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“I’m not comfortable with this. Take me home.”
He doesn’t even spare me a glance. “I have no car.”
“What? How do you expect me to get back to the city?”
“Bram will be ‘round.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
That makes me feel a little better. Surely if Marrok expects his friend to turn up, he can’t have anything terribly chilling planned.
Five silent minutes later, we break through a clearing. A small cottage appears. Its sloped roof and wooden embellishments bear Tudor-style markings. On a porch overlooked by charming, beveled windows rests a rocking chair illuminated by a small light. The rocker’s lines are lovingly carved. The arms have been engraved to look like branches growing up into the plethora of ivy etched into the headrest. Every notch in the wood demonstrates another facet of Marrok’s talent.
Regardless of how strange he is or how much he throws me off balance, he’ll make us both a fortune.
Almost giddy, I rush up the steps and trail my fingers across the back of the chair. “Beautiful! You did this, right?”
He shrugs. “’Tis but a chair, placed thus for watching the sun rise.”
I can picture him, thoughtful as he sips coffee and watches the sun burst over the horizon, its golden light pouring over the angled strength of his face.
Marrok wraps his fingers about my elbow. “Follow me inside. See the rest of my carvings.”
Tingles swarm me again as he unlocks the door and pulls me over the threshold.
I stumble inside—and find myself stunned mute. Marrok wasn’t lying. Though his cottage is a rustic shell with bare oak floors and naked walls, his carvings make the place gasp-worthy. They’re everywhere—hundreds of them. The wooden masterpieces fill every corner of my vision. I’m speechless.
His talent is beyond anything I imagined.
A hawk prepares for flight here. A mare and her colt play in a meadow there. From the smallest creatures, like a bouncing kitten, to a five-foot rearing centaur, his amazing art covers the floor—every shelf, every surface—and completely astounds me.
Even his furniture, with its exquisite legs and lines, is made with the skill of a master craftsman. Bookcases, some trimmed with flowing scrolls and arches, others with straight Mission-style lines, are stunning. More wooden chairs, all with breathtaking etchings, constructed in every style from Renaissance to modern—truly beautiful.
He has the hands of a master…and the heart of a poet.
I’m so moved, my eyes water. “This is unbelievable. Every piece… They’re so real. I’ve never seen talent so—”
“Enough!” He slams the door, hate burning from his stare. “Drop the bloody pretense. We are alone now, and I tire of your game, Morgana.”
Chapter Twelve
“Who? I-I’m not Morgana. Remember? My name is Olivia.”
“Do you think me daft? I know who you truly are.”
“Clearly, you don’t. I don’t know anyone named Morgana.” I back toward the door. “I’m leaving. I’ll walk to London.”
“You will not!” He grabs my wrists and shackles them together with one of his huge hands at the small of my back.
Despite the fact I’m terrified, my skin leaps to tingling life—like it does every time Marrok touches me.
I don’t understand. Why is my body betraying me?
“I had a dream this morn. Of you. Naked. Teasing me. Inviting me into your body, then unlocking the accursed book before you stole it and disappeared. Cease the pretense!”
The dream. My dream. He had it, too?
