that she’s become universal, that she has acquired the ability to love. Your soul is in danger, Prophet. Extreme danger.”
Fear knotted in Kevan’s stomach. He met the Elder’s gaze.
“Have faith in your humble servants, your grace. My woman has met every challenge, succeeded in every test. She will not fail me now. Our—”
His voice weak, a thready reflection of sound, the Elder interrupted. “Seek strength in your destiny, Prophet. Remember the leaves. They must change.” Before Prophet’s eyes, the Elder grew weaker still. “The season . . . is come.”
The Elder faded, and the silvery mist vaporized.
Prophet returned to Angel. His heart lay like a stone in his chest. Beside her in bed, he pulled her warm, sleep-soft body into his arms. She smelled of roses, and he inhaled greedily. She sniffled, and his heart wrenched. Squeezing his eyes closed, he held her tighter. “Love?”
“We—we’re leaving again, aren’t we?” She whispered into his neck.
The pain in her voice formed a lump in his throat. “Yes, darling. It’s time.”
She looked up at him, tears clinging to her lashes. “Why can’t we stay here? I want to go to the theater with you. Garrick is dead, but Kean lives. He’s supposed to shine as Richard the Third. Please, darling. Give me two more weeks.”
She sat up and pressed her hands against his chest. Moonlight set her tear-streaked cheeks to glistening. “I want us to see Vauxhall Gardens, to share the “dark walk” that lovers stroll. We’ll feast on a supper-box, and watch the fireworks from under the stars. And afterward, I’ll feed you plump cherries, and . . . and . . .” She strangled a sob. “And I’ll hold you.” Her body shuddered hard. “Oh, God, Prophet. Don’t leave me again.”
Tears burned his eyes and he clutched her to him. He needed these things as much as she did, if not more. She didn’t know of the coming danger, of the risks they would soon face. His voice grew ragged. “If we could, where else would we go?”
Her cheek against his chest, she lay quiet for a long minute. “Astley’s. We’d watch the ponies race.”
“Ours would win, of course,” he said.
“Of course.” He felt her smile, her lips brush against his throat. “And you’d give me a victory kiss like you did at the lake when I learned to float.”
“I would.” His own lips curved at that. “Where else?”
“We would go home,” she said, her voice cracking, “to Woodwind—just once more. We’d swim in the lake, and make love under the big fir where you sat to watch me practice my strokes.”
“I’ve often imagined making love with you there,” he said, pressing his lips to her temple.
“So have I,” she confessed. “Oh, Prophet, I—I—”
Her voice broke, and his heart shattered. She asked him for so little. Two weeks! But time was the one thing he could not give her. The Elder had been explicit. The season had come.
He softened his tone and rubbed reassuring circles on her back. “You felt this same reluctance to leave Scotland, Angel. But you found happiness here.”
“I know, but—”
“We must go, love. We have no choice.”
She looked up at him, her anguish in her eyes. “I love you, Prophet. Damn it, I don’t want to be separated from you again.”
Didn’t she understand that he didn’t want to leave her? That leaving her brought more pain to his chest than he had suffered in dying?
She didn’t, he realized. She couldn’t. She had no memory of Kevan Buchannan in the contemporary level. She had become his mistress then, but not his wife. She’d been incapable of loving, therefore, incapable of knowing love’s pain.
And if she hadn’t mastered her trials, she would never again be his to love. She’d be lost to him forever. He tightened his arms around her, not a whimper of protest crawling up his throat. She could not fail. She could not fail!
“Kevan, can’t you talk to the Elder? Can’t you make him—”
“No, my love,” he said firmly. “I can’t.”
“But—”
He pressed his lips to her temple in a kiss rife with tenderness. “I can’t.”
“Something feels . . . different this time. It frightens me.”
His heart thudded, then stopped. He dared not to ask what. He dared not. “I’ll be with you.”
“But I won’t know you.” She buried her face in his neck, her fingertips in his sides. “Dear God, I can’t stand it. I can’t.”
He kissed her forehead. “You must. And so must I.”
