And she saw, actually saw the glow fade from his eyes, almost felt him shake his head as if to force a return to the here and now from wherever his intensity had taken him.
They drove in an almost liquid silence up to the pinnacle of Mount Wellington, where icy winds quickly forestalled any major wanderings, at least on Ruth’s part. Kurtis, seemingly immune to the biting chill, slid into his warlock role long enough to beg her witchly permission, then disappeared for nearly half an hour among the masses of jumbled boulders on the mountain’s barren crest.
On his return, he flashed her an enigmatic smile, but — somewhat disappointingly — offered no kiss. And he was strangely quiet, she thought, on their return journey to the city.
It wasn’t until they were nearly downtown that he asked if she had further plans for the day, suggesting if she didn’t he would be delighted to continue sharing it with her. So they went to the museum, then wandered through the craft shops and gift shops in Salamanca Place until dinnertime, discussing anything and everything and nothing in particular.
And throughout Ruth kept noticing how she actually could see the marks of tension and strain washing from Kurtis’ face as if being dissolved by successive ocean waves. By the time they paused for dinner at the Ball and Chain Grill, he was visibly tired, but so relaxed he appeared not to notice.
‘Is there any known way to trap a witch and keep her?’ he asked in the relative seclusion of their restaurant booth. ‘You’re good for me, my dear lady; I’m not sure I’m going to be able to do without you, now that I’ve been touched by your spell.’ And his fingers reached out to take her wrist across the table, then began to stroke tantalisingly at her pulse, which immediately quickened to his touch.
Too fast, too fast, screamed her mind, but her body, her very being, screamed just as loudly about how very good being with him was.
‘Or is it like trying to capture a unicorn?’ he added while her confused mind hogtied her tongue. ‘I don’t know where I would find a virgin in this mortal world, but I suppose if there is one Hobart would be the place to look.’
Ruth raised one eyebrow, suddenly cautious, but he merely grinned and continued.
‘Well, as the song says, I’ve been everywhere. But Hobart’s the first place I ever found a witch. Loosen up, Ruth the witch. What’s the sense of making all this magic if you’re not going to enjoy it?’
Loosen up? Easy for him to say; it wasn’t his heart that kept leaping to keep pace with his touch, with the warmth in those sad, sad eyes. It wasn’t his body that was being systematically sensitised to the touch of a virtual stranger who somehow was no stranger at all. It wasn’t him who was confused, damn it!
‘You’d be smarter to go after the unicorn,’ she finally managed to say, only to have him raise an eyebrow.
‘Evasive,’ he replied. Too perceptive by half.
‘I ... I don’t know what else to say,’ she replied. ‘I don’t know exactly what it is that you’re asking.’
His fingers continued their enchanting journey along her wrist, his eyes probed her gaze, straying occasionally to meander across her face, down to the hollow of her throat.
‘I’m saying, my dear lady witch, that I like you very much and that I’d like to see you again,’ he answered. ‘I don’t know how you do it, but the effect you have on me is quite something else again. But if I’m going to see you again, it might be nice to know if you want me to do so.’
‘Well, it’s your choice, surely,’ she replied, confused now, uncertain. Of course she wanted to see him again, but surely that was obvious?
Then the obvious struck her like a hammer-blow.
‘You’re married?’
His gust of laughter was explosive. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Dear witch, I’m as free as your gigantic spirit.’ And then, his eyes reflecting his seriousness, ‘But I was married; she died last year. Does that make a difference?’
‘No,’ Ruth said, more confused than ever now, and furious with herself for having created most of it. ‘It just seemed sort of an obvious question, that’s all.’
‘Well, if it matters, it was probably the worst marriage ever endured by any two people on this earth,’ he said then, and his eyes blazed with that frightening intensity.
‘Was it your fault?’ Ruth asked the question because it seemed, to her, the obvious one. Only after the words were out did she realise how terribly personal a question it might seem. She had already forgotten they’d only met less than a day ago.
His shrug and lifted eyebrow confirmed his words. ‘Most of it, I suspect. A fair half, anyway. No matter what people say, it usually works out that way if you’re fair.’
‘I’m ... sorry,’ Ruth said. Because she was. Her own parents, now both dead, had lived a marriage of pure hell while it lasted, and gone on hating each other to the end.
‘So am I.’ That simple, direct statement ended that part of the discussion. Kurtis signalled for the bill and within minutes they were walking hand in hand along the Hobart waterfront to where Ruth’s car was parked near the Sheraton.
When they reached it, Kurtis dismissed the vehicle with a minute shake of his head and a subtle pressure on Ruth’s fingers. They kept walking, and with every step she grew more apprehensive. Did he, she wondered but didn’t dare to ask, hardly dared even to think of it, expect her to go with him to his room? It wasn’t the idea that spooked her so much as the feeling that she wanted to, might even do so. Madness, this.
But he didn’t, didn’t even glance at the imposing structure as they walked past the front of it. And they carried on, hand in hand and in silence, along that block, and the next, and the next, wandering aimlessly through the quiet evening streets, peering into shop windows, occasionally looking at each other, but saying nothing.
Occasionally they met and passed similar couples, usually obvious tourists, usually elderly, and to each Kurtis offered a nodded acknowledgement, occasionally a low-voiced, ‘Good Evening.’ But to Ruth he said nothing, except through his touch. And it seemed to her that when one of those elderly couples revealed, as some did, the visible evidence of two people truly comfortable with each other, still in love at an age many never attained, his touch altered subtly, his grip on her fingers just that hint tighter.
She accepted it, enjoyed it, was thrilled and entranced and frightened by it. Everything about Kurtis seemed such a strange combination of gentleness and lightness and that vivid, deep intenseness.
And all too soon, it seemed, they were back at her car, although how they got there she couldn’t remember. She had no memory of having steered their route, couldn’t imagine how he could have done it.
‘I don’t want this to end; I think you know that,’ he said, now holding both her hands in his and staring down into her eyes. ‘But I have to catch the red-eye in the morning, and I really ought to have some sleep. And I’m sure you could do with some; it’s been a rather long day for you.’
‘I’m not on duty until Monday,’ she replied, meeting his gaze, almost trembling with feelings she couldn’t understand and didn’t dare to question.
‘I shall write to you, my lady witch,’ he said then, ‘if you want me to.’
‘I’d ... like that, I think,’ Ruth said.
‘Even if it’s a love letter?’ And the teasing in the question held a curious ring of truth. ‘Because I might, you know. I fancy I’ve been quite ensorcelled by you, whether you actually cast the spell or not.’
‘It would be far, far worse if I had,’ she replied brightly, trying to defuse his intensity, trying to still her own leaping emotions. ‘You’ll get over it in time, Sir warlock. I promise you.’
‘Promise me you’ll answer my letters instead,’ he countered.
‘No promises,’ she whispered, but too late. His mouth swooped down to claim her lips and this time there was a thirst in his kiss, a thirst that drank from her lips, a hunger that she could feel in his body as he pulled her close and held her there.
Her breasts were cr
ushed against him, her thighs against his so that she couldn’t help but feel his passion. His fingers orchestrated a magical tune along her spine and his breath was as sweet in her mouth as the wild berries she’d had for dessert.
But then he stopped, lingering as he drew away from her, but clearly determined. Because Ruth was no longer in control, and perhaps they both knew it.
‘This isn’t the time or the place,’ he said. ‘And the only other places I can think of, while highly tempting, wouldn’t be right.’
And even before Ruth could think, he was kissing her hand in that mock-courtly fashion, and murmuring, ‘So goodnight, my lady witch, but not goodbye!’
And he was opening her car door, handing her into the vehicle with a gallant bow, closing the door behind her. And he was gone, walking away without a backward glance and without a single word of farewell from her.
Not even the chance to say thank you for the breakfast, the dinner, the most incredible day of her life. Leaving her, she decided as she drove slowly homewards, both speechless and entranced. Just as he’d intended!
CHAPTER TWO
‘Dear my lady witch...’ Staring into the ever-swirling, ever-changing flames, Ruth fingered this latest letter, this totally unwanted, unexpected letter, breathing slowly and deeply as she summoned up the courage to read it.
Again, she managed only the salutation, although her peripheral vision picked up the occasional following word despite her unwillingness to read further. Then she folded it again, quickly, her fingers flying in a frantic, fevered haste. She laid it on the side-table while she went and made a cup of tea, wishing for the first time ever in her life that she smoked, just so as to have another excuse for delaying the inevitable.
It would be, she knew, a masterpiece of its kind. His kind. Kurtis had always been fastidious in his letters despite their frivolous nature.
Frivolous! She almost laughed at the thought. His letters might have been couched in the most flowery of language, had certainly made extravagant use of witches and warlocks and medieval poetry, but they were anything but frivolous.
From the very first, he had laid bare his deepest feelings, his most intimate thoughts, the intensity of his very self. Or so it seemed. It had been a masterpiece of seduction by mail, and should that ever be declared a crime — as it ought! — she would be happy to testify against him and happier still to watch him hang!
‘Dear my lady witch...’ His first letter had begun so. She had received it on a Tuesday, plucking it eagerly from the mailbox in a flurry of disbelief and anticipation.
He had written. Despite her wanting it so very much, Ruth truly hadn’t expected ever to hear from Kurtis Goodwin again, and just the sight of his handwriting on the envelope had given her goose-bumps.
And the letter inside had been everything she could have hoped for and more. Couched in the language of a warlock of lesser standing than she in her witch role, he had used guile and mock-humility and the wackiest sense of humour she’d ever encountered to report on his flight to Sydney and then to Brisbane and then to, of all places, Darwin, from where the letter had come...
‘Dear my lady, it would be assumed the modern craft of flight would be at least more comfortable than a broomstick,’ one line began, ‘but be assured, your radiance, that it is not so...’
The rest, covering several pages in that flamboyant, bold handwriting, became a hilarious tale of an epic journey, then subtly shifted gears to become an intimate, probing examination of a relationship in the making, and it was haunting, filled with promises of wonder.
The letter which arrived three days later was even more surprising. Written in expectably flowery language, it was none the less a masterpiece of intrigue and devilry, clearly designed to appeal to her sense of curiosity and certain of success. It contained a clipping about a forthcoming Sydney stage production, one which would never be staged in Hobart, and a most curious invitation...
Dear my lady witch...
Please note the attached advertisement and take suitable cognisance of this once-only, never-to-be-repeated, genuine, you-beaut, shouldn’t-be-missed offer!
You consult your crystal ball and or frogs’ entrails or whatever to pick the date you might like to flex off for a day or two or three to hie yourself northward for a visit, and I shall provide: Transport as required.
Bed and board: yes, I can cook; even rabbit food. Dinner and drinks and the theatre. Scintillating, if perhaps geriatric, companionship throughout.
Dress: optional, although probably necessary for dinner and the theatre
Intentions: Mine, strictly honourable unless persuaded otherwise. Yours. persuasive? Please consult crystal ball.
The letter went on to include a telephone number for the expected RSVP, then Kurtis’ flamboyant signature as warlock, apprentice grade, and a postscript:
One hopes you’re at least tempted by this splendid offer — thus: ‘The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.’ Oscar Wilde: Picture of Dorian Gray
Ruth read it, shook her head in wonderment, read it again. She took it with her to work — she was on afternoon shift — and found time to read it a dozen times before she got home again.
And with each reading the preposterousness of it all became greater and her instinctive caution became less as curiosity, as he’d known it would, took control!
But, most of all: every time she read the letter — she laughed!
Nobody ever, she thought, could have received such a weird, totally inane invitation. And she laughed again, revelling in the insanity of it all.
She read it again immediately on getting home, then picked up the telephone with her laughter ringing through the flat and dialled his number while she still had the nerve.
‘Sir warlock, you are mad, mad, mad,’ she laughed when his familiar, grating voice answered.
‘Does that mean yes or no?’ he replied without hesitation. ‘I presume, of course, that it means yes; otherwise you wouldn’t have phoned.’
‘Methinks you presume a great deal,’ she replied cheekily, smiling to herself in surprise at just how good it was to hear his voice, rich with feeling.
‘Methinks I must, my lady witch,’ was the chuckled reply. ‘But you can scarce blame a poor, apprentice-grade warlock for the results of your own witchcraft.’
‘I’d only be able to come for the weekend,’ she said, serious now as if in protection from his jesting, flamboyant tone. A tone, Ruth thought, that could end up bewitching her if she weren’t careful.
‘I don’t care if it’s only for the night of the play,’ he replied, suddenly serious himself. ‘It may be the only time I’ll be able to see you for quite a while, and…’
‘But it’s ridiculously expensive, even for the whole weekend,’ Ruth interrupted. ‘Are you sure you’ve ... thought this out?’
‘As sure as I’m talking to you now,’ he rasped, voice now, amazingly, alive with an emotion Ruth couldn’t quite identify. ‘And you let me worry about the expense, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’d have to,’ she replied. ‘If it were up to me, I couldn’t afford to make it to the theatre here, never mind in Sydney.’ And then she broke off, awkwardly, realising how that might sound.
Kurtis ignored it, obviously already ahead of her in his thinking.
‘And may I presume you’ve decided on which weekend?’ he urged. ‘It would be nice for me to know, so that I can start organising.’
‘Oh, the thirteenth, of course,’ Ruth replied. She’d determined that almost before deciding to accept in the first place. It was a Friday, that month, which somehow seemed auspicious even if she wasn’t certain why.
‘I wonder why I’m not surprised?’ was the reply, accompanied by a chuckle at Ruth’s gasp of obvious surprise at the comment. ‘Right, Friday the thirteenth it is, then. Any particular flight you’d prefer ... considering I presume you’ll have to wait until after work?’
‘Oh, evening, definitely,’ she said. ‘I won’t be off un
til about four, so I suppose it will have to be after six if I’m to have time to change and get to the airport and all.’
‘As good as done, my lady witch. The tickets will be in your hand within the week.’ And in the background she could hear a telephone’s insistent pealing.
‘My other phone is calling,’ Kurtis said, distraction obvious in his voice. ‘I’ll try to call you back if I can, but things are pretty damned hectic here just now, so you may have to wait for a letter instead.’
"That’s all right.’
‘Have to be, won’t it? Give my love to your “familiar” and tell it I wish ‘twere me.’ And he was gone with no other farewell, no sign of ... of what? she wondered. What did she expect — a declaration of undying love?
That she didn’t get during the three weeks of waiting for the auspicious date heralding her trip to Sydney. Nor did he telephone again. What Ruth did get, however, was nearly everything else and nearly as good.
Letters! Letters almost every day, it seemed, and each one containing in its flowery, formal language another tiny nugget revealing some infinitesimal aspect of the man behind them. For Ruth it was like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle without ever seeing a picture of the finished item. Kurtis was so complex a person, so rational-irrational, logical-illogical, she sometimes found his letters almost incomprehensible.
In one, he mentioned a book of poetry he’d bought at some obscure second-hand book shop. Forty Singing Seamen and Other Poems by Alfred Noyes.
Published in 1908, given to somebody for Christmas, according to the flyleaf, in 1914. And can you imagine it, my lady witch? … nearly half the pages uncut! All these years squatting on some bookshelf, somewhere, and never even read! It’s enough to make you weep, is it not? Such a fate for a book of poetry, to languish unread for almost eighty years. Of course somebody’s read The Highwayman or at least freed the pages it was on. But to read that utterly wondrous saga of love and death and passion, yet never even bother to read the rest of the book ... barbaric, my lady, truly barbaric! I shall attempt to make amends by reading it aloud to you, as poetry ought be read, by candlelight, with wine and soft music.
A Magical Affair Page 3