engagement, are you? You are? How boring of you. It's not like you ever came to see me on the boat."
Freya had heard enough. "Killian!"
"Yes, love?"
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please leave me alone."
"No."
"No?"
Their eyes met, and it was just like the engagement party all over again. There was no denying the powerful attraction she felt toward Killian. It felt just as strong as her love for Bran. As if an invisible force was pushing her toward him. When she thought of Bran, her heart died a little in her chest. She had tried. She had tried so very hard to resist. She had been so very good for so long.
Killian bent his head toward hers, his lips brushing her cheek, but at the last moment she turned away from him and ran to the other side of the bar, her heart pounding in her chest. She turned up the volume on the jukebox. Maybe if she made the music loud enough she could drown out her confused whirl of emotions.
"You don't have to hide from me," he said, finding her a few minutes later in the walk-in pantry where Sal kept the supplies. "I won't bite, I promise. Hand me that bottle of maraschino cherries."
She shrugged and threw up her hands, as if to give up, and handed it to him. His fingers brushed her skin and she felt the fire between them begin to smolder; she could not look at him without seeing his want and his need all over his beautiful elfin face.
"What are you doing?" she asked, as he put aside the bottle and put his arms around her instead.
"You know what I'm doing." He began to kiss her and push his body against hers, and the heat between them consumed her. . . . What was she doing. . . . Why was she doing it? . . . Why couldn't she stop? Why couldn't she offer even one word of protest?
"Freya," he sighed. His voice was low and musical, playing her like a flute. Then he cupped her face in his hands and they began to kiss. He kissed her all over her face and neck, and they pressed against each other. Their kisses were long and soft, wet and searching; she could feel his excitement growing and she felt as if she were melting underneath his tongue.
This is the beginning of the end, she thought. The first time had been a mistake, a rash, impulsive act by a silly young girl. This time she should know better . . . and yet she had still succumbed. Freya returned his kisses eagerly, and fell headfirst into the abyss.
Chapter twenty-two
The Long Road Home
When it came down to it, one could not meet danger alone, no matter how strong was one's courage. When Joanna returned to the house, she repaired to her bedroom and immediately began to pack. She had no idea where this trip would take her, or how long it would take. Only that she had very little time, and she hoped that after all these years, he would agree to help her. They had a responsibility to this world, after all, those of them who were stuck on this side of the bridge.
Joanna ruminated on their long life here. It hurt her to admit, but the Beauchamps, for all their pride and their history and their magic, had nothing to show for themselves except a broken home, with a son in jail. For all her taste and style and obsession with home improvement and her "good" jewelry (she was especially proud of a pair of small but rare pearl earrings that she wore on special occasions), she was essentially a failure at all the important things. She had failed her son, and she had failed her husband. She could not save her boy back when the world was young, and she had faulted her husband for doing the same when it came to their daughters. It was a sorry business, but at least she was going to do something about it now. She could repair at least one part of it.
"Mom? What are you doing? Are you leaving?" Ingrid blinked without her glasses. She wore a white peignoir and her blond hair fell to her shoulders. She looked years younger, and Joanna wished she would wear her hair down more often; Ingrid looked so much prettier and softer that way.
"Just for a little while," she replied, folding a sweater and stuffing it into her carpetbag.
"You didn't answer