As he closed the door behind him, he was sure he heard the fates laughing.
In the dining room, Ian prepared his Irish breakfast tea and selected one of the blueberry scones from the buffet table.
Reading would calm his frayed nerves this dreadful day, so he passed the few early risers and the front desk where Myron flipped her ubiquitous cards. Didn’t that woman ever sleep?
With his breakfast balanced precariously in one hand, he levered open one of the heavy oak doors and slipped into the quiet of the library. As he inhaled the scent of old books and woodsmoke, the tension flowed out of his body. The fire crackled in the big stone fireplace, enticing him with its warmth and light. Flickering flames leapt up from the glowing logs. Fire was not his element—earth was—but fire entranced. Fire was passion, with the ability to create or destroy. Dangerous and seductive, fire could enchant a man to do what he shouldn’t, like fine whiskey or a sensual woman.
Two leather armchairs faced the hearth. He sank into one, setting his tea and scone on the table next to him. Sipping his tea, he savored the first taste then the second. The wind rattled the window with a mighty gust and drew his attention.
In the window seat, huddled like a child beneath a throw, slept the very woman he wanted to avoid. He watched her a moment but she didn’t move, so he finished his cooling tea and ate his scone.
Copper hair escaped her braid and waved about her face. Her pretty pink lips were parted slightly and her hands lay beneath her head, pressed together as if in prayer.
Allan sleeps like that.
Loneliness stole over him as he stared at the lovely woman he had no business desiring. She must be at least ten years younger than he, and innocent. So innocent of the evils of the world, human and paranormal.
He let down his guard, allowing his emotions out of the box where he kept them locked down. Here, with Becca asleep, he could open his soul. Her emotions were muted while asleep. He could handle the vulnerability.
With his head back against the chair, he closed his eyes and blew out the remaining tension from his body. He stilled his mind.
Open. I free you.
Darkness crept over him as a black, smothering mist. Fear slammed into his gut and his heart like a physical blow. He fought it, pushed it back. Reinforced by desire for revenge, the dread caused by his son’s attack ricocheted inside his body like a jagged bullet.
No. Not my son. Bastards. You leave my son alone. He’s just a boy. I’ll hunt you down and kill you.
Myrddin stood before him and the wicked mist slunk away. “Protect my legacy.”
His shoulder jerked. Then again.
“Ian. Wake up. Ian.”
He opened his eyes to gaze into Becca’s very concerned face. Her quiet voice trembled slightly as though she were afraid of him. Why? She had nothing to fear from him. She dropped her hand from his shoulder and retreated a few feet.
“I’m sorry to wake you. It’s just that you seemed agitated.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and found it wet. How can I explain crying? And why the hell does she appear afraid of me? Damn!
She jumped, startled.
Did I say that aloud? By the gods, am I losing my fucking mind?
By the expression on her face—her eyes wide, her brows drawn together—she didn’t understand what was going on either. Her anxiety pulsed from her in rolling waves that threatened to take him under.
Breathe. Control. Lock everything down again.
With every thought, she reacted with an arched brow or quirk of the mouth.
Use your words, Ian.
“Okay, Becca. Everything’s fine.” He tried his most soothing tone but from the increase in her emotional wave frequency, she didn’t buy his load of horseshit.
“How can I hear your thoughts?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“I’m not sure and I don’t like it, but we’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t think I want to.” She ran to the window seat and grabbed an ancient book and a rolled scroll. Her corduroy pants rubbed noisily as she hurried toward the door.
Ha. No way to outrun your problems. I know.
“Watch me try.”
Shit, I hope there’s a distance limit to her psychic ability. And a time limit.
“You’re not the only one.”
The door opened as she touched the handle, and Cemil stepped inside. Startled, she dropped the texts. Before she could retrieve them, Ian picked them up.
“This one is from this library. I gave it to them.” He indicated the volume by lifting the Black Book of Carmarthen. The scroll in his hand vibrated slightly in his gentle grasp. “This one, however, belongs to my family. How did you get it?”
Her outrage exploded from her like a sledgehammer, sending him reeling back a couple of steps. He shook his head and retook his ground.
“I don’t steal and I don’t lie.” She turned to Cemil, her nostrils flaring. “This is your magical island. Why the hell can I hear his thoughts?”
Cemil’s eyebrow lifted as he glanced from Becca to Ian. “You share a connection.”
“Really?” Sarcasm dripped from the two syllables. “I don’t need to be psychic to know that.”
Is she talking about the attraction between us?
Her head swiveled to gaze at Ian. “You’re attracted to me?”
The corner of Cemil’s mouth quirked up. Ian inhaled slowly to calm his racing thoughts. The angrier she gets, the sexier. Shit. Not again.
Before he could utter any intelligible words, she sputtered, “Oh, stop thinking of me that way, you idiot.”
Cemil took Becca’s hand and spoke softly to her. “Come with me. We’ll see Sage to get you some soothing herbs. Ian, we’ll talk later. Perhaps you should rest for a bit?” He closed the door behind him, leaving Ian alone.
What the hell is going on?
***
“Who does he think he is? Accusing me of stealing.”
Becca paced as she ranted aloud. She awaited Sage in her herb garden, a paradise of sight and aroma. Rosemary vied with lavender to perfume the air, both doing so with perfect subtlety. Nasturtium in vibrant red and orange brightened a ledge next to the bench she’d perched on for a few minutes. She couldn’t settle. She was too angry. No, angry was too mild a word; she was livid.
“He’s a man with much responsibility, Becca.”
She spun at the soft musical voice right behind her. What was up with these people scaring the jeepers out of a person? “Well, the scroll is mine.”
“All right.”
Her patient attitude irritated.
“It came down through my family.”
“I understand.”
“How can you? I don’t.”
Sage smiled then. “Life is a journey, not a destination.”
“I’ve heard that before. Seen it on a bumper sticker.”
“Yes, but in your case, you came here looking for specific answers to specific questions.” She tilted her head toward the far end of the garden where Ian now stood.
How long had he been there? Had he witnessed her rantings? Good. Her pulse quickened due to fury, not attraction. The tightening of her belly and the flutter of her heart was from her rising blood pressure, not because she wanted to comb her fingers through his silvering hair.
“What if your questions lead you to something altogether different from what you expected?” Sage asked.
This was one crazy island. Why did they all speak in riddles? Couldn’t anyone give her a straight answer? She found a clue in the Black Book and, without having a decent chance to study the book, they threw her down a rabbit hole to meet the Mad Hatter.
Sage stood, apparently waiting for an answer.... Oh, yes. Finding something different from what I was originally looking for.
“I don’t know.”
The waiflike blonde paused. “Fair enough. Let me suggest that the two people here who have clues are you
and Ian.” She began walking, and, with a slight tilt of her head, indicated for Becca to join her. “Ian is very knowledgeable in magick. I believe the two of you must follow the path together.” Sage leaned in to whisper, “He is fluent in old Welsh. He will help you with the scroll.”
To find her father’s identity, Becca would cross deserts and oceans. She’d work with Ian to help figure out their connection, and he could help her translate the scroll. If she found her answers, Ian could have the parchment, though he didn’t need to know it yet.
Sage stopped a few yards from the scowling man. He must have erected some sort of mental barrier; his thoughts no longer entwined with hers.
Ian extended his hand, though it seemed more demand than request. “Truce? We need each other for at least a little while, Becca. The sooner we work together to figure out the problem, the sooner we can fix it. And we’ll translate the scroll.”
What is his game?
“Don’t look at me that way. With your brow all scrunched up and your nose wrinkled. I have some idea what I’m doing.”
Becca shook his hand for the required two seconds then dropped it like a live grenade. His touch sent a delicious heat through her, the kind she only read about in books. Ian could not be her knight in shining armor, the hero of her story. He didn’t even like her.
Dealing with her sudden psychic abilities ate away at her time to discover her father’s name and origin. She straightened her back, drew up to her full five foot six, and looked him in the eye. The sooner she cut the connection with Ian, the sooner she could focus on her real objective.
“Let’s do this.”
***
Oh, God, what the hell am I doing?
Only a mad woman would accompany a man she barely knew to a secluded cove on the island. Ian had assured her they would not be interrupted. The Rowans reserved this area for their family’s use and allowed them exclusive access.
His assurance did nothing to calm her jagged nerves.
Rapid-fire questions popped in her mind. Why did this man think my scroll belonged to him? How did I suddenly begin hearing his thoughts and nobody else’s? Why did Ian bring me here?
She focused on the waves lapping gently against the sand and the occasional gull’s cry over the sea. Surrounded by rocks on three sides, the cove both sheltered and trapped. The sooner they got this over with, the better.
At least the weather cleared.
She hated not knowing what was going on. Books, she could count on. They never hurt her, never disappointed her. As a librarian, she controlled the collection and cared for the books. That she was a control freak like Ian slammed into her like a fist. She’d never considered she needed to control everything, but she never doubted her inner voice confirming.
The idea she was similar to Ian in any way was ridiculous. A giggle slipped out and he turned from setting the fire.
“At least you’re not pissed off anymore.”
She shifted on the blanket she’d spread on the sand to stare at him. “Who says I’m not?”
He just smiled and placed another piece of driftwood in the makeshift fire pit. “I can feel it.”
She didn’t reply. Let him guess what she thought for all she cared.
Her gaze wandered to the muscles of his back stretching the billowy white shirt. His tanned forearm flexed as he added another stick. He’d rolled up the legs of his loose white pants, revealing equally golden ankles and feet.
From his Richard Gere hair to his stern clean-shaven jaw, he was model material. His eyes, soft green like a mist-covered glade, penetrated straight to her soul. Ian posed a danger to her heart, no matter how he charged her body.
Remember what Grandma always said. “Think with your logical brain, not with your romantic heart. Love does not put food in your mouth or a roof over your head.”
Or decipher an ancient Welsh text.
“What can I do?” she asked as she stood, having nothing to do.
He rose from where he’d prepared the fire pit and walked to her, extending his hand. After a moment, she took it and stood beside him.
“Nothing. It’s done. Are you ready?”
“For what?” Truly, the limits of reality had been shattered and anything seemed possible.
“For magick.” He pulled her to the fire pit. Facing her, he tipped her chin up to gaze into his eyes. “What you see must remain secret. Do you agree?”
While still uncertain, she couldn’t help being equally enchanted and curious. Being here, in this fairy-tale situation. “Yes.”
His expression somber, he continued to stare for a minute more as if he were contemplating something. Then his mouth twitched on one corner. “We begin.”
He shifted so they stood side by side, with her hand in his, facing the fire pit. He extended his free arm toward the sticks, his elegant fingers gracefully unfurling. A spark appeared at the base of the pyramid of driftwood and flames licked skyward.
He created fire! She carefully loosened the tight grip on Ian’s hand and sucked in a breath. Her heart pounded in her chest. She slammed closed her open mouth.
He laughed and squeezed her hand, not letting her pull away. “You’re not hurting me, Becca. And that is certainly the tamest reaction I’ve seen from a human.”
He smiled down at her and all her practical lectures faded away with some of her tension.
Okay, so her sudden ESP made a little more sense. More questions than ever danced in her head. “So if I’m a human, what are you?”
“I’m not an alien, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m a sorcerer.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Like Merlin?”
For a brief moment, he frowned as if she’d said something wrong, something silly. “Yes, like Merlin. You see, Merlin is really a compilation of many myths from Wales, Ireland, and Scotland.”
“Written by Geoffrey of Monmouth. Author of Historia Regum Britanniae. He popularized the King Arthur tales.”
He stared at her. She’d surprised him, and that boosted her confidence. At least this knowledge provided a firmer foundation to stand on in this quicksand situation she’d stumbled into.
“You see, Ian, I am a librarian and a bibliophile. I majored in British literature, so I am quite familiar with Geoffrey’s works.”
“Ah.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he seemed to assimilate this knowledge. This man disliked surprises as a control freak would. “I am of Myrddin’s bloodline. He was the primary inspiration for Geoffrey’s Merlin myths.”
From the challenge she read in his eyes, he probably assumed she didn’t believe him. She would surprise him again.
“Nice to meet you, Ian, descendant of Myrddin.”
He barked out a full-throated laugh that reverberated straight down to their joined hands. “You are a strange woman, Becca.”
She grinned. “Thank you. I think.”
“Come on, let’s get started. It’ll be dark soon.”
“What happens if we’re still doing”—she paused, searching for the right word because she really did not know what he planned—“whatever and we can’t find our way back.”
He smiled and raised his hand to her cheek. “You’ll be safe here.”
His touch sent simultaneous chills and heat racing through her and she shivered. Words escaped her so she nodded and together they knelt on the blanket.
Facing her, he took a lock of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “I’m trying not to seduce you, Becca. I’m trying very hard.” His husky voice shot a tremor through her, awakening a need she barely recognized.
She couldn’t drag her gaze from his smoldering eyes as they reflected the fire’s glow.
“Focus on why we’re here.” Were those her words?
His eyes narrowed for a second before cocking an eyebrow. “Place your right hand on my heart.”
She had trouble following his directions with the blood thundering in her temples and her heart poundin
g in her chest. He helped her, moving aside the unbuttoned front so she touched his chest.
God, he makes me light-headed.
His skin blazed beneath her touch, and his heart thumped hard against her hand. He slid his right hand inside the open neckline of her gauzy shift to rest on her skin. Her breasts swelled in response to his touch.
Remember why we’re here. Why are we here?
She desperately wanted his mouth on hers.
“Becca.” His voice was gravelly. “I’m going to open now, drop my guard. You’ll hear my thoughts, and I’ll experience your emotions. Try to stay relaxed.”
Relaxed? No fucking way. Her pulse raced, her heart pumped hard and fast, and she wanted to throw him on the ground and ride him. And he expected her to relax?
He gazed at her. Time stood still.
His body shook. How did she know he fought against letting go? She laid her free hand on his shoulder and he followed her lead, completing the circuit. An electric jolt ran up her arm where her hand lay over his heart, but she didn’t pull away. Until now, she hadn’t really known emotional intimacy.
“Breathe, Ian. I’m here. Breathe.”
A great rush of air expelled from his lungs. His fingers tightened on her shoulder and tensed against her chest. Anxiety, greater than she’d ever experienced punched into her, churned in her stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut to help block out the intensity. Fear and rage followed, making her head pound and her hands clench into fists. Did he deal with this every day? How did he do it? How could he function?
“Becca. Becca, let it go. Let it wash through you, breathe it out.”
Only his hand gripping her shoulder and anchoring her heart in her chest kept her aware enough to hear him, comprehend his words.
“Come on, darling.”
She opened her eyes and focused on his concerned face. Using his eyes as her focal point, she breathed in unison with him. In, hold ten, then out. Over and over, she repeated the process until her heart rate slowed and her respiration leveled out.
His gaze dropped to her mouth and the wave of his desire crashed over her.
Sorcerer's Legacy Page 3