“So your plans are?”
“To move around the country until I find where I want to plant myself. What’s your favorite place?”
She beamed with pride. “Scotland, of course. It has always been and always will be my home.”
He was about to ask about her family when a cramp hit his toes that stuck out from the cast, and he raised his voice with a “damn.”
Tempest saw his toes cramp and immediately took action. She went to her knees beside him on the couch. Her slim fingers carefully massaged his curled toes, attempting to coax the painful cramp out of them. A little magic helped, and within no time his toes relaxed and returned to normal.
Michael breathed in her rose-scented skin and touched his hand to her hair. The soft strands felt like silk, and he ran his fingers through them while he whispered, “Thank you.”
She turned to look at him and he saw the flicker of passion, brief but bright, and he felt it stir in himself.
He patted the spot beside him. “Come up here by me. I want to kiss you.”
She smiled. “I’d like that.”
She joined him on the couch, cuddling next to him. He ran his hand around to the back of her neck and drew her mouth to his with an eagerness she matched. It was a kiss packed with passion that had lain dormant far too long. And if they both were not careful it would spill over and demand more satisfaction, but for the moment they enjoyed themselves, impatiently tasting each other.
With a bittersweet reluctance they ended it, their lips returning for one last taste, one last touch until Tempest finally laid her head on his chest and sighed softly.
“That good, huh?”
She chuckled and patted his chest, impressed by the feel of muscles beneath his navy blue sweatshirt. “Exceptional.”
He smiled, boyishly pleased by her praise, and slipped his arm around her to hold her close. She felt good nestled against him, as though she belonged there, as though it was a familiar feeling.
“It’s strange,” he said, “but this place and you feel so familiar to me.”
His words concerned her and she knew she had to take heed and be careful. “We both offer comfort—perhaps a reminder of your mother and home.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t believe so. At first I thought that possible, but it’s different. Actually, so much more familiar and comforting than what I felt as a child, as strange as that may seem.” He shrugged at his own remark. “Maybe another lifetime.”
“You believe in past lives?”
“Never gave it much thought, but part of it makes sense, so who knows what’s true and what’s not? Maybe I lived another life here in Scotland and that’s why I’m so drawn to the place and stranger still, perhaps we shared a life together here.”
She lifted her head to look at him, and asked a question that she hoped would help solve her dilemma. “A good life, you think?”
He smiled, about to answer, when suddenly he frowned and shook his head. “Oddly enough, I don’t think it was. Maybe we’re back to give it another shot.”
She rested her head back on his chest and didn’t let him see her concern. “Hopefully this time will prove different.”
His arm tightened around her. “We’ll see that it does.”
A short time later, Michael made his way to the sitting room to search for another book to take upstairs to bed to read.
Tempest cleaned up the few dishes and returned to the living room to sit in the silence and contemplate. Coincidence was part of the mortal world but not part of magic. Witches were aware and therefore understood the significance of signs, whether they warned or promised
Presently, many signs warned that she take cautious steps with Michael. While there were not enough warnings to portend results, there were enough to take notice and question more.
And while she questioned, she could not take the chance of allowing their budding relationship to go any further. Intimacy was out of the question, though it was on her mind too often.
She liked Michael. There was so much more to him then he would allow people to see, and yet to her he was an open book, for her to read and study and learn about, and she enjoyed every interesting page. She only hoped the ending wouldn’t disappoint her.
Michael returned to the living room, filled with excitement. “I found a book that pertains to those symbols in my room. Now I’ll finally be able to find out what they say.”
“Easier said than done,” she said with an amused smile.
“Why?” His excitement faded.
“The meanings of ogam and rune symbols are debatable. No one actually knows for certain their true origin. And, of course, through the centuries various tribes changed their meaning to suit their existence. You would need to know who scripted the symbols and in what system they were taught.” She hoped to discourage him for just a while longer, just long enough for her to be certain, to be safe.
“Tempest scripted them, didn’t she?”
“It is believed so.”
“Well, if not her, then who?” He seemed puzzled, as though he shouldn’t even question the fact, and he shook his head.
“No, it had to be Tempest. Did she keep a diary or journal?” he asked with a sudden excitement.
“Most witches didn’t keep written accounts. The written word could be used against them, so they kept their knowledge safely tucked in their minds, trusting a rare few friends with their secrets.”
“Will you tell me about Tempest, at least all you know?”
It wouldn’t hurt to tell him a few tales, she thought, and besides, she rarely got to reminisce, only with a chosen few. “I think I could recall a few tales.”
He yawned as he spoke. “Good. Tell me one.”
“You’re tired.”
“Not too tired to listen,” he insisted.
At that moment Bear made it known that he was ready for bed. He sat halfway up the staircase, meowing loudly while directing his intentions toward Michael.
“I think Bear disagrees with you,” she said with a laugh. Michael’s laughter joined hers. “He seems to have attached himself to me.”
“I’m impressed. He has never taken well to strangers.”
Michael waved to Bear. “We’re certainly pals now.”
Bear agreed with a strong meow and planted himself on the step to wait.
Michael turned a smug smile on her. “Looks like he wants to hear a tale too.”
“A short one,” she said, and silently berated Bear for being a traitor.
Michael moved to sit beside her on the couch, his arm going to rest behind her. “I’ll take what I can get.”
Tempest shared a memory she long enjoyed recalling. “This tale is before the ‘burning times.’ when witches were respected and their skills sought after. Tempest was kin to nature. She understood its unpredictability and its temper. And she advised the villagers accordingly.”
“The villagers trusted witches?”
“You say that as if they were crazy.”
He shrugged. “Spells, chants and charms can’t do much.”
“For the nonbeliever.”
“There you go,” he said, amused. “If you don’t believe it doesn’t work for you, so where, then, is the magic?”
“Within.”
He grinned and shook his head. “I’ve heard that enough times. Search inward and you’ll find your true self. What you usually find is more confusion. And, besides, how do you know when you do find yourself? Does a bell go off? Does someone tap you on your shoulder and say, ‘Hey, pal, you’ve got it’?”
Tempest felt his doubt, and yet also sensed his need to believe. It lay dormant within him, and when it did finally spark to life, she wondered what the consequences would be.
“Are you searching, Michael?”
“Isn’t everyone? Don’t you think most everyone wonders over the real secret of life—even witches?”
Tempest smiled, recalling how many times her students would ask her that very question, and h
er answer was always the same. Open your eyes: it’s right there before you. Few understood and continued their search.
She provided him with the simplest answer. “Wise witches know the secret.”
“Was Tempest a wise witch?”
“I would say she knew the secret.”
“I wish I did,” he said rather sadly. “And crazy as it sounds; I wish that I had the opportunity to know Tempest. Whether witches exist or not, she sounded like a remarkable woman.”
“The basic belief of the Craft has existed in one fashion or another since time began. It is a simple belief, with its basis in nature. When studied and understood, secrets are then revealed, but only to those who possess the strongest belief. All power comes from within, Michael. No one can give it to you, and no one can rob you of it. It is yours to do with as you choose.”
“That’s the kicker—free choice.”
She laughed. “Not an easy concept to be able to do exactly as you choose, is it?”
He shook his head in sad disgust. “You never make the right choice.”
“Don’t you? Perhaps you do and don’t realize it.”
He looked at her strangely and ran the back of his finger slowly down her cheek. “I bet you have some of your ancestor’s best qualities in you.”
He leaned closer and placed a gentle, loving kiss on her lips. The tenderness of it sent tingles down her body. Her own hand moved to his face, her fingers softly tracing the scars near his eye.
“Don’t ask,” he whispered. “You don’t want to know.”
She was tempted, for a brief moment, to intrude and discover the answer for herself, but intrusion was forbidden, and she would not break such an important rule. Healing, however, was encouraged. She touched her warm, faint wet lips to his scar and along with it went a silent spell.
He shivered from the sensation of her kiss, and his hand moved to her waist, his fingers aching for intimacy. His thumb drifted dangerously close to her full breast and while she was not overly large she certainly would spill over in his hand, and damned if he didn’t want just that. But he remained a gentleman—not that he wanted to, but he felt it necessary. After all, she had been good to him, caring and generous. It wouldn’t be polite to grab a feel, but then he wasn’t looking to grab.
He was looking for more, and suddenly the thought frightened him. How much did he really want from Tempest?
His silent question placed a distance between them, and he reluctantly drew away from her, needing to give his disturbing query complete thought.
“I think now would be a good time to tell me that tale.”
She seemed confused herself, slowly shaking her head to clear it.
“Your ancestor,” he clarified.
She recalled the tale she wished to tell him, and began. “As I mentioned, Tempest was akin with nature.”
“She could tell when there was a storm brewing and such?”
Tempest spoke with the patience of a wise teacher. “That and more. The local villagers sought her help one day when one of the young boys failed to return from the nearby forest.
His friends had explained that he just disappeared, vanished. One minute he was there and the next minute he was gone. They blamed his mysterious abduction on the forest fairies, which was utter nonsense.”
“Why is that?” Michael asked.
“Forest fairies protect the forest from intruders and if they come upon a lost boy they make certain he is promptly returned to his own kind.”
“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Now we not only have witches, we have fairies as well.”
“Only if you believe,” she reminded him.
“So if I don’t believe, I don’t get to see the fairies?”
“You got it,” she said with a grin.
“I’ll remember that the next time I’m lost in the forest,” he said with a trace of a smile. “So the villagers wanted Tempest to find the boy?”
She nodded. “They asked her to intercede with the fairies and arrange the boy’s return.”
“But the fairies didn’t have him?”
Tempest shook her head. “No, they didn’t. His friends had played a trick on him and hid away from him to frighten him, only they became separated and couldn’t find the boy afterwards, and they were too frightened to admit the truth to their parents.”
“Typical kids.”
“The problem was that it was growing late and darkness would soon descend over the forest, making it impossible for anyone to find the boy.”
“Except Tempest,” Michael said with a certainty and pride that surprised her.
“That’s where being close with nature helps.”
“How? Signs can only be read if seen, and at night in the forest is pitch black. How could she possibly find him?”
“She simply asked.”
“Asked who?”
“The trees, the wind, the plants, the animals.”
Michael looked a bit stunned. “You mean she could speak to them all?”
“As I said, she was akin with nature. She understood their ways and in turn they understood her. When she entered the forest at dusk she simply requested that she be directed to the lost child. And her request was granted. She was taken directly to the boy who sat huddled and crying against a broken stump.”
“Was she able to get him home before dark?”
“No, darkness fell around them but Tempest asked an owl to guide them home.”
“And the animal obliged?”
“Why wouldn’t he? He knew Tempest meant him no harm and that if he should ever require help she would gladly give it.”
“So the boy was safely returned to his parents?”
She nodded, though she wore no smile.
“What happened?”
Her answer was filled with sadness. “It was stories similar to that one that caused many innocent people to be burned for practicing the Craft. When young children vanished, especially in the forest, witches were blamed for the abductions. Yet the innocent were punished.”
Michael spoke with a certainty that disturbed her. “Tempest was never punished. She was much too wise.”
“You sound as if you knew her.”
“I feel that I did.” He shook his head. “Crazy, but she feels so familiar to me.”
Bear meowed, alerting them that he had waited patiently long enough. It was now bedtime.
“My bedmate summons me,” he said with a laugh and stood, reaching his hand out to Tempest. “Coming up?”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll have a cup of tea before I retire.”
His hand moved to his side and he nodded. “Good night then.”
She looked up at him as if words waited anxiously on her lips.
He thought she would say something, and when no response came he leaned down over her, bracing his hands on the back of the couch along both sides of her head and kissed her.
It was a forceful kiss that warned he wanted more, much more, and not just intimacy. When he finished, he simply walked out of the room and up the steps, Bear at his heels.
Chapter Nine
Michael was in no mood to read by the time he got into bed. Thoughts cluttered his mind and disturbed him. In a little less than four weeks’ time his cast would come off, and after making the few repairs to Tempest’s house he would be on his way. The thought depressed him. For the first time in a very long time he felt comfortable, content as if he had come home, or had finally found a home.
He had never known a woman like Tempest. She gave without thought of receiving, and she cared with a sincerity that was hard to comprehend. And she reached out and touched with a touch he could have sworn healed. She was forever placing her hand to his arm, his face, his back, his chest, and he looked forward to every precious touch.
As of late he even found himself touching her without thought to what he was doing. He would simply find his hand on her arm or around her waist or stroking her cheek. She never pulled away from him; actually sh
e seemed to welcome him, moving closer to rest against him.
He liked this slow process of becoming familiar with her, though lately thoughts of intimacies had intruded all too often. He found himself considering what it would be like to undress her, intimately stroke her and make love to her. Strangely enough, he had the feeling her thoughts mirrored his own, and it was only a matter of time before they both acted upon their emotions.
Then there was this obsession with her ancestor. Why did the woman fascinate him? Why did he feel it was so necessary to find out about her and why this sudden and inexplicable interest in witchcraft?
He had a feeling his bizarre dreams had something to do with it. He had considered discussing them with Tempest but he felt foolish. It was as though he was watching a series of events unfold, and the more he watched the more interested he became in the Craft. He couldn’t seem to get enough information; he wanted more and more.
What disturbed him the most was that the dreams seemed to take on a darker side of the Craft. The recurring character seemed powerfully frightening and intent on having his way, especially with the woman who bore a remarkable resemblance to Tempest. Maybe that was why he was so reluctant to discuss the matter with her. His fantasies were turning dark, and he couldn’t control them and at times he didn’t want to. At times he enjoyed watching that dark character and feeling his power radiate through his sleeping body so that when he woke he felt somehow more alive than he ever had in his entire life.
“Crazy,” he whispered to himself and placed his arm over his eyes, willing himself to go to sleep—and dream.
They sat by a stream, he clothed in dark garments, she in light. His dark hair hung down over his chest, and his dark eyes rested intently on her stunning face. His hand reached out to take hers but she drew away from him.
“You fear me?” he asked, though he knew the answer. He knew everything about her—her thoughts, her hopes, her desires, and that was the problem. She desired him.
“Don’t play your games with me. You know what I feel.”
“Then why do you fight it?”
“You want something from me that I cannot give.”
His hand moved to rest lightly on her knee. “The choice is yours, 1 will not force you to submit to me.”
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