In love.
Liz scanned the scene. Looking for Morgan, she admitted to herself. She was a little overdressed, she saw at once, in a blue
wrap dress that hugged her waist and floated around her legs. Most of the guests wore jeans and wind-breakers or khakis and
sweaters. But she‟d wanted to look pretty. She wanted to feel young. She‟d left her hair loose on her shoulders and slicked an
extra layer of mascara on her lashes, a deeper shade of rose on her mouth. She wanted Morgan to look at her and see the girl
she‟d been sixteen years ago, bright and fearless.
Blankets and camp chairs dotted the grass. A volleyball net stretched across the hard, damp sand. Zack had already joined
the knot of teenagers around the cooler holding up one pole. Liz spotted a can in his hand and angled for a closer look.
Catching her eye, he smiled crookedly and held it up.
Soda. She smiled back.
On the crescent of shale below the shelter, two huge steel washtubs balanced on rocks a foot above a roaring fire, the red
flames competing with the radiance on the horizon. The scent of seaweed rode upward on the steam. The gray waves had the
sheen of molten metal.
“Morgan!” Emily shouted as if she hadn‟t seen him in weeks.
Tugging away from Elizabeth‟s grasp, she darted to the lone, tall figure at the edge of the water. Liz followed more slowly,
her heart beating in her throat.
He looked the same, her shadow rescuer, appearing out of the night. His face was angled, strong, and pale, his hair the
color of moonlight. Her gaze slid up his powerful torso to his face, her pulse rioting.
His eyes were guarded and cold.
She put that look there, she realized with regret. When she sent him away. His pride—and her own—demanded she take
the first step toward him.
She took a deep breath that did nothing to calm her racing heart. She wished she were as young and sure of her welcome as
Em, so she could run, too, and throw her arms around him.
But she wasn‟t the girl she‟d been in Copenhagen. Life and medicine had taught her caution, particularly when the stakes
were high and the outcome unpredictable.
She stopped, her courage failing a few yards away.
“I did not know if you would come,” Morgan said. “I am glad you did.”
His words gave Liz hope.
“We came to see you.” She cleared her throat. “To thank you. For, um, the necklace.”
“I do not require thanks.”
“We‟re supposed to say it anyway,” Emily said.
He glanced down at the little girl attached to his leg like a barnacle to a ship‟s hull, his austere expression lightening. “Then
you may.”
“Not like that.” She tugged at his arm until he bent over. “Like this,” she said and smacked her puckered lips against his
cheek.
Morgan looked as stunned as if a butterfly had landed on his knee or he‟d been hit with a two-by-four.
Liz‟s heart swelled. Her eyes swam, blurring the picture they made, the pale, forbidding lord of the finfolk and her dark
pixie daughter, so odd together, odd and right, his hand curled protectively over her shoulder, her weight resting against his
thigh.
Morgan‟s gaze locked with hers. A tiny muscle beat at the corner of his mouth. “Are you going to thank me, too?”
Her pulse stuttered. They were attracting attention, she knew, curious and mostly friendly, from her neighbors, her patients,
her children.
Her children.
For a moment she froze, nerves quivering in the pit of her stomach. She took two steps toward him, aware of taking a risk,
of crossing a line she‟d never crossed before.
Could she do it? Could she put the woman before the doctor, before the mother, in such a public way?
First steps, she told herself firmly. Sometimes the outcome was worth the gamble, in medicine and in life.
Standing on tiptoe, she leaned up to brush a kiss against his cheek. At the last moment, he turned his head, and their mouths