There was far too much disdain in her tone, she realized. Especially for a quilt. But from the moment she'd first lain her hands on the thing she'd been tormented by visions and tortured by dreams—all of them co-starring Sam. Why?
“Why would a quilt make me think of him, Chloe? I mean, we'd never even met before.”
“Meow.”
“And then suddenly he's kissing me in my dreams? Something has to be going on here.”
“Meow.”
“Maybe I'm cursed and I just don't know it,” Emma whispered, walking over to her dresser to study herself in the mirror. Her normal reflection stared back and she went back to the bed again only this time she lay across it so that she was closer to the quilt—no, Chloe—in the corner. “I certainly don't look like I'd be the type to throw myself at a man, so why in the world did I?”
“Meow!”
Lying there trying to find reasons for her unforgivable and utterly immoral behavior, Emma slowly became aware that the scent of Sam's cologne was all around her—it was emanating from her clothes. They smelled of decadence and exotic coffee and a bit of rich chocolate, too—all things which made her hungry for his kisses and more—of his touch, of his body, too. There was simply no denying it—what she wanted was more of him. Frowning now, she rolled onto her side and stared off at nothing, but her head was still full of Sam. No wonder she'd completely lost her mind with him—he'd taken control of her senses!
“Meow.”
“Still won't be going back there, though,” she muttered, and she meant it. Her embarrassment would simply kill her. Besides, there was simply no need. “I left the sketches behind for him. I'm sure he'll feel free to use them.”
It felt good to know Sam Huntingdon had everything he needed if he wanted to do as she had suggested he should—and she really hoped he would do so. The Victorian-themed gazebo-like nooks would be lovely come springtime when the flowers began to bloom and her ideas were perfect for a bit of outdoor expansion. They were also in keeping with Lindsay's plans for his renovation and any architectural designer worth his or her salt could take what she'd drawn and create a set of prints for him.
Her mind already spinning with thoughts and scenes of what Sam might create with her drawings, Emma rolled over onto her back and closed her eyes while she ran her fingers through her hair, combing away the gnarls and tangles. Unconsciously, she spread the length of it over the edge of her mattress and the side of the bed, letting it spill onto the floor—and was immediately struck with a vision of Sam leaning over her there, joining her on the bed.
With a gasp of shock, she sprang up from the mattress and rounded the bed where she stopped and glared at Chloe. The cat had managed to work the quilt out of the corner and over to the side of the bed—it was lying right where her hair must have fallen, but...
Shooing Chloe off the thing, Emma bent and picked it up to fold it. Tomorrow, she would call Lindsay and ask her to come by and pick it up, then drop it off at the coffee shop for Sam. Glaring at Chloe, she said, “Naughty girl. You did that on purpose, didn't you? I know you like it and it is nice and soft, but I don't want it anymore.”
“Meeeoooww.”
Arching a brow at the feline, she wondered how it was even possible for a cat to sound morose but Chloe certainly had. Tossing the quilt onto her dresser, Emma shook her head at Chloe and shut off her bedroom light then went into the living room to sulk. Or pine. Or whatever a woman as confused and still wound up inside from the sensual feast and pleasurable delight she'd found in Sam's kisses usually did.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the edge of the puzzle box she'd picked up at Seville's—it was still lying on the table by her white glazed French doors where she'd put it the day she bought it and then promptly forgot it was there. Because of the dreams, her treacherous mind taunted.
Shaking her head she felt her cheeks heat with remembered pleasure brought on by the memory of his kiss. But memories of what she had done tonight with Sam—without any prior sort of provocation from him—brought back the agonizing guilt and utter mortification she'd felt, too, and she really didn't want to deal with those right now.
Pushing the irritating reminders away, she walked over and took up the box. A puzzle could be exactly what she needed right now. The level of concentration required to put it together should certainly prove a more than welcome distraction from her now ever constant thoughts of Sam. At least she'd thought it would, but when she opened the box, the first thing she saw was a card lying atop the intricately carved puzzle pieces just beneath the lid.
Curious, she picked it up to examine, then immediately let out a groan of frustration. Etched into the surface in bold, black lettering were the words: Huntingdon's One Stop Coffee Shop. And there was a picture of a steaming mug of coffee. It was his card and she knew someone had put it in the puzzle box on purpose but what she couldn't figure out was who or when.
Deep in thought, trying to figure it out, Emma ran a finger over the raised lettering for a moment then flipped the card around. On the back was a number, written in ink, and probably by his own hand. Was this his actual personal number? She wondered. There were a couple of things about him she probably really should know—like whether or not he was married. Lindsay had never mentioned it to her, but then, she never mentioned lots of things.
Staring at the numbers, Emma couldn't stop herself from wondering—if she called the number on the back of the card would he be the one to answer? Or would it be picked up by his wife instead? Ignoring the quick rush of immediate horror she felt at the thought she might have kissed a married man, Emma hastily laid the card aside and picked up the puzzle box instead. The last thing she needed to see or do right now was anything related to Sam. Hadn't she gotten herself into enough trouble over him already?
Chapter Seven
Carefully sealing the iron-banded door behind him with the whispered archaic words of a ward as he stepped through and into the Hawthorne Grove Public Library, Alastair Skurlocke cast a sidelong glance at the tall walnut and brass clock in the corner. He hoped he hadn't kept Esmerelda waiting.
With any luck, he thought, hurrying out the front door to the lighted walk beyond, she would not yet be here. He needed time with her—time alone—to tell her what he had learned. She was not going to like what he had to say, or even what he then must do once she appeared, but he had been commanded by one of great power. Bring her to me, the whispers had said, and he would not disobey.
Alastair had barely cleared the front walk when the click of heels on the stones before him signaled Esmerelda's arrival. Drawing up, he paused beneath a light to await her while questioning himself once more. Before he handed her over, he must be sure he was doing the right thing.
“Did you get it?” she asked the instant she saw him; her eyes were brimming with both hope and expectation—both of which he knew he would soon crush, for he truly had nothing to give her. The difficult part, however, was going to be the explanation for why.
Hesitant now, he tried to stave off the dreaded revelation of what he had found for as long as he possibly could. “You must be aware that magical lore is enchanted. Such documents would need to be translated before you could possibly read it.”
Her frown said she was not happy to learn this but she would not let the delay sway her decision to find out what was in the long-ago archived mystical document she had requested he find. “Who do I need to see for that?”
Alastair sighed. He should have known she would not be deterred. Esmerelda Seville was nothing if not pertinacious once she set her mind to a course of action. Nothing he said to her would matter at this point. She was clearly determined to see this through. Resigned that there was no other way, he opted for the truth. “No one as it turns out. Esmerelda, I regret to be the one to inform you of this, but there is no such thing as a Cupid Pact.”
Like the response from having flipped a switch, her spine stiffened and her lids narrowed over her eyes. “There is.”
“No, there truly is not. Nor is there, to our especial knowledge, any magic council or committee, or assemblage of supernatural administrators known as the CHG—” he started in an attempt to explain but she was no longer listening.
Stalking past him she made for the library—likely she meant to try and seek out Airrick inside.
“You can't. The guards will stop you unless I am there by your side. You know this,” he reminded softly as he fell into step beside her. “Esmerelda, stop. Will you wait a minute, please? Look, I'm sorry I don't have what you're looking for but I would still like to help you.”
She drew up so suddenly he almost walked past her. “Help me what? If there is no Cupid Pact, no CHG, there was nothing to come here for. Right?” There were tears in her eyes and he could easily imagine why. To think so many years of her life might have been wasted … if someone had told him the same of himself, it might well have made him want to cry.
But the moment wasn't over yet. There was still more he had yet to do. He had to tell her something, though, before he escorted her inside. She deserved at least that much warning, though he knew she would not like it. “Esmerelda, I think you and your sisters are in trouble.”
“That's enough, Skurlocke. We have no time,” came a voice to his ear on the wind. “You must bring her to me—now.
Alastair obediently nodded—or was it a bow he made into the night?—then reached down to take Esmerelda's hand, carefully linking her fingers through his. For whatever reason, Esmerelda Seville had been summoned and he would see her brought safely to the man he knew awaited her presence inside. Motioning with one hand for silence, he signaled for Esmerelda to follow him back into the library and then through the secret door, after which he led her immediately into a dark and sparsely furnished chamber off the long central corridor.
“Wait here. You're safe, Esmerelda. I promise,” he said, and quickly closed the door behind him, leaving her alone in the darkness.
Esmerelda had been certain Alastair was about to take her into the chambers below and deliver the Cupid Pact—the document she had come here for. But when she heard him whispering outside the door, she knew she would not be able to leave the chamber unless or until he allowed it.
The chamber had been warded—and by Keeper magic at that.
Spinning about in the now darkened room, she pounded her fists against the door. “Blast you, Alastair Skurlocke! Let me out of here now!”
When that did not seem to work, she tried another angle. “Mortianna and Serephina both know where I am. They will come looking for me!”
It was true. Her sisters did know she had come to the Keeper and they would eventually pay him a visit, too—if he didn't let her out soon. But then, she remembered she need not have worried. He would not keep her here forever. The Keeper's chambers were sacrosanct and she had invaded that space. Was, in fact, breaking rules right and left just by being here.
After taking a moment to calm down and regroup, she realized he was simply trying to protect her. “Still, the room leaves something to be desired,” she muttered as she looked around the small space. There were no windows in the chamber and yet it was not quite utterly dark. From somewhere, a glimmer of light in the shadows allowed her to see an old workbench upon which sat an unlit candle. There was also one slightly askew but still perfectly serviceable chair.
Glaring back over her shoulder at the warded door, Esmerelda decided to use a little magic of her own. She waved her fingers and whispered a few words, then stood back and admired the scene she had created with delight. Gone were the shadows and the smell of non-use. From one instant to the next, the darkness was gone and in its place the cheery light of a crackling fire—one she'd spelled into the wall across from the chair. It was cool out tonight, after all.
The workbench had transformed into a rich wooden desk and the lone candle, too, was gone. In it's place sat a gleaming three-armed brass candelabra. Another whisper, another snap, and she had everything she needed—for as long as he made her wait.
A bowl of fruit, a half-read book, and green and gold plaid chenille throw for her lap would be plenty to keep her cozy. At least for a little while. If Alastair did not come back for her soon, she would have to find her way out. For now, however, she was content to read while he did what he had to to make her presence here okay with the guards.
As she settled into the chair and picked up her book, she wondered what he was doing and how long it would take. If she didn't return pretty soon, Mortianna and Serephina really would start to worry. Glancing at the magically placed ornate clock on the mantel she mentally checked the time. One hour, she decided. She would give Alastair one hour to do what he needed, then—her thoughts broke off suddenly as the room became awash in a sudden shower of brilliant white light.
Lifting a hand to shield her eyes, she leaned to the side to try and get a better view of whatever magical being had found their way into this warded room. Slowly, the light began to dim, to reveal the shape of a man. He was tall, she noticed right away, though very oddly dressed. As her eyes adjusted she saw he had long, golden hair which brought to mind the majestically flowing mane of a lion—it spilled across the breadth of his very broad shoulders.
“Hello Esmerelda,” he said and she caught herself rising for he was definitely one she dared not offend. His voice was like that of an hundred angels, his gaze direct though surprisingly warm. His stance was commanding, the same as his presence, and she assumed he must be the one she had been so desperately reluctant but destined to face.
“Do I know you?” she asked, still hoping to delay the inevitable.
Though his reaction barely registered upon his visage, she thought she saw a hint of surprise. “Know me? How could you not?”
So it was him, she realized dejectedly. The leader of the CHG. Now she knew why Alastair had locked her in, but it hadn't helped. Her moment of truth had come. Straightening her shoulders, Esmerelda lifted her chin and faced him with more bravado than might. “I'm sorry I messed up with the quilt. I'm sorry if I broke the Pact. But surely you see we have served faithfully and well. It has been twenty seven years after all. Can you not simply let us be?”
Golden brows drew downward and his eyelids narrowed over his beautiful sapphire eyes. “What quilt? What pact?”
With a frown of her own, Esmerelda backed away. “You're not him? You did not—come here for me? Wait. Who are you? I do not understand.”
“It's a spell,” the man uttered, and then stepped forward to place his fingers upon her forehead. “Et umbrae,” he quietly whispered the Latin and stunned, Esmerelda realized she knew the meaning, without any explanation at all.
Let the shadows fall, he'd said, and so they certainly had! “Oh no. Oh no! I have to get back. I must warn Morty and Serephina!”
Only she never made it to tell them—never took one step from the room because in one instant her heels were clicking on the stones of the floor and in the next, she was suddenly gone.
Chapter Eight
Lindsay looked over the antique woodcut puzzle and frowned. “Let me see if I have this right. You know there is a piece missing but you aren't going to go back to Seville's and complain because you know where the piece is. You just refuse to go get it.”
Emma's expression was a bit mulish. “Yes, that's about it.”
For a minute, Lindsay simply stared at her in silence, blinking now and then, until she finally sighed and straightened out of the hunched over position she'd been standing in to point out how silly her friend was being. “Emma, you can't leave a puzzle unfinished! Especially if you don't have to. It's—It's just wrong!”
“I can and I am,” Emma told her. Unfolding her legs from beneath her, she got up off the couch and came up beside Lindsay to collect the pieces of the almost completed puzzle. Dumping them into the box, she asked over her shoulder, “Why did you say you stopped by again? I know it wasn't to harangue me over my puzzle but I can't remember now after all that grumping you di
d over one little missing piece.”
Lindsay wanted to smack her—or to smack her own forehead, or something. Why did Emma always pretend issues were little? Granted, it was just a puzzle they were talking about now but she did it with all sorts of important things. Like her unnecessary avoidance of Sam Huntingdon, for one. “You need to call Sam. Or go by the One Shot. He really, really wants to talk to you about something only he won't tell me what. He just says it's confidential.” Peering at her friend, she asked, “Did you and Sam do something confidential when I wasn't looking?”
Emma scoffed. “Of course not.” Her puzzle collected, Emma slid the top onto the box and headed to the kitchen. “You want coffee?”
“No, no time for it,” Lindsay declined. “I'm supposed to be on my way out of town right now but Sam was adamant I stop by.” Pinning Emma with a look, she said, “I know there's something going on between you two that you're not telling me. I will find out, Emma Riley. Just like I found out about...”
Emma handed her a steaming cup and carried her own back to the sofa where she sat once again with her legs crossed beneath her yoga style. “I did some research, okay? The day you and I were in the shop and he showed us the coffee service, I was intrigued.”
Lindsay considered for a moment, then shook her head. “Nope. No, that's not it. Sam's not the type to get all antsy over a little porcelain history. What aren't you telling me?”
Emma made a face. “Anything that's none of your business.”
Lindsay sipped at her coffee. “Fine. Fine. You try and keep your secrets and I swear I won't tell you another thing about Trace.”
Trace Walker was a single hottie who had just moved into Hawthorne Grove and had all the young ladies gawking. Particularly Lindsay, but mostly because she thought the guy would be perfect for Emma.
Resting her forehead on her fingertips, Emma rolled her eyes. “I think I shall survive.”
Curiously Enchanted Page 5
