Spellbound

by Trana Mae Simmons

  “Let’s go inside,” he gritted.

  She looked up at him. “Of course. Do you need some help dismounting? There’s a mounting block over there that some of the ladies use.”

  Pride stung as usual at any mention of his disability, he disregarded her offer, dismounting on the other side of the horse to avoid any more strain on the leg than necessary. Cautiously he balanced his weight on his right leg, then grabbed his walking cane from where he carried it in what was usually the rifle scabbard. Looping the reins around a hitching post, he limped to the small iron fence and opened the gate.

  “After you.”

  She walked past him and on up the porch steps, waiting at the door until he made his slower way to her.

  “My aunt is probably sleeping,” she said. He mentally hoped so. “But she sleeps soundly, so we won’t disturb her if we’re halfway quiet.”

  He could do that. Be quiet, that is.

  She led him into the parlor and walked over to a wall sconce. After lighting it, she motioned to a horsehair settee. “I’ll need to get some things. And you’ll need to remove your trousers.”

  He stepped close to her, reaching out a finger and running it down her cheek, realizing as soon as he touched her that he’d wanted to do this since the day he saw her from the ship’s gangplank. He assumed she’d jerk back, perhaps in fright, but instead she stood silently, returning his gaze with an unfathomable look.

  “You want me to take off my shirt, too?” he murmured.

  “You know something?” she asked in a musing voice. “Maybe we should get this over with. Once and for all.” Stretching on tiptoes, she wrapped an arm around his neck and touched her lips to his.

  Nick only thought he’d felt need when her hand massaged his thigh. It slammed him now with a force that almost brought him to his knees--would have, had he not pulled her to him and used her body to steady himself. Not that he was more than slightly aware of that part of it.

  The majority of the hot, explosive sensations centered in his lips and his groin. Erupted with the growl of both need and want in his throat, into swirls of insensibility in his mind, seething heat in his blood.

  He could have swallowed her, he wanted to be a part of her so badly. Wanted to be inside her thrusting until he lost his mind, his seed, his being. Wanted her out of that dress so fervently, the only thing that kept him from ripping it from her was the fact he’d have to let go of her long enough to do it.

  That wasn’t an option. Gripping her hips and rubbing the mind-threatening throb between his legs against her taut, yet soft, stomach was. The action nearly sent him over the edge without entering her, something that hadn’t happened since his teen years when he’d wake in the middle of the night with soiled bed sheets.

  Even then he could never bring himself to resent the lingering sensations of fulfillment, the same as he had no power now to forego the fast-rushing culmination he was on the verge of right now.

  Suddenly she yanked his hair, struggling in his arms like a wild thing. For a moment, he let her fight, drinking in her anger and fear, filling her mouth with his tongue and a feral chuckle of satisfaction that he was causing this wild response in her--this twisting and turning that shoved her soft, feminine curves against the hard planes of the body yearning for them.

  She bit his tongue.

  That got his attention.

  He jerked back, throwing up his head and losing his balance. He had to let her go to keep from falling, and the cane didn’t begin to take the jar of his imbalance well enough to keep the pain at bay. She backed away from him, her eyes finally reflecting the fear he’d been hoping to see in them before he kissed her.

  Now he wanted to see--what? Now, instead of being satisfied to see her dread, he felt like a cad for causing that terrorized look on her face.

  “I’m--sorry,” he said, surprised to find it was the truth.

  The fear cleared from her eyes, and she shook her head. “I started it. I don’t know what on earth I was thinking of--what made me behave so foolishly.”

  Lifting his hand, he touched his tongue. There was a drop of blood on his finger when he drew it back. She saw it, too.

  “I’m not going to apologize for that,” she said. “I had to do something before both of us ended up in a situation we’d have been very sorry about tomorrow morning.”

  He nodded agreement, even while he stifled the twinge of masculine satisfaction at her admitting the embrace had bothered her as much as him. Unable to stop himself, he examined her flushed cheeks, lips pouted from his kiss. The fullness was caused from only one kiss, because he’d refused to relinquish her lips once he claimed them.

  Her hair had come loose, tumbling around her shoulders in riotous waves of strawberry silkiness, hiding the breasts he hadn’t had time to explore. They, at least, weren’t shrinking from him. They perked to attention and burrowed through her curls, nipples beckoning as though they had a mind of their own, much like his own part acted at times.

  She heaved a sigh, which filled her breasts with more yearning, and Nick licked his lips.

  “I should get out of here,” he growled.

  “No. No, we can handle this. You’re just a customer. And you’re in pain, and I can help you.”

  “The kind of pain I have right now is only getting worse with you around.”

  Her blue gaze flickered right to the pain, increasing the pleasure of it until he thought he’d finally disgrace himself for sure. She drew in another breath, then whooshed it out, scattering curls from her cheeks and forehead but not cooling the heated flush on her cheeks one bit--nor the heat clamoring in his groin.

  “I’m not a virgin,” she said, her words exploding on his barely curbed senses.

  “Jesus Christ, do you want me to rape you?” he yelled. “And damn it, why should you bother telling me that? I suppose the next thing you’re going to reveal is that you’re married.”

  “No. Divorced,” she said, a tiny smile hovering around her mouth and her eyes lighting with mischief.

  He groaned and staggered over to the settee. As surely as he knew the world would keep right on spinning into tomorrow, as it had the past ten years, he understood he should have gone the other way. Out of that parlor. Down the hallway. Gotten on his horse and galloped the hell back to his own part of town.

  “There’s no way in hell I’m going to let you touch me again tonight,” he said. “But go get whatever you have to treat this pain, and I’ll take it home with me.”

  “He was a warlock,” Wendi said as though he’d asked. As though he gave a good goddamn about another man who’d been between the beautiful legs. “We thought we could make a go of it because we were such good friends, and both of us really wanted to have a family. There’s not a lot of us around, so we decided to give it a try. But about a month after we were married, Cassandra moved here from England, and when I saw the way they looked at each other, I realized she was his soulmate. We waited until we were sure I wasn’t with child, then we dissolved the marriage, and he went with her.”

  “You make it sound awfully damned simple.”

  “It is. For us. We believe that each of our lives should be as fulfilling as we can make them. Had I thwarted Colin’s love for Cassandra, it might have taken several lives to correct the disrupted karma.”

  “I keep telling you, I don’t believe in that bullshit. Go get the stuff for my leg so I can go home.”

  She hesitated only another second, then left the room. Without her tormenting presence so near, the magnitude of what he’d done hit home with Nick. He’d kissed the daughter of the woman who gave his mother so much pain. The daughter of his father’s mistress. Mauled her, even, and been damned delighted to be doing it.

  Was that what had happened to his father once he touched Sabine Chastain? Was that why he’d abandoned his wife’s bed--ended up causing a scandal that destroyed the Bardou name in New Orleans? At least, the respected part of their name?

  Left behind a legacy of dish
onor, which Nick himself had made worse?

  He staggered to his feet. He had to get the hell out of here.

  By the time Wendi caught up to him, he was out on the porch. The only reason he didn’t totally escape was because his leg had stiffened and ached so badly, he could hardly walk. He knew he’d be forced to use the mounting block, another blow to his battered pride.

  “Nick, please,” Wendi said, laying a hand on his arm.

  He shook her off and limped down the steps. She followed him--he could smell her presence, even while the pain roared too loudly in his mind to hear her soft footsteps. He went through the gate, untied the stallion and led him over to the mounting block.

  She didn’t say a word while he painfully got into the saddle--nor did she wound his pride by offering her help again. Damn her! He wished she would, so he could have someone to shout at!

  When he sat astride the horse, she handed him a small cloth bag. “There’s wintergreen salve in here, and some witch hazel liniment. Use them alternately, to see which one will help. And there’s dried willow leaves and bark for tea. Use only a small pinch for an entire pot of tea. Let it seep for at least fifteen minutes, then drink only one cup every four hours or so. Don’t over-drink that, because it can be dangerous if you do.”

  “How much do I owe you?” he asked grudgingly.

  “See if anything works first,” she said with a shrug.

  “I’ll be leaving soon, so I might not be around for you to collect your money from,” he warned.

  She studied him for a moment, and when she spoke, it wasn’t about the money. “Aunt Sybilla and I are planning a ceremony with the rest of our coven for Bealtane, to see if we can contact my mother. You’re welcome to join the ceremony, since you’re involved in this also.”

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll participate in a witch’s ceremony!”

  “You’re already living as though you’re damned, Nick,” she murmured. “Why don’t you make an effort to do something about that, instead of wallowing in your self pity? Why don’t you live your life like you have a life to live, instead of just passing time until it’s your hour to die?”

  “Goddamn you!” he snarled. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about or what I’m going through!”

  “Oh, but I do.” She took a step back from the stallion. “I suffered through the consequences of that same scandal, too. So I’m probably one of the few people on earth who truly does understand what you’re going through.”

  She walked around his horse to the gate, then said, “If we find the Book before you leave, I’ll let you know. And if you change your mind, we’ll be in the St. Louis Number One Cemetery at midnight tomorrow.”

  Chapter 8

  Stacks of white tombs gleamed in the moonlight as Wendi and Sybilla walked down the aisles toward the back of the cemetery. Three high in most rows, here and there the bottom tombs had already sunk into the ground part way. Separate family tombs rose into the air in their own private spaces, some square, with iron fences surrounding them and gates guarding the entrances. There were even two huge, round tombs, built to accommodate the nuns, priests and poor at their deaths.

  Above-ground burials were a requirement in their city. In the early days of settlement, coffins floated to the surface during hurricanes because the ground water level made below-ground burial impossible.

  Strict edicts were necessary, also, for the custom to work properly. The tombs were used over and over again by the families, but each body must be given at least a year and a day to decay inside the wooden coffins. Opening the tomb prior to that could spark an explosion of the body gases inside, causing the door to fly off as a result and possibly injure someone. But if left the proper amount of time, the bones could be swept to the rear of the enclosure, the wooden coffin burned and another coffin placed inside, holding another body to molder.

  In the family tombs and the ones for the Catholic priests, nuns and poor, an area was left open in the middle for the bones to be pushed into and left to turn to dust. And when a family died out, the rentals for those tombs not actually owned by a family would sometimes go unpaid to the church, necessitating the removal of a family’s bones. They were then re-blessed by the priest and added to the area the church used for its own dead and for the bodies of the poor, the tomb then re-let.

  Wendi shook her head. She loved graveyards and never understood why they frightened most of the rest of the world. It was only the body and then the bones left, the soul having entered the netherworld of the afterlife at the moment of death. Peace. Graveyards exuded peace and serenity. She couldn’t fathom how people could purport to believe in the afterlife, yet not understand death being part of it. All of them would end up here or in a similar place some day, so why be fearful of it?

  Truly, though, the unknown frightened most people, much as fear of her magic and witchcraft made them terrified of her and others like her. That worked to their advantage on the days and nights of celebration, giving them privacy to honor their Goddess and God. Not even the priests at the nearby St. Louis Cathedral would confront them.

  She and Sybilla rounded the end of one aisle and saw the gathering of their friends ahead. Wendi sensed the one person she expected hadn’t broken down and joined them yet. But he would. She had no doubt he was already on his way.

  Colin and Cassandra greeted her and Sybilla.

  “You two are almost late,” Cassandra said, giving Wendi a hug and kissing Sybilla on the cheek. “We’ve already gathered everyone’s tokens for the tree.”

  “It’s your turn to arrange the altar and light the candles and the incense in the censer,” Colin said. “Cassandra’s turn to cast the circle.”

  Wendi had prepared for her responsibilities this evening, and she carried her basket of sacred articles to the altar of stones someone had already propped back into shape. Unlike some covens, their group didn’t have a singular leader or priestess. Their duties rotated, but always among the women, not the men. Their beliefs gave Mother Goddess stronger power than Father God.

  “We’re sorry we’re late,” she said. “Aunt Sybilla’s hound wasn’t home, and she refused to leave until he came back and she could put him in the house. She was afraid that animal might try to follow us and someone steal him.”

  “Alphie’s a valuable animal,” Sybilla said with a sniff. “I don’t plan to chance anyone taking him from me.”

  Wendi patted her arm. “It’s all right, Aunt. I was only teasing. You know I like Alphie, too.”

  She and Sybilla greeted the rest of the gathering, which consisted of nine other people besides Cassandra and Colin--thirteen in all, as was the custom rather than a necessity. Similar gatherings were going on in other areas of the city, but their coven had used this meeting place for more years than anyone could remember. It had been her mother’s place of worship, also. The live oak beneath which they met grew just inside the back wall, in a spot near where the Jewish portion of the cemetery was set off. It seemed appropriate to Wendi, when she thought of it, to celebrate their religion at the spot where two other religions merged yet remained separate.

  Ah, she sensed him coming. Better let the others know. She walked back to the stone altar, but instead of beginning the ceremony when everyone quieted and gave her their attention, she turned.

  “I invited someone to join us this evening. As you know, Aunt Sybilla and I really need to contact my mother as soon as possible. And the son of my mother’s lover is back in town. Nick Bardou. He has his own reasons for needing to join us, and he’ll be here in a minute.”

  There were few secrets in the coven, since the very survival of their worship depended upon one another, so no one was surprised at her referring to the old scandal. Agreeable murmurs responded, and the others returned to their own conversations until she was ready for them to participate in the ceremony. Wendi waited until she heard the hoofbeats plodding down the aisle, then walked to the edge of the gathering to greet Nick.

  He appe
ared in the darkness like a satyr, the hat on his head shadowing his face. Still, she could see an outline of his lips and recall the thrill of his kiss. No one had brought her such pleasure before, and she’d spent more time than she should have recalling it--especially in the dark hours of the night.

  Halting his horse, he stared down at her, his shoulders blocking the moonlight. The sight brought a tingle to her palms. On his horse, he appeared perfect, exuding a masculine sexuality that would give any woman a weak-kneed response, and Wendi was a woman. Even his limp made him attractive, she mused, inducing a feminine desire to comfort him, to be a nurture to his maleness.

  “I don’t intend to join in whatever you’re going to do,” he said. “I’ll watch from here.”

  “You can’t. You’ll disrupt the circle.”

  “Why did I know you were going to say that?” he asked. With a sigh of resignation, he climbed down from the stallion more agilely than the previous night.

  “Have the herbs and tea helped your leg?” Wendi asked.

  “Yes,” he barked. “Where should I tie my horse, so it doesn’t disrupt things?”

  Wendi nodded at an iron fence surrounding a nearby tomb, and Nick limped over to it. After tying his horse to a spiked corner post, he returned to her side. She glanced at his face, not surprised to see uneasiness reflected on it. Their ceremonies could unnerve the uninitiated, but she had to give him credit for his fortitude.

  “Am I supposed to do anything?” he asked after a moment.

  “No. Just watch. We won’t know ourselves what will happen until it actually does.”

  “You said this is a celebration of some sort.”

  “The marriage of the Goddess and God. It has to do with spring, new growth and fruitfulness. A lot of our beliefs are based on the earth and its cycles, as well as their meanings in our lives. We never want to forget to show the proper respect for what we are given.”