But you have to live in the present, don’t you, Lena? Her mother’s patient and puzzled voice murmured in her ear. You have to apply yourself, to pay attention. You can’t keep drifting this way and make something of yourself. It’s time you focused on a career, put your considerable energy into making your mark.
And under that voice, unsaid, was You disappoint me.
“I know it. I’m sorry. It’s awful. I wish I could tell you how awful it is to know I’m your only failure.”
She would do better, Allena promised herself. She’d talk Margaret into giving her a second chance. Somehow. Then she’d work harder, pay more attention, be responsible, be practical.
Be miserable.
The dog bumped his head against her leg, rubbed his warm fur against her. The small gesture comforted her and turning away from the water, she continued to walk along its verge.
She’d come out to clear her head, she reminded herself, not to fill it with more problems. Surely there couldn’t be a more perfect spot for easing heart and mind. Under those threatening skies, the rough hills shone, the wicked cliffs gleamed. Wildflowers, dots and splashes of color, tangled in the green and gray, and she saw a shadowy spread of purple that was heather.
She wanted to gather it, fill her arms with it, bury her face in the scent. Delighted with the idea, she turned to scramble over rocks where sprigs of it thrived in the thin soil, then higher to mounds bumpy and thick until the fragrance of it overpowered even the primitive perfume of the sea.
When her arms were full, she wanted more. Laughing, she hurried along a narrow path. Then stopped dead. Startled, she shook her head. She heard the oddest hum. She started to step forward again, and couldn’t. Simply couldn’t. It was as if a wall of glass stood between her and the next slope of rock and flowers.
“My God, what is this?”
She lifted a trembling hand, sending sprigs of heather falling, then flying free in the wind. She felt no barrier, but only a kind of heat when her hand pressed the air. And try as she might, she couldn’t push through it.
Lightning burst. Thunder rolled. Through it, she heard the sound of her name. She looked down to the beach, half expecting to see dragons or sorcerers. But it was only Conal, standing with his legs spread, his hair flying, and his eyes annoyed.
“Come down from there. You’ve no business clambering up the rocks when a storm’s breaking.”
What a picture she made. He’d come after her out of responsibility, he liked to think. But he’d been dumbstruck when he’d seen her walking the cliff path in the eerie light, her hair fluttering, her arms overflowing with flowers. It made him want to climb after her, to whirl her and her flowers into his arms, to press his mouth to hers again while the wind whipped savagely over them.
Because he wanted it, could all but taste her, his tone was blade-sharp when she met him on the beach. “Have you no more sense than to pick flowers in such weather?”
“Apparently not. Would you walk down there?”
“What?”
“Just humor me, and walk down the beach five more feet.”
“Maybe you did rattle your brains.” He started to grab her hand, pull her away, but she took a nimble step aside.
“Please. It’ll only take you a minute.”
He hissed out an oath, then strode off, one foot, two, three. His abrupt halt had Allena closing her eyes, shivering once. “You can’t do it, can you? You can’t go any farther than that. Neither could I.” She opened her eyes again, met his furious ones when he turned. “What does it mean?”
“It means we deal with it. We’ll go back. I’ve no desire to find myself drenched to the skin a second time in one day.”
He said nothing on the way back, and she let him have his silence. The first fat drops of rain splattered as they reached the cottage door.
“Do you have anything to put these in?” she asked him. “They’ll need water, and I’d like to keep my hands busy while you explain things to me.”
He shrugged, made a vague gesture toward the kitchen, then went to add more turf to the fire.
It was a downpour. The wind rose to a howl, and she began to gather vases and bottles and bowls. When he remained silent, scowling into the fire, she heated up the tea.
He glanced over when she poured the cups, then went into the kitchen himself to take out a bottle of whiskey. A healthy dollop went into his own tea, then he lifted a brow, holding the bottle over hers.
“Well, why not?”
But when it was laced, she picked up the flowers instead of the cup and began to tuck them into vases. “What is this place? Who are you?”
“I’ve told you that already.”