On Wings of Magic (9 page)

“Am I drunk?” she asked curiously.

“Slightly.”

“Oh. I don’t feel drunk.” Thinking about that, Kendall was slightly surprised to find that they had reached the elevator. This time the ride up was shared with an older woman whose face Kendall recognized vaguely but couldn’t put a name to.

Pushing the problem aside, she smiled brightly at the woman. “Hi. I’m Kendall. And this is Hawke.” She unlinked her fingers long enough to pat Hawke on the top of his head.

“Hi.” The woman’s lips twitched strangely. “I’m Amanda.” She glanced at Hawke and added severely, “Shame on you!”

Kendall felt Hawke’s shoulder shaking with silent laughter, and realized that Amanda had said something funny. She didn’t know what it was, but she smiled anyway.

Amanda got off the elevator, apparently on her floor, and then Hawke and Kendall rode the rest of the way to the top floor alone. By the time they reached the door to Kendall’s suite, she Was staring in utter fascination at Hawke’s face. It seemed, oddly, that she had never really looked at him before.

Halting in front of Kendall’s door, he met her intense gaze and seemed to have trouble speaking. His voice sounded hoarse. “I don’t suppose you can get your key out.”

Abruptly, the intensity melted from Kendall’s expression. “I couldn’t find an elephant if it poked me with its trunk,” she told him solemnly, then dissolved into giggles.

Sighing, Hawke set her carefully on her feet, grabbing the purse before it could drop to the floor. He had to lean Kendall against the doorjamb while he unlocked the door, and even then she showed a tendency to slide toward the floor. She was still giggling.

The door opened at last, Hawke picked her up again and strode inside, kicking it shut behind them. He carried her through the sitting room, and Kendall only dimly noticed Gypsy curled up on the sofa. She became aware of her surroundings only when Hawke set her carefully on the bed and turned on a lamp on the nightstand.

He stared down at her for a moment, then said roughly, “I know damn well you can’t get undressed by yourself. The thing is—I
don’t
know if I can undress you and then leave.”

Quite sanely, Kendall realized that she wanted him to stay with her. Always. Forever. Artlessly, she held out her arms to him. “You don’t have to leave.”

“Kendall—”

“Please don’t leave.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t like to be alone in the dark, Hawke. Stay with me….”

He groaned softly, abruptly reaching to pull her up from the bed and into his arms. Kendall could feel his fingers at the back of her neck, unfastening the single clasp that held up her dress, even as his mouth took hers with hungry intensity.

Not even in the back of her mind was there a token protest. She wanted him desperately, her slender body flaming with a desire so powerful that it felt as if it scorched her. Her trembling fingers pushed
the jacket from his shoulders, and she felt her dress slide to the floor with only a whisper of sound.

Hawke raised his head to look down at her, silver flames in his eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered raggedly, his gaze devouring her body.

Kendall felt herself lifted, and then she was aware of the softness of the bed beneath her back. Dimly, she realized that the maid must have turned down the covers, but it was only a fleeting thought. She lay silently and watched with dazed eyes as Hawke impatiently removed his clothes.

When he came down on the bed beside her, Kendall again held out her arms to him, and his eyes flared oddly as he accepted the silent invitation. He covered her face and throat with gentle, passionate kisses, his hands exploring her body with growing urgency.

Kendall moaned softly when one hand cupped a swelling breast, her breath catching in her throat. She had never known such feelings were possible, fire licking along her veins as his mouth captured a throbbing nipple. She wanted him to stop what he was doing, to never stop. She locked her fingers in his thick hair, her body straining instinctively against him.

Hawke muttered something she didn’t hear, his mouth concentrating on first one nipple and then the other, his hands moving over her flesh with sensual abrasiveness.

She slid her hands over his back wonderingly, feeling muscles tense beneath her fingers. He was so strong, she thought dimly. So strong. Strong enough to take care of her.

Odd. Where had that thought come from?

He lifted his head suddenly with a soft laugh and reached for her left wrist. Fumbling with the clasp of her charm bracelet, he whispered teasingly, “It’s scratching me!”

It was the wrong thing to say; for some reason the statement struck Kendall as being exquisitely funny. And, once started, the giggles just wouldn’t stop.

Giggling helplessly, Kendall didn’t realize at first that Hawke was no longer making love to her. When she finally managed some measure of control, she found that he was raised on an elbow beside her, his expression resigned.

A small, reasonably sober portion of her brain told her that this wasn’t working out quite the way Hawke had planned. She had a feeling that this particular type of laughter didn’t exactly stoke the fires of passion. Her own desire had faded anyway.

“I—I’m sorry,” she gasped at last, choking off a final giggle. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I do.” He sighed and regretfully drew the covers up over their naked bodies. “But it’s probably better this way. You would have hated yourself in the morning. And gone after
me
with a knife!”

She was mildly shocked. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Of course not.”

“I’m not a shrew.”

“No.” He smiled suddenly and traced a gentle finger down her nose. “Right now, you’re a little girl.”

Kendall didn’t understand what was happening. Not then. She knew only that something inside her began to throb with an awful pain at his words. Hot tears filled her throat and threatened to flood the
locked room in her mind. She didn’t want to face that hurting memory. She didn’t want to….

“Kendall?” Hawke placed an arm across her, gazing down at her with worried eyes. “Honeys what’s wrong?”

“Little girl.” Her whisper was filled with pain. “Oh, Hawke, she was such a beautiful little girl! So sweet. With a smile like sunshine.”

“Who, honey?” he asked gently. “Who are you talking about?”

“Rosita … little rose…”

His arm tightened across her waist In a soft, intense voice, he told her, “You have to talk about it, Kendall. It’s eating you up inside. Tell me!”

“It was—in South America.” She was vaguely surprised that her voice was steady, the tears still held at bay. She was even more surprised that she was telling him something that had haunted her for months. Not even her father knew the whole story.

“Tell me, honey.”

“She was an orphan. I played with the kids every day, and when I saw Rosita—I fell in love with her. She used to gather wildflowers to give me every day. And we’d go for long walks and watch butterflies. I loved her so
much
, Hawke!” She stared up at him, choking back a dry sob.

“What happened?” he asked quietly, smoothing back a strand of hair from her forehead.

Kendall swallowed hard. “The revolution started,” she told him with painful control. “I went to help evacuate the orphans—there were nearly fifty of them in that tiny place, and the Sisters needed help. The revolutionaries didn’t care who got hurt;
they didn’t care about innocent children. We had to take them somewhere safe.

“We were leading them along the road and Rosita—broke away from the others. I tried to reach her, but I wasn’t fast enough. And I couldn’t leave the other children. I called out to her, but she’d seen some flowers in a field, and ran toward them.”

“And then?” Hawke’s voice was tight.

“She looked over her shoulder at me, laughing.” Kendall’s voice was toneless. “And … tripped a mine.”

With a soft groan Hawke gathered her in his arms and held her tightly. “God, I’m sorry, honey! I’m so sorry.”

“I couldn’t cry for her, Hawke,” Kendall went on in the same toneless, suspended voice. “I had to get the other children away from there. And I couldn’t even stop to cry for her. I wanted to go back later … but they wouldn’t let me.”

“Honey—”

“She died because of me … and those damned flowers. And I’ve never been able to cry for her.”

“Kendall, it wasn’t your fault,” he told her firmly, one hand gently stroking her soft hair. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

She rolled away from him suddenly on the wide bed, turning her back to him and drawing the covers up around her neck with a shiver. Dimly, she understood that he couldn’t be allowed to comfort her—not about this. His gentle understanding was tapping the well of tears deep inside of her. And, she very much feared, if the tears once started, they might never stop.

Something small and stubborn within her refused
to cry for Rosita. To cry would be to admit that she was gone. Even the pain would be gone, and there would be only an aching emptiness. It was the emptiness Kendall was afraid of. She would be alone in the emptiness with nothing to hold on to.

“Kendall…” Hawke firmly grasped her shoulder and pulled her over onto her back, staring down at her tense face. His own face was strangely vulnerable. “Share your pain with me, honey. Let me hold you. I know how you feel.” His voice roughened. “I know.”

She stared up at him for a moment, and then her eyes dropped to a small mark high on his chest. Near the left shoulder, it was almost unnoticeable because of his deep tan. Her fingers reached to touch the small scar, and she remembered Father Thomas telling her that Hawke had been wounded while evacuating children from a small hospital. Kendall had seen too many bullet wounds not to recognize one when she saw it.

He knew
. Something inside her crumbled, and she buried her face in his throat, hot tears releasing her grief after months of rigid self-control.

Hawke held her close, murmuring soothingly but making no attempt to halt her tears. He simply shared the warmth of his body, the comforting touch of another human being.

Afterward, Kendall was totally drained, and more weary than she had ever been. She was lying with her head on Hawked shoulder, only dimly aware of their naked bodies pressed close together. She felt him shift slightly, and the light on the night-stand went out.

“I couldn’t save her, Hawke.”

“I know.”

“But I should have been able to save her. If I’d done something differently—”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.” His voice was very quiet. “Stop torturing yourself, honey. Just believe that she’s at peace now. No one can hurt her again.”

“It’s so hard. To see her die that way…”

“Remember the good times.” His voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. “Remember her that way.”

Kendall felt an unfamiliar peace steal over her, and she snuggled closer to his hard body. A faint realization formed in her mind, but she was too tired to be angry by it. “Hawke?”

“What is it, darling?”

The new endearment warmed her oddly. “You deliberately got me drunk, didn’t you?” When he remained silent, she persisted sleepily. “You did, didn’t you?”

He sighed softly. “Not exactly. I just didn’t discourage you from drinking when I realized you weren’t used to it.”

“Sneaky.”

“Always.”

Kendall yawned. “Why can’t I get angry with you?”

“You’ll be angry with me,” he answered whimsically. “In the morning.”

She was too sleepy to understand the remark. Her thoughts faded away into nothingness and she slept.

The dreams were confused at first. Princesses sleeping on impossibly high beds, dragons and
witches and spells. She could hear children laughing, but couldn’t see them. She walked through a wooded area, puzzled by the seashells on the path and the armored knight who kept charging past her on a white horse.

She bowed gravely to a wizard throwing Stardust into the air and chanting a spell, then stepped carefully around the small audience of solemnly watching elves. Moments later she passed a tea party going on beneath a huge tree. There was another elf, something that might have been a troll, the armored knight—and his horse—and an economy-size dragon toasting marshmallows. The dragon offered Kendall a marsh-mallow; she declined politely and walked on.

The children’s laughter was growing louder, and she headed toward the sound. There was a vague urgency driving her; she had to find the children. But the path seemed to wind on forever. She passed a tower with a rope made of hair dangling from the single window. She passed a puzzled prince trying vainly to fit the glass slipper he carried onto a buxom maid’s foot. She passed a castle with banners flying.

She passed a little boy trying to jump over a candlestick, and thought irritably,
That’s not right
—
this is supposed to be a fairy tale, not a nursery rhyme!

Another knight rode by—this one in black armor and riding a black horse—and she rather uncertainly curtsied as he bowed to her. Odd. Weren’t the black knights supposed to be the bad guys?

Her thoughts were distracted as she realized that she was wearing a beautiful gown, fit for any princess. Holding the pure white skirt up carefully, she walked on.

As she emerged from the woods at last, she found herself in a rolling meadow with wildflowers growing everywhere. A group of children were playing happily, laughing and chasing one another.

Smiling, Kendall hurried toward them, her gaze fixed on a little black-haired girl with huge brown eyes.

And then a dark cloud blotted out the sun, and Kendall broke into a run, desperate to reach the little girl. She heard the black knight thundering toward her, shouting a warning. And then an explosion rent the air. Kendall stopped running and stared down at her once-white dress, stained terribly now. The knight was swearing roughly, and all the children were staring at her with fear and horror in their eyes. All but one …

Her own scream woke Kendall from the nightmare, and she found herself struggling in Hawke’s arms as he tried to calm her. The struggles ceased immediately and she clung to him, hearing the soft, swearing voice of the black knight in her dream.