Stacy had laughed at that. “‘Forever’ means something different coming from you.” She didn’t remind her father that he was a centuries-old dragon strolling around in a fifty-five-year-old man’s skin.
She had no reason not to trust Rowan, but she wondered at his devotion to her. He had been in a sort of hibernation all those years since her mother’s death. Maybe he was so committed to the estate because it had once been Catherine Thorn’s.
Khan had assured her he did not think this was the case.
Stacy’s mind drew back to the present. Rowan had drifted to one of the large bay windows overlooking the front of the estate, where a cobblestone path led from the house to a large wrought-iron gate. It was closed, of course, and a thin wall of magic shimmered over it. Only those who had access to the magic could see it.
Right now, that was Rowan and Stacy. He had shown her how to operate the wards, but it turned out ward magic was a complex art, and she would need lessons before she could successfully wield it. The wards being thin did not indicate they were weak. The intricate weaving of the magic made them strong, or so Rowan had explained.
Sometimes, when Stacy wandered the grounds in the cool of the evening, she sensed the magic in the wards pulsating as if recognizing she was their commander. One day, she’d be able to tear through them or fling them up. Right now, she had more important things to take care of.
Beyond the gate was a long drive flanked by dense woods. The gate was set far enough from the road that few passing by would know a grand old house stood here. Stacy liked that. Plus, the magic worked over the grounds gave the structure a worn, ill-maintained, unappealing appearance. Few trespassers came their way.
Still, Stacy often caught Rowan passing a keen, watchful eye over the property as if expecting the defenses to be broken at any moment and an unwanted visitor to arrive. She couldn’t blame him. Since that night a little more than a week ago when assassins had infiltrated the grounds, she had slept fitfully, always wondering if someone intending her or Amy harm was creeping into her home against her wishes.
“We must consider more than loyalty and discretion in new hires,” Rowan stated at last, turning toward Stacy. “We need people who can offer extra levels of protection not only to the house and land but to you and Amy.”
Stacy wondered if he was overthinking the matter since she no longer had Lenny to deal with, and Victor Corbinelli didn’t know where she was. Yet, the back of her mind whispered. Let him try to find me. I’m not hiding, and he’ll regret it if he tries to cross me.
The stony look on Rowan’s face told her he would have her back. “Whatever you think is good, Rowan,” she replied at last. She trusted him with anything having to do with the estate. He cared more deeply about it than anyone.
He was deeply devoted to my mother, Stacy reminded herself, hoping one day to have a bond with Rowan strong enough for him to tell more of his story. A talented dryad like him with decades of experience in this place must have some wicked good shit to tell.
Rowan gave her a curt nod. “I’ll call the two people I have in mind first. They’re trustworthy. Did I mention they’re old friends of mine?”
“You didn’t, but that makes me feel better. Did they used to work here, too?”
“No. Everyone else who once worked here has been gone for…a long time.” Rowan weighed his words, then added, “They left long before you were born and your mother died. As for my old friends, the main trick is getting them to want the job.”
Stacy raised a brow. “I’d prefer employees who want the job.”
“Of course,” Rowan replied. “I’ll let you know what they say.” He was gone a moment later, moving silently from the room despite his large frame.
Stacy remained in the living room, taking a moment to breathe deeply. Her gaze traversed the front of the estate as Rowan had. Seeing all that she now owned still knocked the breath from her. It was beautiful, magical. It was hers, a rightful inheritance.
Help me do right by you, Mom, she thought, hoping part of her mother’s spirit on the grounds heard her.
The weight of her new responsibilities and her legacy brought a new feeling of apprehension, but there was no use thinking about it now. Not when there was much work to do. She strode from the living room and to the back door, muttering, “Let’s hope Rowan has better luck hiring people for the estate than I have with the damn paperwork.”
CHAPTER TWO
Rowan strode down the cobblestone walk of the estate toward the circular gravel drive with familiarity and confidence. He passed a fountain depicting a Celtic goddess around which several sprites flitted. The low light of encroaching evening paired with a soft, gradually chilling breeze reminded him of many times he had wandered from one end of the estate to the other, monitoring the security of the wards and watching for anyone who might step foot on the grounds with ill intent toward his mistress.
The estate’s quiet at this time of day calmed him, though he hadn’t revealed his anxiety to Stacy. The forthcoming arrival of two old friends filled him with conflicting emotions. Eagerness to see them again after so long mixed with apprehension and anxiety. However, the dryad kept his composure.
Stacy’s face flashed into his mind, producing a small smile. He reminded himself that she was the reason he did this. Sometimes, when he awoke in his room in the manor house, he thought of Catherine, half expecting to find her in the garden as the sun rose.
Of course, she wasn’t there anymore, and a sharp pang of grief filled him with every realization. It was bittersweet to see her daughter every day, to hear a similar laugh and see the light sparkle in her eyes.
Rowan reached the wrought iron gates that closed the rest of the world off from the house. With a simple hand wave, the wards released enough for the gates to creak open, allowing in two cars. The cars traveled the drive and parked one behind the other past the fountain. Rowan waved again, replacing the wards, then headed toward the cars at the same moment a man appeared from the first.
The newcomer appeared to be in his early thirties. He was shorter than Rowan, though broader in the shoulders. His rugged appearance told the dryad he hadn’t changed in all these years. Rowan often compared the man’s hair to the color of dark soil. At least he had bothered to comb out the bits of leaves and twigs often caught in it.
The man’s deep brown eyes held a steadfast, calm demeanor Rowan had once sought comfort in. His complexion had a tanned, weathered look from many years spent outdoors. Though he was normally dressed in workman’s clothes with gloves and sturdy boots, he had taken Rowan’s suggestion and worn something appropriate for a dinner interview.
The man glanced around and whistled, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “You’re shitting me, Rowan. This is your house?”
Rowan hoped the newcomer would put his language away during dinner, but he didn’t jump into a lecture. “Not mine. I am merely the estate manager.”
“Still. I see why you stayed here for so long.”
“I am still here,” Rowan replied evenly.
The man took Rowan’s hand and shook it firmly while thumping the dryad on the back. “It’s good to see you again, old friend.”
Rowan smiled. “It’s good to see you too, Miles.”
Miles Ironwood’s deep brown eyes sparkled. “You look the same as ever. Old age ain’t caught up with you yet?”
Rowan gestured at Miles. “I could say the same of you.”
Both men turned as the driver’s side door of the second car opened. Rowan could have sworn the air grew chillier as the woman alighted. The slender woman turned her small, pointed face, dark eyes trained on her surroundings.
Despite the years since he’d last seen her, she still took Rowan’s breath away. She was an ethereal beauty with a timeless quality, as many of her kind were. Her long tresses shimmered with shades of silver and moonlight blue. Though those eyes were not yet on him, Rowan remembered they changed hue with her mood, ranging from deep forest green to vibrant violet.
Slowly, she turned to the men. Her attire included a sleek, dark maroon trench coat with matching gloves and hat. She always dressed with a balance of style and practicality, unlike Miles, who threw on whatever was nearest in the closet.
Like Rowan and Miles, the woman appeared much younger than she truly was. In her case, she looked close to Stacy’s age. She did not smile. Her eyes glittered, but not in the amused way Miles’ did.
