Charmed

by Nora Roberts

  “Daddy did the elf,” Jessie pointed out. “All the rest my mother did.”

  “They’re beautiful.” Not just skillful, Ana thought, and perhaps not as clever as Boone’s elf or as elegant as her aunt’s drawing, but lovely, and as true to the spirit of a fairy tale as magic itself.

  “She drew them just for me, when I was a baby. Nana said Daddy should put them away so they wouldn’t make me sad. But they don’t. I like to look at them.”

  “You’re very lucky to have something so beautiful to remember her by.”

  Jessie rubbed her sleepy eyes and struggled to hold back a yawn. “I have dolls, too, but I don’t play with them much. My grandmothers like to give them to me, but I like the stuffed walrus my daddy got me better. Do you like my room?”

  “It’s lovely, Jessie.”

  “I can see the water, and your yard, from the windows.” She tucked back the billowing sheer curtains to show off her view. “And that’s Daisy’s bed, but she likes to sleep with me.” Jessie pointed out the wicker dog bed, with its pink cushion.

  “Maybe you’d like to lie down until Daisy comes back.”

  “Maybe.” Jessie sent Ana a doubtful look. “But I’m not really tired. Do you know any stories?”

  “I could probably think of one.” She picked Jessie up to sit her on the bed. “What kind would you like?”

  “A magic one.”

  “The very best kind.” She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Ireland is an old country,” she began, slipping an arm around the girl. “And it’s filled with secret places, dark hills and green fields, water so blue it hurts the eyes to stare at it for long. There’s been magic there for so many centuries, and it’s still a safe place for fairies and elves and witches.”

  “Good witches or bad ones?”

  “Both, but there’s always been more good than bad, not only in witches, but in everything.”

  “Good witches are pretty,” Jessie said, stroking a hand down Ana’s arm. “That’s how you know. Is this a story about a good witch?”

  “It is indeed. A very good and very beautiful witch. And a very good and very handsome one, too.”

  “Men aren’t witches,” Jessie informed her, giggling. “They’re wizards.”

  “Who’s telling the story?” Ana kissed the top of Jessie’s head. “Now, one day, not so many years ago, a beautiful young witch traveled with her two sisters to visit their old grandfather. He was a very powerful witch—wizard—but had grown cranky and bored in his old age. Not far from the manor where he lived was a castle. And there lived three brothers. They were triplets, and very powerful wizards as well. For as long as anyone could remember, the old wizard and the family of the three brothers had carried on a feud. No one remembered the why of it any longer, but the feud ran on, as they tend to do. So the families spoke not a word to each other for an entire generation.”

  Ana shifted Jessie to her lap, stroking the child’s hair as she told the story. She was smiling to herself, unaware that she’d lapsed into her native brogue.

  “But the young witch was headstrong as well as beautiful. And her curiosity was great. And on a fine day in high summer, she slipped out of the manor house and walked through the fields and the meadows toward the castle of her grandfather’s enemy. Along the way was a pond, and she paused there to dangle her bare feet in the water and study the castle in the distance. And while she sat, with her feet wet and her hair down around her shoulders, a frog plopped up on the bank and spoke to her.

  “‘Fair lady,’ he said, ‘why do you wander on my land?’

  “Well, the young witch was not at all surprised to hear a frog speak. After all, she knew too much of magic, and she sensed a trick. ‘Your land?’ she said. ‘Frogs have only the water, and the marsh. I walk where I choose.’

  “‘But your feet are in my water. So you must pay a forfeit.’

  “So she laughed and told him that she owed a common frog nothing at all.

  “Well, needless to say, the frog was puzzled by her attitude. After all, it wasn’t every day he plopped down and spoke to a beautiful woman, and he had expected at least a shriek or some fearful respect. He was quite fond of playing tricks, and was sorely disappointed that this one wasn’t working as he’d hoped. He explained that he was no ordinary frog, and if she didn’t agree to pay the forfeit he would have to punish her. And what forfeit did he expect? His answer was a kiss, which was no more and no less than she had expected, for as I said, she was young, but not foolish.

  “She said that she doubted very much if he would turn into a handsome prince if she did so, and that she would save her kisses.

  “Now the frog was very frustrated, and he plied more magic, whistling up the wind, shaking the leaves in the trees, but she merely yawned at this. At the end of his tether, the frog jumped right into her lap and began to berate her. To teach him a lesson for his forwardness, she plucked him up and tossed him into the water. When he surfaced, he wasn’t a frog at all, but a young man, quite wet and furious to have had his joke turned on him. After he swam to shore, they stood on the bank and shouted at each other, threatening spells and curses, sending lightning walking the sky, and shooting the air with thunder. Though she threatened him with the hounds of hell and worse, he said he would have his forfeit regardless, for it was his land, his water, and his right. So he kissed her soundly.

  “And it took only that to turn the heat in her heart to warmth, and the fury in his breast to love. For even witches can fall under that most powerful of spells. There and then they pledged to each other, marrying within the month right there on the banks on the pond. And they were happy, then and after, with lives full of love. Still, every year, on a day in high summer, though she is no longer young, she goes to the pond, dangles her feet and waits for an indignant frog to join her.”

  Ana lifted the sleeping girl. She had told the end of the story only for herself—or so she thought. But as she drew back the cover, Boone’s hand closed over hers.

  “That was a pretty good story for an amateur. Must be the Irish.”

  “It’s an old family one,” she said, thinking how often she had heard how her mother and father had met.

  He expertly unlaced his daughter’s shoes. “Be careful. I might steal it from you.”

  As he tucked the covers around Jessie, Daisy took a running leap and landed on the foot of the bed. “Did you enjoy your walk?”

  “After I stopped feeling guilty for leaving you with the dishes—which took about ninety seconds.” He brushed Jessie’s hair from her brow and bent to kiss her good night. “One of the most enviable things about childhood is being able to drop off to sleep like that.”

  “Are you still having trouble?”

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” Taking Ana’s hand, he drew her out of the room, leaving the door open, as he always did. “A lot of it’s you, but there are a few other things.”

  “Honest, but not flattering.” She paused at the top of the stairs. “Seriously, Boone, I could give you something—” She flushed and chuckled when she saw the light come into his eyes. “A very mild, very safe herbal remedy.”

  “I’d rather have sex.”

  Shaking her head, she continued downstairs. “You don’t take me seriously.”

  “On the contrary.”

  “I mean as an herbalist.”

  “I don’t know anything about that sort of thing, but I don’t discount it.” He wasn’t about to let her dose him, either. “Why’d you get into it?”

  “It’s always been an interest. There have been healers in my family for generations.”

  “Doctors?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Boone picked up the wine and two glasses as they walked through the kitchen and out onto the deck. “You didn’t want to be a doctor.”

  “I didn’t feel qualified to go into medicine.”

  “Now, that’s a very odd thing for a modern, independent woman to say.”

  “One has nothing to do
with the other.” She accepted the glass he offered. “It’s not possible to heal everyone. And I … have difficulty being around suffering. What I do is my way of satisfying my needs and protecting myself.” It was the most she felt she could give him. “And I like working alone.”

  “I know the feeling. Both my parents thought I was crazy. The writing was okay, but they figured I’d write the great American novel, at the very least. Fairy tales were hard for them to swallow at first.”

  “They must be proud of you.”

  “In their way. They’re nice people,” he said slowly, realizing he’d never discussed them with anyone but Alice. “They’ve always loved me. God knows they dote on Jessie. But they have a hard time understanding that I might not want what they want. A house in the suburbs, a decent golf game, and a spouse who’s devoted to me.”

  “None of those things are bad.”

  “No, and I had it once—except for the golf game. I’d rather not spend the rest of my life convincing them that I’m content with the way things are now.” He twined a lock of her hair around his fingers. “Don’t you get the same sort of business from yours? Anastasia, when are you going to settle down with some nice young man and raise a family?”

  “No.” She laughed into her wine. “Absolutely not.” The very idea of her mother or father saying, even thinking, such a thing made her laugh again. “I suppose you could say my parents are … eccentric.” Comfortable, she laid her head back and looked at the stars. “I think they’d both be appalled if I settled for nice. You didn’t tell me you had one of Aunt Bryna’s illustrations.”

  “When you made the family connection, you were ready to chew me up and spit me out. It didn’t seem appropriate. Then, I guess, it slipped my mind.”

  “Obviously she thinks highly of you. She only gave one to Nash after the wedding, and he’d been coveting one for years.”

  “That so? I’ll be sure to rub his nose in it the next time I see him.” Tipping up her chin with a finger, he turned her face toward his. “It’s been a long time since I sat on a porch and necked. I’m wondering if I still have the hang of it.”

  He brushed his lips over hers, once, twice, a third time, until hers trembled open in invitation. He took the glass from her fingers, set it aside with his as his mouth moved to accept what was offered.

  Sweet, so sweet, the taste of her, warming him, soothing him, exciting him. Soft, so soft, the feel of her, tempting him, luring him, charming him. And quiet, so quiet, that quick, catching sigh that sent a streak of lightning zipping up his spine.

  But he was no sweaty, fumbling boy groping in the dark. The volcano of needs simmering inside him could be controlled. If he couldn’t give her the fullness of his passion, then he could give her the benefit of his experience.

  While he filled himself with her, slowly, degree by painful degree, he gave back a care and a tenderness that had her teetering helplessly on that final brink before love.

  To be held like this, she thought dimly, with such compassion mixed with the hunger. In all of her imaginings, she had never reached for this. His tongue danced over hers, bringing her all those dark and dusky male flavors. His hands stroked persuasively while the muscles in his arms went taut. When his mouth left hers to cruise down her jaw and over her throat, she arched back, willing, desperately willing, for him to show her more.

  It was surrender he felt from her, as clearly as he felt the night breeze against his skin. Knowing it would drive him nearer to the brink, he gave in to the fevered need to touch.

  She was small, gloriously soft. Her heart beat frantically under his hand. He could almost taste it, taste that hot satin skin on his lips, on his tongue, deep within his mouth. It was torture not to sample it now, not to drag her dress down to her waist and feast.

  The feel of her hardened nipples pressed against the silk had him groaning as he brought his mouth back to hers.

  Her mouth was as avid, as desperate. Her hands moved over him as urgently as his over her. She knew, as she gave herself fully to this one moment, that there would be no turning back. They would not love now. It couldn’t be now, on the starlit deck, beneath windows where a child might wake and look for her father in the night.

  But there was no turning back from being in love. Not for her. She could not change that tidal wave of feeling any more than she could change the blood that coursed through her veins.

  And because of it there would come a time, very soon, when she would give to him what she had given to no other.

  Overwhelmed, she turned her head, burying her face in his shoulder. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

  “Then tell me.” He caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth, making her shudder. “I want to hear you tell me.”

  “You make me ache. And yearn.” And hope, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. “No one else has.” With a long, shuddering sigh, she drew away. “That’s what we’re both afraid of.”

  “I can’t deny that.” His eyes were like cobalt in the dim light. “And I can’t deny that the idea of carrying you upstairs now, taking you into my bed, is something I want as much as I want to go on breathing.”

  The image had her heart thundering. “Do you believe in the inevitable, Boone?”

  “I’ve had to.”

  She nodded. “So do I. I believe in destiny, the whims of fate, the tricks of what men used to call the gods. When I look at you, I see the inevitable.” She rose, pressed a hand to his shoulder to prevent him from standing with her. “Can you accept that I have secrets I can’t tell you, parts of myself I won’t share?” She saw both puzzlement and denial in his eyes, and shook her head before he could speak. “Don’t answer now … You need to think it through and be sure. Just as I do.”

  She leaned down to kiss him, and linked quickly, firmly. She felt his jerk of surprise before she backed away. “Sleep well tonight,” she said, knowing that he would now. And that she would not.

  Chapter 7

  The one gift Ana always gave herself on her birthday was a completely free day. She could be as lazy as she chose, or as industrious. She could get up at dawn and gorge on ice cream for breakfast, or she could laze in bed until noon watching old movies on television.

  The single best plan for the one day of the year that belonged only to her was no plan at all.

  She did rise early, indulging herself in a long bath scented with her favorite oils and a muslin bag filled with dried herbs chosen for their relaxing properties. To pamper herself, she mixed up a toning face pack of elder flowers, yogurt and kaolin powder, lounging in the tub with harp music and iced juice while it worked its magic.

  With her face tingling and her hair silky from its chamomile shampoo, she slicked on her personalized body oil and slipped into a silk robe the color of moonbeams.

  As she walked back into the bedroom, she considered crawling back into bed and dozing to complete the morning’s indulgence. But in the center of the room, where there had been nothing but an antique prayer rug when she’d gone in to bathe, stood a large wooden chest.

  On a quick cry of pleasure, she dashed over to run her hands over the old carved wood, which had been polished to a mirror gleam. It smelled of beeswax and rosemary and felt like silk under her fingers.

  It was old, ages old, for it was something she had admired even as a child living in Donovan Castle. A wizard’s chest, it was reputed to have resided once in Camelot, commissioned for Merlin by the young Arthur.

  With a laughing sigh, she sat back on her heels. They always managed to surprise her, Ana thought. Her parents, her aunts and uncles … so far away, but never out of her heart.

  The combined power of six witches had sent the chest from Ireland, winking through the air, through time, through space, by means that were less, and more, than conventional.

  Slowly she lifted the lid, and the scent of old visions, ancient spells, endless charms, rose out to her. The fragrance was dry, aromatic as crusted petals ground to dust, tangy with the smoke
of the cold fire a sorcerer calls in the night.

  She knelt, lifting her arms out, the silk sliding down to her elbows as she cupped her hands, palms facing.

  Here was power, to be respected, accepted. The words she spoke were in the old tongue, the language of the Wise Ones. The wind she called whipped the curtains, sent her hair flying around her face. The air sang, a thousand harp strings crying in the breeze, then was silent.

  Lowering her arms, Ana reached into the chest. A bloodstone amulet, the inner red of the stone bleeding through the deep green, had her sitting back on her heels once more. She knew it had belonged to her mother’s family for generations, a healing stone of enormous worth and mighty power. Tears stung the backs of her eyes when she realized that it was being passed to her, as it was only every half century, to denote her as a healer of the highest order.

  Her gift, she thought, running her fingers over a stone smoothed by other fingers in other times. Her legacy.

  She gently set it back in the chest and reached for the next gift. She lifted out a globe of chalcedony, its almost transparent surface offering her a glimpse of the universe if she should choose to look. This from Sebastian’s parents, she knew, for she felt them as she cupped the globe in her hands. Next was a sheepskin, inscribed with the writing of the old tongue. A fairy story, she noted as she read and smiled. As old as time, as sweet as tomorrow. Aunt Bryna and Uncle Matthew, she thought as she laid it back inside.

  Though the amulet had been from her mother, Ana knew there would always be something special from her father as well. She found it, and she laughed as she took it out. A frog, as small as her thumbnail, intricately carved in jade.

  “Looks just like you, Da,” she said, and laughed again. Replacing it, she closed the chest, then rose. It would be afternoon in Ireland, she mused, and there were six people who would be expecting a call to see if she’d enjoyed her gifts.

  As she started toward the phone, she heard the knock at her back door. Her heart gave one quick, unsteady leap, then settled calmly. Ireland would have to wait.

  * * *

  Boone held the gift behind his back. There was another package at home, one that he and Jessie had chosen together. But he’d wanted to give Ana this one himself. Alone.

  He heard her coming and grinned, the greeting on the tip of his tongue. He was lucky he didn’t swallow his tongue, as well as the words, when he saw her.

  She was glowing, her hair a rain of pale gold down the back of a robe of silver. Her eyes seemed darker, deeper. How could they be as clear as lake water, he wondered, yet seem to hold a thousand secrets? The gloriously female scent that swirled around her nearly brought him to his knees.

  When Quigley brushed against his legs in greeting, Boone jolted as if he’d been shot.

  “Boone.” With a quiet laugh bubbling in her throat, Ana put her hand on the screen. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I … Did I get you up?”

  “No.” As calm as he was rattled, she opened the door in invitation. “I’ve been up quite a while. I’m just being lazy.” When he continued to stand on the porch, she tilted her head. “Don’t you want to come in?”

  “Sure.” He stepped inside, but kept a careful distance.

  He’d been as restrained as could be over the past couple of weeks, resisting the temptation to be alone with her too often, keeping the mood light when they were alone. He realized now that his control had been as much for his sake as for hers.

  She was painful to resist, even when they were standing outside in the sunlight, discussing Jessie or gardening, his work or hers.

  But this, standing with her, the house empty and silent around them, the mysterious perfume of a woman’s art tormenting his senses, was almost too much to bear.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, but she was smiling, as if she knew.

  “No, nothing … Ah, how are you?”

  “I’m fine.” Her smile widened, softened. “And you?”

  “Great.” He thought that if he were any more tense he’d turn to stone. “Fine.”

  “I was going to make some tea. I’m sorry—I don’t have any coffee, but perhaps you’d like to join me.”

  “Tea.” He let out a quiet breath. “Terrific.” He watched her walk to the stove, the cat winding around her legs like gray rope. She put the kettle on, then poured Quigley’s breakfast into his bowl. Crouching down, she stroked the cat as he ate. The robe slipped back like water, exposing one creamy leg.

  “How’s the woodruff coming, and the hyssop?”

  “Ah …”

  She tossed her hair back as she looked up and smiled. “The herbs I gave you to transplant into your yard.”

  “Oh, those. They look great.”

  “I have some basil and some thyme potted in the greenhouse. You might want to take them along, leave them on a windowsill for a while. For cooking.” She rose when the kettle began to sputter. “I think you’ll find them better than