by Sylvie Kurtz
He was the intruder into her little world and he hadn’t come bearing good news. He swallowed the knot of anger tightening his throat and forced his tense limbs to relax, his voice to sound even. “Even the most complete report can’t tell you what’s in a man’s soul. I don’t want to hurt you. That’s not how I work. Keeping a promise, Melissa, keeping you safe, that’s why I’m here—not your scarred face.”
The purring stopped abruptly, replaced by an indignant yowl as Melissa unconsciously grabbed a handful of black fur. The irate cat bit her on the knuckles and leaped from her arms, landing on the stone floor with a soft thud. It flashed up the stairs and into the shadows.
Her skirt rustled as she stalked closer to the bars. Her eyes glowed an eerie green. He now understood how she’d earned the witch label. In their feral heat, her eyes looked old—as if she’d already lived a thousand years, suffered a thousand deaths.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll use my black magic to turn you into a toad?”
He cocked his head and gave her his best Bogart grin. “You could always kiss me back into a prince.”
Eyes narrowing, she stepped back. “You want to know what it’s like to be me, Mr. Blackwell?”
“Tyler. Yes.” And he did want to know her. In the short while he’d spent with her, he’d seen her vulnerable as a child, as tough as a mongoose. Against all odds, how had she found the grit to succeed? How did she deal with the isolation? What made her paint those enchanting yet frightening watercolors? He truly wanted to know.
“Fine, come along, then.” She twisted a key in the lock, then spun on her heel and headed for the stairs. “I hope your ribs are feeling better.”
He followed, trying his best to ignore the symphony of aches that movement revived. “They’re fine. Where are we going?”
“To do something you’re an expert at. Shovel manure.”
SOFT NICKERS of welcome greeted them as they walked through the opened stable door. The scent of hay, horses and leather took Tyler back to his teenage years and his bid to attract a girl’s attention by learning to ride. He never got the girl, but did spend four summers eventing. How far back had Melissa traced his history?
She stroked the velvet muzzle of a chestnut mare. “This is Breeze,” she said. The smile that surely graced her lips reached her eyes, warming something cold in his gut. “Do you know anything about horses?”
“A thing or two.”
“These are American Warmbloods. I have Breeze and Eclipse shown.”
“Breeze took the United States Dressage Federation Region Nine Reserve Championship in both Grand Prix and Intermediate Musical Freestyle last year. Eclipse took the USDF Sporthorse Breeding Horse of the Year Award. A couple of Eclipse’s progeny also placed well.”
“You did do your homework.”
“That’s me, a regular Boy Scout.”
She slanted him a curious look. “I also have four broodmares, a retired gelding and a yearling out at pasture.”
The black horse in the next stall sampled the ends of her hair. With a hand she signaled the stallion to back off. Without hesitation, he obeyed—not out of fear, but what passed for genuine respect. Tyler got the impression the powerful horse would willingly do anything to please his mistress. And for some reason that show of softness annoyed him.
Once she’d reasserted her dominance over Eclipse, she offered the stallion her hand. He played his mobile black lips over her open palm, gobbling up the sugar cube and making the tiny treat last as long as a bucket of oats. When he was through, his eyes begged for more, but he seemed to know better than to mouth the pocket of her skirt where the tasty treats resided.
“That’s it. No more. You don’t want your teeth to rot in your head, now, do you?”
Her laugh was free and it ruffled through Tyler like a warm breeze. He half turned away, inadvertently hitting his bruised ribs with his arm. He silently cursed at the ring of pain. That was better. He couldn’t let her cast a spell over him as easily as she seemed to have done with the horses.
“You let a stallion stay here so close to a mare?” he asked, brushing away a thread of unease.
“He’s well behaved.” She opened the stall door. All of her attention focused on the horse as if she was communicating with him brain to brain, she led Eclipse without a halter into the aisle. “Besides, Breeze isn’t in season right now.”
A black cat meowed as it wrapped itself around Melissa’s ankles. Eclipse bent down and sniffed at the Persian, but otherwise didn’t move from the position Melissa had left him.
“Selma! There you are.” Melissa scooped the cat up in her arms. A loud purr rewarded her. “Find any mice?”
The witch and her familiar. Maybe the rumors were true. What would it be like to be caught under one of her spells? He frowned. “What do you want me to do?”
Amusement lit her eyes, making the green dance like a sun-warmed lake and his gut tighten. Maybe he did have some sort of internal damage, after all. She disappeared into an adjacent room and came back with a pitchfork, shovel and wheelbarrow. “The manure pile is out back. I’m sure you can find it on your own. You know what to do?”
“Yeah.” He took the pitchfork and shovel and looked down the concrete aisle at the eight stalls. His ribs hurt just thinking about lifting a forkful of manure. “All of them?”
“Of course. Even a witch must take care of the familiars who surround her. It’s truly a glamorous life.” She grabbed a bucket of brushes. “Be careful of Breeze. She likes to take chunks out of the stableboy.”
Like horse, like mistress? “That why you had to cage extra help?”
“No, it’s final-exam week, and he needs the time to study.”
Did she really have regular help, or was she trying to make him believe she wasn’t as alone as she seemed?
One thing for sure. She was testing him. And if he was going to get anywhere with her, he would have to do what she’d done with Eclipse—establish himself as lead horse in this strange little herd.
THE TRAUMA Melissa had suffered so long ago had attuned her to the vibration of pain. Though Tyler tried to hide it, she sensed the bruising ache each of his movements cost him, felt its echo in her own body, admired his resilience. But the best lessons about life she’d learned from the horses. Clear communication came from trust and obedience. The first few encounters with a new horse were the most important ones in establishing this balance. Actions spoke louder than words.
Tyler had to see that this was her world. If he was to intrude, he would have to follow her rules, bend to her will, see things through her eyes. Only then would he get a true picture of her.
Eclipse’s shifting feet told her that if she didn’t concentrate on her task more carefully, she could easily put a chink in years of patient training. She switched brushes and managed to give Eclipse all her attention—for a few minutes, anyway. She fanned the stallion’s tail and raked a comb through it. Then Tyler’s movements down the aisle drew her gaze.
Two days’ worth of beard gave him a rakish look. She wanted to touch it. Would it be soft like a horse’s muzzle or as prickly as it looked? Even the bruise on his forehead didn’t detract from his beauty, but rather endeared him to her. Every time he lifted a forkful of manure, the muscles under his T-shirt flexed, making her wish for pencil and paper. Her gaze drifted over his lean hips, down his long legs, and she wondered at the tingle inside her at the sight of the clean lines of his body. Artistic delight in his physical perfection, she told herself, and combed out Eclipse’s tail.
How would it feel to press her body against a man’s hard planes, mold herself to him, have him fill her with his passion? She shook her head. She’d definitely watched too many of Dee’s movies. The comb lay still in her hand. Eclipse curved his neck to look back at her.
“Are you going to admire me all night or are you going to pitch in?” Tyler asked.
The sheen of sweat reflected in the barn’s low light accentuated his masculinity. She swallowed hard and
disguised her unease with a clearing of her throat. “I’m making sure you’re doing the job right. My horses are accustomed to a high standard of care.”
She traded the comb for a hoof pick, and narrowing her gaze, she bent to pick up one of Eclipse’s hooves.
“Probation?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t like the way he seemed to read her so easily. She was trying to determine how far she could trust him, how badly he needed his interview, how best to handle him. Deceiving humans was easy enough, but horses were too sensitive. Nothing got past them. He was handling fussy Breeze remarkably well. She didn’t want to like him.
Honesty? Integrity? Did he have them? If they were part of his character, then had he brought the truth with him? Did someone truly want to harm her?
Was he right? Had her isolation made her easy prey for someone who might want to eliminate her? No, as much as she and Sable had issues, they understood each other on the matter of money. Was his story of a warning simply a way to to gain her trust?
An edginess itched under her skin. Had she learned nothing from her experience with Brent Westfield? As intriguing a specimen as Tyler Blackwell was, he was still a reporter. A good one. One with a reputation to rebuild. If she let herself fall for his manipulations before he could give her what she wanted, then she deserved to remain a witch for the rest of her days.
Melissa tossed the hoof pick into the brush bucket, then patted Eclipse’s neck. She needed to run. “Want to go for a ride?”
“I haven’t ridden since I was a kid.”
She glanced at Tyler over her shoulder. He leaned against the stall door, much too at home in her private space. “I wasn’t talking to you. You’re cleaning stalls.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to go out until I’ve had a chance to check things out.”
“Is that so?” This was a battle of wills. They were establishing control. She had too much to lose; she couldn’t let him win.
“Why take a chance before you know what you’re up against?”
His solidness, despite his bruises, the clear intensity of his dark gaze, seemed to offer something just out of reach. She licked her suddenly dry lips, trying to understand what was happening to her, trying to dull the burning desire to let him be the hero of her own romantic movie. “Why narrow my world before I know if there’s even a reason to?”
A gust skipped down the aisle, stirring bits of wood chips that skittered against the concrete like hungry termites.
“Do you want to die, Melissa?”
The question hissed, heavy with the venom of an oft-contemplated option. Breath choked in her chest. Something keened inside her. She wanted wind in her hair, against her face. She wanted wide-open spaces and speed. She wanted freedom. “I want to live. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
MELISSA LED HIM into the darkened castle as easily as if it were day. Maybe she sensed she’d revealed too much of herself with her answer, or maybe he’d let his pain show too much. Whatever the reason, she’d cut his stall-cleaning duty short. And they seemed to have reached a draw.
“This castle was built in the fifteenth century in the Yorkshire region of England,” she said. “At one time it belonged to Sir Alasdair Thorne. Have you heard of him?”
“No.”
“He was an alchemist. Legend has it that he discovered how to turn lead into gold, but was so paranoid someone would steal his secret that he wrote it in code and left it somewhere in the castle. Even after death, he wanted to protect his findings. He’s said to still haunt the castle.”
“Trying to scare me?”
She chuckled. “Is it working?”
“I’ve been to hell,” he said, thinking of Lindsey. “Nothing scares me anymore.”
“Pity. If you hear the stirring of chains in the deep of night, you’ll know it’s only the old alchemist chasing his dreams of gold.” She started up a narrow flight of stone stairs, dimly lit by the kind of tube lighting seen in theaters and airplanes. Up, not down. Where was she leading him?
“My father wanted a castle from Cornwall where our ancestors originated, but had to make do with this one.”
They made their way through a series of suites fitted with antiques—mostly sixteenth-century, she informed him. He took her word for it. Even with the tube lighting, everything looked like black lumps in gray soup.
“You can explore these rooms to your heart’s content by daylight and revel in my father’s good taste. He spent a lifetime collecting the perfect contents for each of these rooms.” Her voice was tour-guide crisp.
“Does that mean you’re letting me stay?”
“It means I’m still thinking about it. Your Jeep’s at a garage in Weatherford. The filling station in Fallen Moon hasn’t had a mechanic in over two years. I’m afraid the damage to your vehicle is fairly heavy. If you need to leave, Grace will drive you into town.”
“I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
“The southwest and southeast towers are sealed—I can’t ensure your safety if you choose to explore them. One holds a dry well, the other is an old storehouse that I use for hay in winter. My quarters are in the northeast tower, and you’re not welcome there. You should see the stained-glass windows in the chapel on a sunny day. They’re quite a sight.”
She stopped before a heavy wooden door but didn’t open it. “Here we are. You’ll find a lamp by the bed, three paces to the left.”
“No dungeon tonight?”
Her eyes glittered even in the dark, and he found he liked the fighting look. Whatever Freddy thought, this woman was far from meek.
“Did you know that dungeons were originally used to protect political prisoners from harm?” she asked.
“No.” He cocked his head, suddenly wondering who was playing who and for what stakes. “Why am I still here?”
“They provided secure accommodations for these prisoners because they were men and woman of equal status and therefore had to be treated honorably. Chivalry had a very strict code of conduct.”
A warning. He was the enemy. She didn’t trust him. He could understand that. His stay was probationary because she wanted something from him. What, he couldn’t fathom. But that she did gave him an advantage.
She unlocked and opened the door, then handed him the key.
“You’re not locking me in?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll leave before you can get whatever it is you want from me?”
“Good riddance.” She waved him into the room. “Sleep well, Mr. Blackwell.”
With a swirl of skirt, she sailed away as regally as any queen. Tyler smiled at the starch in her step. Definitely not meek. He found himself pitying the person who wanted to tangle with her.
He patted the wall until he reached the night table, fumbled for the lamp and clicked it on. Faint light bathed the room in a soft glow.
She was letting him stay. He’d crossed the first hurdle. He was feeling pretty good about his accomplishment until he turned around to look at the room. His smile widened. She’d won the first round, after all.
The scenes on the tapestries were so graphic they unnerved even him. A sinister assortment of knights in full armor engaged in bloody battle surrounded him on three sides.
An immense bed of carved walnut took up most of the room. Gold tassels trimmed the crimson bedcover. Triangular panels, edged with gold and painted with cherubs whose angelic faces were wrenched with pain, fringed the canopy. Upon closer inspection, the carvings on the bedposts revealed gargoyles enmeshed in snakes with elaborate skins. A huge medallion topped the headboard. There, a carved chain surrounded the most demonic face he’d ever seen.
Beyond the bed stood a walnut wardrobe with veneer panels. Scythe-armed skeletons guarded the contents.
On a traveling trunk covered with leather and decorated with nailwork, he spied his duffel bag, and beside it the Swiss Army knife, cell phone, razor and Palm Pilot Grace had earlier confiscated. The heavy crushed-vel
vet drapes were pushed aside and the window stood open, letting in the clean night air. He picked up the cell phone and plugged it into an outlet to recharge.
“You have a warped sense of humor, Miss Carnes.”
Tyler peeled back the bedcovers, stripped off his clothes and climbed between the sheets. The physical labor had not only revived his aches and pains but drained his energy.
“The joke’s on you, Melissa. I’m so tired the devil himself couldn’t scare me tonight.”
She was up one, but they’d just begun to dance.
Chapter Five
Melissa was used to being alone, especially in the past few years with Dee spending most of her time with her husband and children, and Cedrick, Grace’s son, away at college. Even Grace’s days followed a different rhythm than her own.
Coming out of the kitchen on her way to the stables and seeing Tyler sitting in the gazebo in the courtyard stopped Melissa short. The unexpected curl of anticipation at seeing him there made her cling to the shadows.
The blazing sky was fading to purple, wrapping the courtyard in a comforting quilt of darkness. A stiff breeze rustled the oak’s leaves and stirred the wind chime that hung from a branch. The sweetheart-quartet tune was familiar, as was the scent of roses perfuming the air. But not the sight of the man sitting in the gazebo, horseshoed by lush red, pink and white blooms. Selma, a creature of comfort, had coiled her feline body into his lap. The contradiction of Tyler’s watchful relaxation filled her with curiosity and an odd kind of contentment. And that wayward contentment had her frowning and pursing her lips.