Magical Memories

by Donna Fletcher

  “Are you wondering if evil witches actually did exist?”

  “I suppose I am. I mean, think about it... usually somewhere along the line there is a basis in fact for everything, so why not a rogue witch who decided to use his abilities for his own pleasure and profit?”

  “A warlock,” she informed him sadly.

  “A warlock is a bad witch?”

  “A warlock uses darkness instead of light and practices the Craft for his own benefit. He uses the vulnerable, the misguided, and the hopeless.”

  “So then maybe during these witch burnings the persecutors actually snagged themselves a warlock or two.”

  “That’s highly doubtful,” she said confidently. “A warlock possesses a defined power that defies the common man.”

  Michael put it more plainly. “You mean he’s a sly character.”

  “Sly is an inadequate description.”

  “That good, is he?”

  She finished sipping her hot chocolate before nodding. “All that and more as they say.”

  “Do you think your ancestor ever came across a warlock?”

  “There is a tale—”

  “Tell me,” he said eagerly, though a yawn warned of his weariness.

  She wasn’t ready to verbalize difficult memories, and he truly required rest in order to heal. “Another time. You are tired and need a nap.”

  “I want to know about her,” he said as if the information was necessary to his well-being. “Was this her home? Were the symbols upstairs placed there by her for protection?”

  His anxious need and pertinent questions startled her, though she remained calm. “Another time,” she insisted and stood, removing the book from his lap and taking the empty mug from his hand. “Nap first, answers later.” Much later, if she could help it.

  Michael reluctantly relented. “I’ll have my answers.”

  Tempest placed the mugs on a nearby table while she assisted him in stretching out on the couch. “I’m certain you will.” She draped the chenille throw over him.

  “Wake me to help you with supper.”

  She brushed his dark uneven hair away from his face and ran a tender hand over his cheek. “I won’t deprive you of your kitchen duties.”

  “See that you don’t,” he teased. “I’m looking forward to peeling potatoes.”

  “And carrots,” she said with a smile. “Now sleep.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek ever so gently, and taking the mugs from the table, quietly left the room.

  Michael stared after her. She was a strange yet enchanting woman. Her touch and kiss held not a hint of passion—only pure concern. She actually cared about him and his well-being, and he wondered if that depth of sensitivity wasn’t more of an aphrodisiac than passion.

  His eyelids drifted closed though he fought against sleep, his mind cluttered and anxious for answers. What was this sudden, relentless need to know about her ancestor? Why did he find this woman who probably lived over hundreds of years ago so fascinating? He wondered what she looked like and if she ever loved, and he wondered what her name was.

  “Tempest,” he whispered as his eyelids drifted completely shut and sleep claimed him.

  Tempest shut off the water and stopped washing the dishes, having thought she heard her name called. When no sound stirred the silence she shrugged and finished the chore. She intended on keeping her hands busy; if she could keep her focus on the chore at hand, she would refrain from thinking and at the moment she wanted her mind silent.

  Too many thoughts, too many memories and too many disturbing questions from Michael. Questions she eventually would not be able to ignore. What then?

  With busy hands being uppermost in her mind, she hurried off to the greenhouse. Not giving herself a chance to think, only to work, she gathered all the items necessary to make an herbal wreath.

  But busy hands don’t always silence a busy mind, and while Tempest worked, her mind continually drifted back to Michael. It was difficult to be objective where he was concerned. Over the last two days she had come to understand him better, and the reason for his inability to trust and for the hint of cynicism in his eyes. Life had failed him at a very young age, leaving him emotionally scarred and trusting no one.

  She imagined that was when he erected that wall in front of him. The wall she felt every time she attempted to get close, to touch, to care, to comfort. She could sense his uncertainty when her hand reached out to help him, and she hit that heavy, burdensome wall all too often.

  She smiled, recalling his unexpected kiss.

  He had lowered his defenses long enough to share that kiss, and she had liked what she felt and sensed. And she wanted very much to get to know that man who kissed her, especially since that kiss had lingered much in her mind.

  She shook her head and attempted to concentrate on the wreath, but her mind continued to drift. She wasn’t at all surprised when she felt the thin wire slice her finger, and all the way to the kitchen she berated herself for being so clumsy. Of course a little attention and magic applied to the wound would work wonders, but she still should have been more conscious of her actions.

  The small piece of cloth she had wrapped her finger in was soaked through with blood when she entered the kitchen. She was about to open the overhead cabinet beside the sink where she kept her herbal remedies for just such occasions, when she felt Michael come up behind her.

  She turned and her breath caught. For a brief second he looked darkly mysterious, as if a shadow hovered over him, hiding his true features from her. Then it passed, and he appeared as though he had just stirred from a sleep.

  He yawned, rubbed at the back of his neck and then ran his fingers through his hair. It was when his eyes became fully alert and he focused on the bloody cloth that he swiftly took action.

  “What happened?” he asked, grabbing her wrapped hand.

  “I woke you, I’m sorry,” she said, surprised his sleep had been disturbed. She had cast a light resting spell on him. He should have slept for at least another hour.

  “I woke sensing something was wrong,” he said with a shake of his head. “A crazy sensation, but accurate.” He removed the blood-soaked cloth and examined the cut.

  “Wire,” she explained. “I was making an herbal wreath when—”

  “This cut needs stitches,” he said with concern, and wiped at the blood that continued to flow.

  “Nonsense” she said, though a quick glance told her he would have been right in his diagnosis if she were a mortal.

  “A little ointment and a tight bandage, and it will be as good as new.”

  “It needs stitches,” he repeated, though more firmly.

  “No doctor in sight, so a bandage will have to do,” she said, attempting to free her hand.

  His firm grip told her she wasn’t going anywhere. “I can stitch it for you. It will probably only take two or three. I used to stitch the guys on the ship all the time.”

  “Not necessary,” she said with a smile. She knew her own remedy and touch of magic would heal the cut without a trace of a scar. Stitches weren’t at all necessary.

  “This wound won’t heal properly without stitches.” He dabbed at the blood that refused to stop flowing. “And you may just bleed to death if you don’t quit arguing with me.”

  “Nonsense, it will stop soon,” she insisted and once again attempted to free her hand.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he warned her. “Not until I make certain this wound is looked after properly.”

  “If you release my hand I will be able to do just that.”

  “It needs stitches,” he insisted once again.

  “You may be right,” she relented, “but let me try the ointment and a bandage first. If it doesn’t stop the bleeding then you can stitch the wound.”

  “You know you’re wasting time, putting off the inevitable.”

  “Time will tell,” she said and eased her hand out of his to turn away from him.

  She sensed his hurt, and t
he strong emotion wounded her more painfully than the cut itself. He assumed that she didn’t trust him, and she realized that his hope had been that not only could she trust him but that he could trust her. Now he felt nothing but disappointment, an emotion he was all too familiar with.

  “Drat,” she whispered to herself.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, hearing her mumble.

  In the blink of an eye she could have her finger mended, and yet here she was contemplating stitches. Had she completely lost her mind? Or were her feelings for this man growing much too strong and much too fast?

  Michael moved up behind her. His broad body whispered against hers as his arms circled around her. His hand gently slipped beneath her injured one and when he spoke his warm breath fanned her cheek. “It’s still bleeding.”

  They both watched the blood drip into the sink. “Let me help you.”

  What he really was saying was, trust me. And with a resigned sigh she said, “I’d be grateful if you did, Michael.”

  His relief and renewed hope flooded her senses and filled her with such pleasure that the stitches would almost be worth the brief pain. Almost. She could cast a numbing spell and pretend to flinch, but that wouldn’t be honest, though she could look at it as protecting herself.

  He kissed her temple as his one arm squeezed her waist.

  “Don’t worry. It will be stitched before you know it.”

  She leaned back against him, surrendering completely. “I trust you.”

  He hugged her closer to him, and he whispered in her ear. “I would never hurt you. Tempest.”

  She hoped and prayed what he said was true—only time would tell.

  “Let me get you the things you’ll need,” she said, but made no attempt to move away from him.

  “I’ll get them,” he said, though he also made no attempt to move.

  They both seemed content to stay as they were, pressed against each other, his arm around her waist, and his lips beside her cheek.

  It was when Michael felt her blood run over his hand that he went into action. He barked orders at her that warned he was to be obeyed and then with an agility that surprised her he set to gathering the items he needed.

  The stained glass light hanging over the kitchen table wasn’t sufficient lighting for Michael to work, so he set up a desk lamp from the sitting room on the kitchen table. He poured Tempest a shot of whisky and insisted she sip it slowly while he saw to cleansing his hands, then he prepared a fine needle and thread. He also packed her injured finger in ice, hoping to numb it as best as possible.

  He prepared a bed out of a towel for a hand to rest on and just before he was ready to begin he started talking to her. He captured her attention with funny tales on the high seas, making himself and his shipmates sound more like rogue pirates than simple merchant seamen.

  She sipped the whisky and listened to his stories while he dried her hand and prepared to stitch it. She was so engrossed with his comical tales that she didn’t feel the needle prick her skin, and she only began to feel a slight pain when he was almost finished.

  She flinched once and he held her hand more firmly.

  She stared down at the small stitches, impressed. “You are rather good with a needle.”

  He finished off the last of the three stitches. “This type of stitching, yes, but don’t ask me to hem a dress.”

  She laughed and handed him a jar. “Could you put a generous amount of this ointment on the wound before you bandage it?”

  “Home remedy?” he asked.

  She leaned forward. “A witch’s remedy.”

  “Really?” he asked and opened the jar to sniff.

  “Shhh,” she said with a finger to her lip. “It’s a secret, no one can know.”

  He realized the whisky had gone to her head. “Now, it’s your turn to rest.”

  “I’m not tired,” she insisted as she kept a watchful eye on his bandaging skills.

  “A short nap will do you good.”

  “A snap of my fingers and I’ll be as right as rain,” she said, though she found snapping difficult. Michael tried not to laugh, but failed to hide his smirk.

  She wagged an unsteady finger in his face. “You best be careful or I’ll turn you into a toad.”

  He played along. “Inherited your ancestor’s magical skills, did you?”

  “I possess my own skills,” she said proudly.

  “You can cast spells?”

  “Hefty-duty ones.”

  He laughed; he couldn’t help it.

  She grew annoyed. “Foolish mortal.”

  He stood with a wobble. “Come on, witch. Let’s float into the living room together.”

  Tempest attempted to stand. “I’ll float; you, foolish mortal, are reduced to walking.”

  She tilted precariously but Michael placed a firm hand on her. “Steady there.”

  “I can float on my own,” she insisted as he came around by her, his arm circling her waist.

  “But I can’t.” He smiled and her heart melted.

  Her fingers went to the scars on his face. “These marks can’t hide your beauty.”

  He looked into her pale-green eyes and they told him much too much. He was no fool—he knew when a woman wanted him, and right now Tempest had that look. And what made the situation even more difficult was that she spoke with sincerity.

  She actually thought him beautiful; perhaps not on a physical level but somewhere in him she saw his beauty. Her words touched him deeply.

  “Kiss me,” she said with a soft demand.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he said, attempting to balance them both as he directed them toward the living room.

  She was most insistent. “I want you to kiss me.”

  He got her into the living room near the couch. “Later.”

  “Now,” she persisted.

  “Later,” he argued gently.

  “Right now!”

  She turned so fast in his arms that he lost his balance and he reached out frantically for her, afraid she would fall. She did the same with him and in a tumble of arms, legs and a complete loss of balance; they dropped down onto the couch.

  Chapter Seven

  “I behaved foolishly,” Tempest said as she sipped her soup.

  Michael smiled as he cut the ham and cheese sandwiches in half. He had heated the leftover soup, found the makings for the ham sandwiches and threw together a salad for supper, which they were presently enjoying.

  “You behaved like anyone who is unaccustomed to drinking hard liquor.”

  “Poorly,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “Uninhibited,” he corrected softly.

  She lowered her face, attempting to hide her blush and the memories of her outrageous actions. She had all but attacked him, demanding he kiss her, and when he had fallen on top of her she had taken advantage of the moment, completely losing her senses and kissing him with a passion she had thought long since died.

  “I apologize for my—”

  “It’s been a long time since you’ve kissed a man with that kind of passion, hasn’t it?” he asked, not that he required an answer. He could tell by the way her hands had anxiously grabbed at him, the way her lips had met his with such a ferocious hunger, and the way her body had pressed against him as though she couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t feel enough of him. That type of intense hunger came either from love or a length of abstinence. Since she didn’t know him long enough to be in love with him, it could only be abstinence that caused her need.

  Her aggressiveness had heightened his own desire, no matter the reason for it, and his hands, mouth and body had become as eager as hers. But reality had intruded all too soon, and he had known that there was no way he would take advantage of her inebriated state. If they were to make love, and he hoped they would do so when she was fully aware of her actions and the consequences. So, like a gentlemen, he had disengaged their tangled limbs, though she didn’t help his gallant eff
orts any, tucked a blanket around her and quickly exited the room.

  He had not wanted to be lead into temptation, and one more look at her pouting lips would have sent him over the edge.

  She broke the brief silence with an answer. “Yes, it has been a long time for me.”

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked, his dark eyes meeting hers to show that he actually cared.

  “There’s not much to talk about. I fell in love hard and fast and it didn’t work out.”

  He wanted to know more. “Why didn’t it work out?”

  The answer came easily. “He wasn’t who I thought he was.”

  “He deceived you?”

  She thought a moment. “He deceived himself. What he searched so hard for was in front of him, yet he was too blind to see it.”

  “And yet the memory of him lingers.”

  “As I said, I fell hard and fast.”

  “This blinded you to his true nature.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “But love has a way of making the most intelligent person react stupidly. Haven’t you ever been in love?”

  “Only when it was convenient. I didn’t have a lifestyle conductive to marriage and family, and I didn’t exactly frequent places where I could meet Miss Right. Usually she was Miss Wrong, and it was a quick roll in the hay, and if I wasn’t careful it was a quick roll of my money. Then there were the women who wanted marriage to American citizens so they could get into the United States.”

  “Didn’t you ever take leave for yourself?”

  He shrugged, reaching for another sandwich. “Once I did, I spent a couple of months in my old hometown. I met a few women, but every time they discovered that I was a simple seaman they lost interest immediately, most looking for the perfect guy; good job, good money, and good spender. They wanted it all. Somehow to me they just didn’t give a damn about love. Then there were the women who had it all and were only interested in a good night of sex, since Mr. Perfect wasn’t interesting enough in bed, but a rough seaman? He was a man of their fantasies.”

  Tempest suddenly felt guilty. “I’m sorry for my foolish actions, but I can honestly say I wasn’t after a kiss because of fantasies. I simply ached for you to kiss me.”