In sleep she sighed, shifted. Her arm came around him. He closed his eyes. “You’d best hurry,” he told her. “Hurry and find out what you want and where you intend to go. Sooner or later I’ll send for you.”

He rose, lifting her gently to carry her to bed. “If you come to me,” he whispered as he lowered her to the bed, spread the cover over her. “If you come to me, Rowan Murray, I’ll show you magic.” Lightly he touched his lips to hers. “Dream what you will tonight, and dream alone.”

He kissed her again, for himself this time. He left her as a man. And prowled the night mists as a wolf.

*  *  *

She spent the next week in the grip of tremendous energy, compelled to fill every minute of every day with something new. She explored the woods, haunted the cliffs and pleased herself by sketching whatever appealed to the eye.

As the weather gradually warmed, the bulbs she’d spotted began to bud. The night still carried a chill, but spring was ready to reign. Delighted, she left the windows open to welcome it in.

For that week she saw no one but the wolf. It was rare for him not to spend at least an hour with her. Walking with her on her hikes through the woods, waiting patiently while she examined the beginnings of a wildflower or a circle of toadstools or stopped to sketch the trees.

Her weekly call home made her heart ache, but she told herself she felt strong. Dutifully she wrote a long letter to Alan, but said nothing about coming back.

Each morning she woke content. Each night she slipped into bed satisfied. Her only frustration was that she’d yet to discover what she needed to do. Unless, she sometimes thought, what she needed was simply to live alone with her books, her drawings and the wolf.

She hoped there was more.

*  *  *

Liam did not wake every morning content. Nor did he go to bed every night satisfied. He blamed her for it, though he knew it was unfair.

Still, if she’d been less innocent, he would have taken what she’d once offered him. The physical need would have been met. And he assured himself this emotional pull would fade.

He refused to accept whatever fate had in store for him, for them, until he was completely in control of his own mind and body.

He stood facing the sea on a clear afternoon when the wind was warm and the air full of rioting spring. He’d come out to clear his head. His work wouldn’t quite gel. And though he claimed continually that it was no more than a diversion, an amusement, he took a great deal of pride in the stories he created.