Wicked Paradise (8 page)

Earlier, when they left the grotto, she let herself drift along with the rhythm and currents of the contradictory soothing and jagged-edged island. Her heart resonated with the land and it resonated with hers, drumming in harmony. Part of her wanted to accept the possibility that she had indeed died and was floating in the Afterlife. Now, she knew absolutely that her father’s plan and Fate’s will was in full-scale attack.

The Fomorian’s evilness had smothered the island for over a century. Only now in the wake of ancient and modern magic uniting to restore its vitality did the island return to life. Only now in the creation of an ancient and modern bond could Morgan and Ryan destroy the evil once and for all.

Countless ideas stuffed Morgan’s head, stirred a cacophony of myths, prophecies, and truth. Not only had Gwilym transferred his Sight to her through telepathy, his potion crammed her brain with his complex knowledge collected over decades of reading people and places, present and future. Morgan slapped her hand over her mouth, stifling her outraged screech at Fate for dumping her into this dreadful position. Mostly, she’d rather die than let Ryan O’Rourke sense any weakness if he heard her cry like a terrified ninny.

Leafy foliage closed in upon her, and her intestines knitted into tight stitches. A squeeze of Ryan’s comforting hand helped quash her inane fear of the woods. She locked away her unsettled emotions and concentrated on his relentless tirade against the hampering vegetation. He steered them around the rougher branches and vines. Other plants softly flayed her bare legs, tickling rather than stinging, easing rather than thwarting her passage. Curiosity warmed over the frozen fear in her chest. How did an island have a heart and pulse like a living being? Speculation opened her senses to a newfound wonder.

A high-pitched screech behind them grated on her ears, similar to an owl’s cry on a silent night. It put to rest her crazy ideas about the mystical island. Morgan and Ryan remained mostly hidden within dense thickets, under shelter of rainforest trees. Landscape patterns appeared familiar. They passed the magenta orchids she accidentally trampled earlier that morning. The bed of grass on which the traveling stones had deposited her was also nearby.

Another thundering shriek pierced the air, gaining on them. Ryan began running, tugging her behind him. Her legs pumped twice as fast to keep up with his long, fluid stride. Instinctively, Morgan’s defensive powers stirred, air fanning fire magic from her scalp to her feet. Ryan stopped abruptly, his handhold crushing her fingers. She smacked into his side, flung her arm around his waist for balance, her fingers slippery on his sweaty torso. He radiated body heat that had less to do with the sweltering air than with the electricity between them. The natural union of similar magic, the puzzling bond of magnetism.

He pivoted around, unfathomable emotions darkening his face. “Drop your powers,” Ryan said in a low snarl. “You’re drawing it to us.”

Forcibly yanking on her power, it rammed into her, staggering her against Ryan. He caught her in a loose hold, and she eased away, straightening her twisted tunic, preparing her mind for the inevitable. She knew the evil shadow wasn’t strong enough to escape the island. Not yet. However, she was losing more magic to it than the negligible amount expended to sustain her link to Ryan. Her power sank to the dungeon of her soul, seething for liberation. Morgan’s stomach churned with the unsettling sensation meeting her fear. Not since she was a child novice had she felt such fright without access to her protective powers. She hated the awful emptiness, the inability to wield magic as natural to her as breathing.

Ryan’s expression softened. He knew what it cost her to surrender. And he’d always maintain a slight sense of what she felt. The brand on his chest and the binding spell ensured that connection. Another thing she loathed at the moment. She stared at the intricate Celtic knots design stamped onto her leather boots. Knots infinitely easier to unravel than the ones tangling her mind and body.

Strong gusts stirred the trees and bushes. They rustled in amplified tempo, warning of danger. Invisible wings beat the air into a cyclone. The fog-like wraith was almost upon them.

“Run.” Ryan gently pushed her in front of him. “Keep to the right.”

She tore off in the direction he pointed, heedless of the limbs and plants lashing her arms and legs, snagging her clothing, reaching for her and trying to cling. Was the island also afraid of the Fomorian?

“There’s a path down the cliff you flew off earlier. It leads to a naturally shielded cave.” He nudged her from behind, his hand firm in the hollow of her back.

Tornado howls grew deafening. Morgan tripped over a crumbling log, and Ryan grabbed her waist from behind to prevent her from planting her face in a prickly bramble. Hot and solid, his hands pulled her against his slick torso.
Wretched jungle! You wasted no time to push us together again.

“Thank you.” Waning energy forced her to wheeze out the words. Before she lost all her stamina and wilted to the ground, Ryan picked her up, cradled her to his chest. His heart pounded against her shoulder, his internal fire wrapped around her, turning her muscles to mush. “Is it much farther?” She gave into his strength.
So be it, island. You’ve had your say for now.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, shame flirting with his arrogance in the downturn of his mouth. He veered to the left and headed down a short, steep incline. “I shouldn’t have been a power-tripping jackass.”

Morgan scrunched her forehead. A powerful donkey tripping? She choked on a laugh, coughing for lack of air. She quickly expelled what air she did possess when he took a long jump across the rocky cliffside. Instinctively, she locked her arms around his thick neck.
Propriety be damned.
It was either risk clinging to more of his warm, enticing bare skin, or tumble down the craggy cliff. Hardly much of a choice.

Ryan leapt three more bone-jarring steps down the incline and released her on a flat granite ledge overlooking the cove she’d unwittingly fallen into earlier. She flattened herself against the cliff face and clutched Ryan’s arm, her fingernails digging into his skin. Not that she feared heights, she merely didn’t care for the bitty span of rock beneath her feet, all that separated her from another harrowing plunge into the sea.

“The cave’s below us,” Ryan explained without missing a breath, as though he’d taken a stroll along the shoreline.

“Did it follow us?”

He smiled smugly. “It can’t. The crystals protecting the grotto also protect this cave and its perimeter.” He pointed out the triangular area of protection.

“What crystals? They hold magic?” Morgan tilted her head. “Are there great quantities of them?” Maybe they could use the crystals to rid the island of WindWraith. An excited idea bloomed. The crystals must be the source of the stones in their amulets!

“The island is plastered with them. I haven’t figured them out yet.” Ryan shrugged his broad shoulders, a challenging demeanor about him. “Maybe you can shed light on them.”

Gwilym’s potion worked its magic in her mind, and Ryan’s dialect became clearer. Her thoughts still felt like unopened books, but she was distinguishing concrete knowledge in bits and chunks. At least Ryan spoke a common tongue. For the most part. The power tripping jackass phrase still puzzled her. The idea seemed to suit him. She stifled a snort.

“In fact,” Ryan lifted his amulet to eye level for closer inspection, “this crystal looks like it came from the same source. There’s a bed of purple stones behind the grotto’s caves.” A grunt sounded low in his throat. “I’ll be damned. I never linked the two.” He studied the amulet’s reverse side. “You made this?”

His eyes darkened in that intense gaze Morgan now recognized as mistrust. He had no reason to trust her, but she’d soon change him of that absurd notion. She must. It seemed Ryan O’Rourke, Fomorian assassin—she thought no less of him now—was part of her destiny.

“Yes. I’ll explain once we reach refuge.” Morgan peered over the precipice and her stomach somersaulted. She saw only a descent into the rocky sea below. Toppling off cliffs wasn’t a feat she ever cared to repeat. “How do we get down there?”

Ryan stepped to the rim of the rocky platform. “I’ll jump down first, then you.”

She pinned him with a grimace. “Easy for you to say. I’m a High Druid Sorceress, not a raven.”

“Yeah, well, I’m an assassin, not an extreme survivalist.” Ryan faced her and lowered away from the ledge, disappearing from view. “Come on.”

Morgan inched her leather-shod feet toward the edge. Panic welled up, mocking the last of her good sense.

“Get on your knees, and work backward until your legs dangle. I’ll catch you.”

Morgan backed up, butting against the rock face. “I can...not.”

“It’s a short drop. You’ll be okay. Trust me.” Concern replaced the impatience in his tone.

Fueled by both his empathy and his entreaty, her determination kicked in. Show of strength became her new motto, even if she didn’t feel it inside. She inched toward the edge and crawled backward until her ankles left the solid surface.

“Don’t look down. Focus forward.”

Morgan followed his advice. Within seconds, his hands encircled her legs, and he grasped her waist to tow her into the safety of his muscular arms. Her feet met rock, and she twined her arms around Ryan’s waist, burying her face in his chest. He stepped into the cave entrance, dropped to the ground, holding her on his lap. Hugging her tight, he rested his chin on top of her head.

It was easy to relax with Ryan’s warmth gloved around her. His quickening heart against her cheek stabilized her own erratic heartbeat. The stone in his amulet glowed strongly—from her nearness, his urges, she didn’t know. Closing her eyes, she blocked out everything except the truth of her destiny and the reality of this man.
To the Goddess with my show of strength. I’m a woman, not a warrior. He won’t like me if I proved too powerful to him.
Bloody hell, she acted as if he wanted her!

Her mind drifted to that morning, waking safe in her bed on Avalon, her body in pained-pleasure from her frightening and passionate dream. The dream where her longing met Ryan’s desire in harmony, where life seemed simple, love appeared natural. Where distrust and recklessness never visited.

A skittering awareness on her backside sent her pulses racing again. Ryan’s fingertips caressed her back, his hands angling toward her hips. Automatically, she curved tighter into his body. Security and warmth tinged with heart stopping desire cloaked her.

“Morgan,” he whispered against her hair. “It’s all right now. We’re safe.” He touched her almost reverently, disproving his earlier suspicion.

She had the wildest urge to touch every inch of his bare skin. Something she’d never done to any man, nor ever wanted to until Ryan appeared in her dreams. Heat suffused her face and she fought the inappropriate and poorly timed urge. Instead, burning with need, she lifted her head and touched her lips to his full, warm mouth experimentally, something she’d wished to do since the moment he became real. He responded, pressing his lips to hers, first softly, then demanding, forcing her lips apart. She rested her hands on his wide shoulders. He made a harsh sound in his throat and slanted his head, the tip of his tongue breaching her parted lips, his lips soft yet firm on hers. Quivers started at the base of her spine and raced along her nerves. She opened her mouth wider and his tongue darted in. Her tongue met his, caressed it, tasted the lingering pineapple he’d snacked on earlier. Ryan poured himself into the kiss as if starved, and her own hunger liquefied her entire being. His ice melted into the warm pool her body had become.

Desperate for air, she freed her mouth and drew a shaky breath. Ryan’s hand slipped down her arm, until his fingers brushed the side of her breast, not taking extra liberties. The heat of his fire magic burned through her muscles and bones. She smothered a moan, aching for him. Craving a love so long denied her.

He kissed the curve of her neck, worked tiny kisses up to her ear, leaving a path of fire where his lips devoured her flesh, his harsh breath fanning the flames. The roughness of his whiskered jaw rasped along her skin. He nibbled her bottom lip, ran his tongue over her lips, until she parted her mouth. Again, he accepted her invitation and speared his tongue inside. Hypnotized by his kiss, her lips tingled, her mind clouded. Their tongues danced in an everlasting waltz.

Excitement poured over his sweat glistened face. But doubt flashed behind his need and his massaging hands on her back froze. His eyes had gone wild, like a stormy midnight sky. Morgan wanted to rip off her tunic and rub her moistened skin against Ryan’s slick body, anything to keep the contact of skin on skin. Passion spiraled through her, melting her magic into molten drops. Finally, he tore his mouth off hers, and she fell into his wide, sharp eyes.

“Holy mother of the Gods.” He sucked in a sharp breath.

Gasping, she slumped against him, dazed in body and mind, in a way she had no words to describe. Silence stretched long as they held each other, evening out their breathing, slowing their wildly beating hearts. The last she remembered before tumbling into a bottomless sleep was Ryan carrying her bone-weary body into the gloomy cave, gathered close against his trembling body as if she were the last woman on Earth.

Chapter 9

WindWraith gave chase, zooming after the trickle of Druid magic flavoring the swampy air. He lost sight of the fleeing pair in the overgrown jungle.

“No!” he howled, the word slamming through his form. The half-Druid Fomorian remembered how to voice his mind, even if silence reigned in the external world. But he remembered. He felt. And if he did not discover a living vessel to host his leftover humanity, he would lose it all to the ravages of eternity. The death sentence old Merlin pronounced upon him would be fulfilled, his long imprisonment a waste.

WindWraith wasted nothing! He gave no quarter to any Druid sorcerer, or any other human. The Outerworld owed him a life. It owed him immortality.