The Eden Tree (7 page)

Con studied her for some sign of dissembling. He found none. “You know nothing of your father’s reasons for going to America, then?” he asked directly.

“No. Only that he split with my grandfather and they never communicated after he left. It was a taboo subject in our house. He wouldn’t talk about it and I knew better than to ask any questions.”

Con absorbed this without comment. It was true; she was unaware of her father’s past. He didn’t quite know how to react to this realization. He couldn’t quell entirely his resentment of her family and of her presence on Ildathach, but it was constantly at war with his overpowering desire for her. And desire was winning easily.

Linn glanced over at him. He was standing with his arms folded, regarding her thoughtfully. She turned her head, determined not to stare. She couldn’t look at him without wanting to touch him. She shoved her hands into the pocket of her skirt, as if to prevent the thought from transforming itself into action. “What is this rock?” she asked, turning to a boulder that looked like some kind of landmark.

“A Druid stone,” Con replied, coming to stand next to it. He put his palm flat on the surface of the gray slab. “Ireland wasn’t converted to Christianity until the fifth century. This is called a
sarsen
. It was used by the ancient Celts in pagan rites. It’s very old.”

“Do you believe those stories of magic spells, bloody sacrifices?” Linn asked.

Con ran a forefinger along a vein in the rock. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe or not. They were a fierce, proud people and they left their mark on the land.” He glanced up at the crescent moon. “They had a spirit full of incantation.”

And so do you, Connor Clay, Linn thought. They had left their mark on their descendants as well.

Con extended his hand to Linn again. “Come along. It’s just a little further now.”

They took the fork leading up to the left. As promised, after a short distance they came to an open field where the ruins of a temple took on an eerie quality in the moonlight. Only a few columns were left standing; the rest of the structure had collapsed into a heap of rubble.

“It looks Roman,” Linn breathed, awed.

“It is. They built it after their invasion and left it behind. The local story is that Saint Patrick blasted it for a heathen house of worship on his way through, but I think it more likely fell down from lack of attention.”

“The Romans invaded Ireland?”

Con snorted. “The Romans, the Vikings, the Danes, the Gauls, the Germans, you name it. Anybody who could march steadily or float a boat. We have here what you might call a bad location. The intrepid navigators out seeking a path to the New World—or merely some plunder for the old one— sort of crashed into us on the trip. We’re in the way, you see.”

Linn laughed delightedly. He picked up a pebble and tossed it at the temple. “Think I’m amusing, do you?” he asked, with an undertone of irony. “It wouldn’t be the first time I provided amusement for an American lady.”

Linn was puzzled by his tone. Now what on earth did that mean? He was driving her crazy with his cryptic remarks but she knew already that pressing him for details would only make him more reserved. Anything he told her would have to be his idea.

Con walked to the edge of the precipice that bordered the clearing. “Come and see,” he said.

Linn joined him and looked down from the height. The town of Ballykinnon was spread below them, the houses and the fields, the church tower and the ribbon of roads all in miniature. The lights looked like the twinkling of fireflies.

“Oh, Con, it’s beautiful.”

“Aye, it is.” He turned to look at her. “Is your full name Linda?” he inquired. “I recall that was a popular name in the States.”

“Aislinn,” Linn answered. “My father said that it meant a dream or a vision.”

Con took her face between his hands. “So you looked to me last night,” he said huskily. “The embodiment of every fantasy I ever had.”

Linn gazed back into his beautiful eyes, trying to maintain her sense of reality in this fairytale setting with this storybook man. Was he really so different from other men she’d known? He seemed so. The false, sophisticated bar dwellers, the stuffy academics, all the men from the past five years receded from her mind.

“Do you recall the flyleaf poem from The Eden Tree?” Con asked, tracing her lips with his thumb. A cloud passed over the moon and shadowed his features. “It was called ‘To My Unknown Lady.’”
 

“I remember.”
 

Con recited softly:

“So a woman made of moonlight, with amber hair
 

Will save me, and enslave me, but only if I dare
 

To join the dance
 

To take a chance
 

And love...”

Linn closed her eyes. Reality receded further into blackness.

“You see the way of it,” Con whispered. His lips were almost touching hers. “I described you before I ever met you. Save me, Aislinn. Will you save me?”

The sound of distant thunder boomed in Linn’s ears as Con kissed her. His embrace was so tender and so gentle that she felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids. Why should this man affect her so much? He was a stranger and yet he was not. The previous night had been a searing introduction to the taut strength of his body, the taste of his mouth, the softness of his hair. People she’d seen every day, year after year, hardly left an image in her mind. But Connor was already impressed upon her senses so indelibly that Linn knew she could never forget him.

Con moved his mouth to her neck. “God, I love the scent of your hair, your skin,” he said thickly. “I could find you in the dark, my lady.”

His tone told her that the mocking salutation had become a term of endearment. When he turned his head and sought her lips again she responded eagerly, clinging to him. Con’s gentleness fled in a surge of mounting passion. He ran his hands over her body, leaving a trail of fire where he touched. Linn was weak with hunger; her lifelong fast had not prepared her for this sudden banquet. If Con had released her she would have fallen.

The wind whipped through the surrounding trees, and lightning illuminated the heavens. Thunder cracked overhead, much closer now. Linn hesitated at the noise but Con was oblivious. He lifted her against him, molding her to his hard contours. His body heat was rising; he was caught in the vortex of male need and he was carrying Linn into the whirlpool with him. In a moment she would drown.

Linn pulled away from him forcefully. He followed after her, blindly.

“Con, the storm is coming,” Linn moaned feebly.

He bent and slipped an arm underneath her knees, picking her up swiftly.

“Aislinn,” he rasped in her ear, his hoarse voice barely perceptible over the rising wind, “the storm is already here.”

He walked with her in his arms to the stand of trees.

Chapter 3

Con carried Linn to a small copse where the interlocking branches above their heads, dense with foliage, protected them from the falling rain. Con’s face was wet with scattered droplets, his skin fiery hot as he pressed his lips into the hollow of Linn’s shoulder, lowering her gently to the ground. He pinned her the instant she was prone. She welcomed his weight, caressing him wherever she could reach with eager, searching hands.

“Aislinn,” he breathed, drawing her knees up to settle himself more closely against her. Linn arched to meet him, moaning softly at the sensation of aching need that overwhelmed her to the point of pain. She shifted restlessly, whimpering in protest when he pushed himself off her with one hand, the other going to the neck of her blouse.

“Shh, shh,” he soothed, gentling her with his voice, his touch. He murmured something she didn’t understand as he unbuttoned her shirt, opening the front catch of her lacy bra with a nimble forefinger. His breath stopped in his throat as he looked his fill, his parted lips bearing the faint stain of her lipstick. Then he gathered her to him, rubbing his cheek luxuriously over her silky skin.

“The memory of you like this robbed me of sleep all the night,” Con said huskily. “So sweet, so soft, as smooth as milk. I had the taste of you in my mouth and I couldn’t forget it. You’re a witch, Aislinn. You cast a spell on me in the moonlight.”

“If I did it bewitched us both,” Linn answered, stroking his hair as his mouth moved over her breasts. He paused, using his tongue, and she gasped, clutching him tighter.

He moaned, cradling her in his arms, fusing her hips to his. “Share your body with me,” he panted. “Give me what I should have had last night.”

The reference to the previous evening made Linn stiffen and Con sensed the change immediately. His hold loosened and he raised his head.

“What?” he murmured, still drugged with passion. The screen of his lashes lifted and his eyes, which promised limitless sensual delights, made Linn want to abandon all caution and do as he asked. He was so close above her that his blue gaze seemed to fill the world. Linn turned her head away from its heat.

“You want me,” he urged. “What’s amiss?”

Linn swallowed. “Con, I can’t do this,” she said miserably.

He didn’t answer. The patter of raindrops on the leaves above them was drowned in a peal of thunder. Linn pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling the mist drift down and enclose them in a soft embrace. The storm was passing, but not for Linn and this ardent, impatient man.

“And why not?” he finally said, his voice calm, deliberately controlled. But the tension in his body had not relaxed; he was wound as tightly as a steel cable.

Linn moved to sit up and Con released her. When she clutched her clothes to her bosom awkwardly he reached over and expertly hooked her bra, settling the straps back on her shoulders neatly. Linn rebuttoned her blouse with shaking fingers, noting unhappily that he was very familiar with women’s apparel.

“It’s difficult to explain,” she began.

“Try,” he responded tightly.

He was angry and hurt, but too restrained to show it. It was amazing how well he could master his feelings. Linn wished that she had such command of hers. She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks, trying to think of a way to make him understand. She was tongue tied and he was so good with words.

“I’ve been here little more than a day,” she said, struggling, “and if I haven’t been crying, I’ve been”— she gestured helplessly, close to tears yet again—“rolling around in the grass with you.” She covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head helplessly. “We’ve just met, we don’t even know each other.” She gulped and added, whispering, “I hardly recognize my own behavior.”

He was silent, crouched next to her, listening. The dripping from the leaves above suddenly seemed very loud.

Why didn’t he help her, say he understood, tell her that everything would be all right? Instead he held his breath with unnatural stillness, his expression unreadable in the gloom. His dark hair curled about his head, the ringlets glistening. He looked like a creature of the woods that surrounded them.

“I’m ashamed of myself,” Linn burst out, desperate to get through to him.

That got through to him. He stood abruptly, dusting grass and mud from his jeans smartly.

“I’d not realized that my lovemaking shamed you,” he said evenly. “Thank you for explaining it to me.”

Linn tensed with alarm. “Con, no,” she began.

“Get up,” he said tersely.

She remained as she was, staring up at him.

“I said get up!” he repeated, his calm facade cracking. He yanked on her hands and hauled her ungently to her feet. Linn stumbled against him and he held her off, steadying her with as little contact as possible. Then he turned away and stared into the distance, giving her a chance to collect herself.

Linn clasped her hands together, striving not to panic. In trying to make her feelings clear she had only succeeded in alienating him.

“Connor, listen to me,” she said flatly.

He whirled on her angrily, no longer trying to conceal his reaction to her tactless statement. “No, I will not listen to you!” he said vehemently. Then he took a deep breath, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Why did I not learn? How did I get mixed up with somebody like you again?”

“Somebody like me?” Linn repeated numbly.

“An American
lady
,” he clarified, drawing out the last word with exquisite sarcasm. “One experience should have been enough to cure me.”

“Cure you of what, Con? What are you talking about?”

He examined her with narrowed eyes, as if determining whether or not to tell her. Then he gestured with irritation. “When I was a student in the States I met a girl there. Her name was Tracy Alden. They all have names like that, don’t they? Tracy, Stacy, Lacy, Candy, Sandy, Mandy. All those long-haired, long-legged American girls.” He smiled mirthlessly.

“Not all,” Linn answered pointedly.

He ignored that. “Anyway,” he went on, “we became… involved. Isn’t that the word? Very involved. She was rich, of course. Her family had homes everywhere: a townhouse in New York, where she was staying when I knew her; a vacation place in Florida; a ski chalet in Aspen. And I was,” he chuckled bitterly, “much as you see me. Quite the primitive in her eyes, I should think. Unpublished in those days, not a prospect in the world, an uncouth foreigner with an amusing accent.”