“Am I to understand that you have a possum as a pet and that he is somehow in love with my cat, bringing her trash as a sign of his affection?”
“She. Patches is a girl. Patience Petunia, Patches to friends and family.”
Now both eyebrows went up, and Pru wanted to smack herself over the forehead. Could she look even more pathetic in front of this woman?
But then the angular features transformed, and Rhiannon let out a peel of laughter so smooth, low, and seductive, Pru wished the frown was back. Because this laughter was pure sin. Just a stone’s throw away, in the days of her childhood, the town pastor at the church off the Market Square had warned about this.
The road to perdition…
Oblivious to the preacher’s warnings, Rhiannon pursed her perfect lips and made Pru think that perdition would be quite worth the price of admission indeed.
“A queer possum girl. How charming.” Then Rhiannon extended her arms and deposited the critter in question in Pru’s hands.
“She is that. Both charming and a queer possum girl. Though, ‘girl’ is perhaps no longer fitting. Patches will be ten this coming spring.”
In her peripheral vision, Ceridwen’s eyes grew wider. Was she surprised at how old Patches was? Pru wanted to argue that she was perfectly aware it was a rather advanced age for this particular species, but it was something in the way Rhiannon was looking at Patches that made Pru reconsider further ramblings.
Rhiannon, who ignored her sister entirely, kept looking wondrously at the possum, the corners of those damnation-worthy lips twitching still. Yes, Pru thought, nobody could resistPatches. The sweet and funny-looking critter who was now giving Rhiannon a decidedly enamored gaze.
“I think, judging by Patches here, you are the charming one, actually.” The second the words came out of her mouth, Pru wanted to smack herself again.
Rhiannon allowed her smile to blossom once more, a full, delighted one that transformed her entire face, the angular features turning from austere to criminally gorgeous. Pru started to pray for the floorboards to open up and consume her whole. She’d be swallowing her tongue any second now.
“There are very few who don’t find me charming,” Rhiannon purred, still looking at the possum.
Swooning wasn’t an option, Pru realized. She’d never recover if she did so in front of the Crowhart sisters, yet she really wanted to. Who says things like that with a straight face and looks honest when they do? In fact, Pru would bet her last dollar that people and possums everywhere dropped dead from longing and lusting after this woman.
Patches whined, squirming, no longer the center of attention, and for a second Pru thought she’d drop her. Unexpectedly quick, Rhiannon extended a long slender arm, making sure the finicky possum didn’t fall.
Their hands touched.
A full skin-on-skin contact, and suddenly the tempest from yesterday entered the store once again, thunder rolled, and the air grew thick and heavy. Rhiannon’s eyes were stormy, the green almost entirely black and unreadable. Time stood still, and Pru could swear she heard chanting, words as old as the cliffs, permeating the space, palpable in the saturated air around them.
If yesterday she had been a butterfly pierced by some collector’s hand, today she had been one encased in amber, the warmth enveloping her, making her blood molten. Somethingsurged inside, spilled and took hold. She felt lightheaded, and yet her mind was clear and her senses sharp. Sharper than ever. The heady intensity mixed with the honeyed, languid feeling of the amber was a curious combination. Pru wanted to stop and admire the sensation, wanted to savor it.
Her veins pulsed with the rhythm of the chants, and she had a distinct vision of lifting her arms to the sky, rain falling all over her, soothing, caressing, seducing…
And then, just as quickly as it overcame her, the feeling was gone. Rhiannon removed her hand slowly, allowing it to drop gracefully to her side even as lightning illuminated the far corners of the bookshop. Her bright eyes were wide, unseeing, red lips, almost bloody, parted on a prayer or a scream.
Pru suddenly felt deflated, empty. Hollowed out, as if denied sustenance. She blinked and looked around herself, seeking something she had no name for.
Next to her, Ceridwen’s face was unreadable. Rhiannon, her hand firmly at her side, finally focused her eyes on Pru. The remnants of the storm swirled around her, and with something akin to fear carved into her features, she exhaled. The air cleared. Pru felt the shift in her bones. In the ensuing silence, not even the snuffles of Patches could be heard. It was like everyone was collectively holding their breath.
What would Rhiannon do?
Ultimately, the choice was taken from her by a noisy group of tourists who bustled into the store, completely oblivious to the moment they were interrupting.
Pru opened her mouth, words eluding her once again, and she stared, feeling foolish, feeling gauche as this woman who had seemingly conjured a squall just moments ago looked away.
“I’ll let Boleyn know she has a suitor, because I am afraid Patches’s efforts have been deemed a nuisance. Ceridwen.”
With a nod to her sister, Rhiannon was gone, and Pru was left on the porch with an armful of squirming possum and the realization that Rhiannon Crowhart had not actually stepped over her threshold at all, and yet the havoc she wreaked just by coming close was considerable. What would happen if she ever crossed that line?
5
RHIANNON, SISTERS & HOLDING UP THE SKY
SPARKS FLY IN SISTERLY SPAT!
