And he wanted to do this first, so he could spend the day imagining Barb’s surprised smile. Ryan stepped into the garden, hoping he was earlier than her today, and the vibrant blue immediately snared his eye.
It was gorgeously vivid and he knew exactly what had bloomed. Barb was going to be over the moon! Ryan crossed the garden, circumnavigating the pond he had installed and pausing beside the stones he had worked into place.
It was the Siberian Iris that she had tried her damnedest to kill. Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned at the stubborn little sucker.
This was a far better surprise than what he had brought. Ryan quickly added the young plants to the beds, deciding where they would look best with an ease born of experience. He turned to leave, then stopped to look at that iris again.
It was so beautiful, all the more so because the plant reminded him of Barb. This little iris had toughed it out, dumped in soil and light conditions completely wrong for it, thriving despite the odds. All it had needed was a little TLC to coax it to bloom.
Ryan was good with TLC, at least the kind plants needed.
He liked to think that the plants people picked said something about the kind of person they were, and Barb’s choice spoke volumes. The iris leaves were like swords, their edges sharp enough to cut. A Siberian Iris was a tough plant, bred to survive brutal conditions and harsh winters.
Yet still it made a fragile and beautiful blossom, one of stunning color that was carefully sheltered behind those sharp leaves. A delicate core. Ryan bent and studied the bloom, impressed as always by the detailed craftmanship of Mother Nature.
He smiled when he saw the next bud lurking below, just a tip of blue that would emerge into splendor by the end of the week. That was all the encouragement he needed to pull out his shears.
There was a vase in Barb’s kitchen with a fantastic surface texture and millions of metallic hues depending how the sunlight caught it. It held a place of honor on the kitchen shelf, even though it was always empty, and Ryan had a pretty good idea what Barb was saving it for.
Spring was a time for fresh starts.
*
An hour after the ferry chugged out of Fulford Harbour, Barb yawned on her way into the kitchen. She always slept late after the sabbat. She plugged in the kettle sleepily, and pulled back the drape to study her new garden. She still couldn’t believe it had come to be there, and had to prove it to herself a couple of times every day.
Making a garden had been quite a process and a lot of work. But it hadn’t cost as much as Barb had feared - mostly because of Ryan’s connections and the hard labor both of them did, moving rocks and soil. In the end, the effort made the garden feel more like Barb’s own.
And she had enjoyed Ryan’s company. He had a way of listening, really listening, that she liked. He didn’t make her feel impractical and foolish for wanting a garden, or even for her reasons why she wanted one, though Barb hadn’t parted with those secrets easily.
And the resulting garden was exactly as she had always imagined it would be - with a few critical improvements. Ryan had done such a beautiful job. It looked as though it had always been there. Barb smiled slightly at the nodding white flower that hadn’t been there the day before, and knew very well who had put it there. She’d look closer after her shower, but she already knew she’d like whatever he had brought.
He was a man who paid attention to little things. Barb liked that.
She turned and caught her breath when she saw her special vase in the middle of the kitchen table, exactly as she had always envisioned it. Her hand rose to her lips and she crossed the room slowly, hardly able to believe what she saw.
Her iris had bloomed!
And the flower was so beautiful. It was delicate and faintly ruffled, a fantastic hue that proved on closer examination to be shades upon shades of saturated blues. There were tiny beard hairs on three of the petals and they were of brilliant sun-drenched yellow.
Barb touched them with one finger and was amazed that such beauty could come from one plant, especially one that had until recently been so very unhappy.
There was a note tucked beneath the vase, the bold masculine printing very familiar to Barb after all the garden sketches she had seen.
“Beauty triumphs!
Celebrate with me - and dinner - tonight?”
Barb chuckled to herself and traced Ryan’s strokes with one fingertip. She supposed that accepting the invitation was the least she do after the man had saved her plant.
And coaxed it to be happy again.
*
But it wasn’t the blue iris blossom on her kitchen table that made Barb greet Ryan with a smile.
It wasn’t because Viviane finally had a call from a publisher who wanted to buy her manuscript. It wasn’t even because Monty paid his balance that afternoon - a vigilant Majella by his side.
It wasn’t even - as Barb insisted - that Viviane and Niall were going to move out or that Niall’s apprenticeship with Derek was working out so well. She tried to convince her date that all of these things were responsible for her buoyant mood.
But Ryan, a keen observer of details, knew better than to believe her.
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Author’s Note
After all these references to Gawain and his adventures, you may be wondering why the full tale of that legendary knight is not included in the book. Part of the reason is that there are so many stories about Gawain and they have been fitted together in many different ways over the centuries.
According to Arthurian chronicles, Gawain was the nephew of Arthur, the son of Arthur’s sister Morgaine (sometimes called Anne). Like Arthur, there is some question that the character may be modeled after an historic figure, an illegitimate son of a king of Lothian and Orkney who was denied by his father. Some tales call Gawain the son of a fairy, cast out by his parents and raised by a childless fisherman and his wife.
There is also speculation that Gawain is the medieval version of a Celtic solar hero. This is evidenced by Gawain’s strength waxing until midday, then waning thereafter in several tales, and can also be supported by the persistence of unusual elements in stories about Gawain.
No matter his origins, Gawain was reputed to be the champion of women, a courteous and fearless knight who was both noble of spirit and golden-tongued. He crossed water to win as island ruled by women (Avalon?) and besieged the Castellum Puellarum (Castle of Maidens) in several tales. He also is often portrayed as the diplomat who reconciles differences at Arthur’s court. His symbol is the pentacle (a five pointed star often associated with paganism); his sword was named Excalibur; his destrier was named Gingalet (‘of good staying power’).
Gawain figures prominently in three different stories of the Arthurian cycle, though his role (like that of most of the players) changes in each version. It has also changed over time, several of his stories being rolled into Arthur’s mythology.
The first tale is that of Gawain’s rescue of a woman of otherworldly origins. After a series of ordeals - battles with demons, the ‘terrible kiss’ of a serpent, and nightmares - Gawain rescues the lady in question and she gratefully bestows her sexual favors upon him.
The trials here are somewhat bizarre, even in medieval terms - hand-to-hand combat was a much more typical test! - the kiss of the serpent in particular hinting at the old association of snakes with the Goddess. The besieged lady’s characteristics suggest that she may not be mortal. In many versions, she grants Gawain a token or talisman which magically protects him from harm after his success. It has been suggested that this tale is one of Gawain being tested as the earthly consort of the Goddess and that winning the challenge makes him her champion.
The second tale of Gawain is that of the Riddle Test, much as Viviane tells Matthew in the archbishop’s dungeon. Medieval people loved riddles so that part of the tale isn’t unusual, although the riddle is. Those familiar with pagan symbols will recognize the two aspects of the Goddess in this tale - that of the Maid
en and the Crone. Hers is not a passive role, either, for she challenges knights - who bow to her will! - and demands Gawain’s kiss. Additionally, courtesy is given greater weight than military ability, though this story purportedly predates the romances of courtly love by a number of centuries.
The final tale involving Gawain is perhaps the most telling one in terms of exhibiting his Celtic pagan history. Gawain and the Green Knight tells of the arrival of a large knight completely green in hue (yes, even his hair!) at Arthur’s court during the Yule festivities. He challenges the knights to cut off his head - none take the wager except Gawain. To Gawain’s astonishment, the stranger doesn’t defend himself (although he is much larger than Gawain) and Gawain successfully beheads him with a single blow.
To everyone’s surprise, the Green Knight then scoops up his head, and demands that Gawain meet him in a year so that he can return what he was given. Gawain keeps his word, even knowing that he will be killed. In several versions, this tale is entwined with the other two above, so that the token given by the lady saves Gawain’s life.
Of course, the Yuletide festivities at Arthur’s court would coincide with the Celtic pagan celebration of the winter solstice. Traditionally, the day of the solstice (the shortest day of the year) was considered a day ‘out of time’ - in Gawain’s story, this is the date of his meeting with the Green Knight. This contest with a much older (albeit green!) knight also echoes the sacrifice of pagan kings - a ritual which ensured that the Goddess’ consort was always a virile champion.
Hopefully, you found Niall of Malloy a suitably honorable consort for Viviane and her otherworldly token. Viviane, incidentally, is the beauty in the Arthurian cycle who begged Merlin to teach her all of his magical tricks. In this case, the pupil excelled the master, and Viviane imprisoned Merlin with a spell when he grew displeased with her prowess. She has also been associated with the Lady of the Lake, the keeper of Excalibur, which makes a nice little circle back to Gawain.
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Love Potion #9
Italy, August 1420 – A gypsy named Lilith sees her lover hanged for a crime he didn’t commit. On the gallows, he swears to return to her. Convinced that one day, he’ll be reborn, she searches for a fabled elixir – rumored to grant immortality…
Toronto, August 1999 – Waiting has taken its toll on Lilith, now a fortune teller with a gift for matchmaking. So she concocts her strongest love potion ever. She is certain her magic has worked when the spitting image of her one true love moves in next door. A very practical – and skeptical – single father, Mitch Davison is intrigued by Lilith’s passionate welcome, yet suspicious of her motives. After all, he’s never believed in magic – and hasn’t believed in love since his wife left him. But when Lilith doubts her own intuition, it’s Mitch who must convince her that the greatest gift of all is the talent to follow your own heart…
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Praise for Love Potion #9
“A brilliant fantasy romance. Claire Cross proves that she is one of today’s superstars!”
Harriet Klausner
“Love Potion #9 is a keeper! The characters are likeable and real, the dialog is fast and funny, and the writing is witty and delicious. The multi-talented Ms. Cross wields her pen like a wand to give readers a truly magical and spellbinding love story, making believers of us all.”
Tanzey Cutter for Old Book Barn Gazette
“Four and a half stars! Love Potion #9 is utterly charming, mixing a centuries-old myth and a modern day love story with a fast-paced plot that keeps you laughing and wondering if you can really believe.”
Romantic Times
“The plot bears the stamp of a master storyteller - Ms. Cross’ style is irresistible. Passion is spiced with humor and flavored with emotional conflict. Fast and exhilarating, Love Potion #9 had me spellbound to the last word.”
MT for Rendezvous
“Get ready for a rollicking good time. Claire Cross is at her best, which means a treat for all her fans. Characters written with pathos and humor keep the reader on the edge of tears and laughter as we discover the mysteries of love, romance, sensuality and passion at the hands of the master. Hang on to your hats, ladies, this is one sexy book. If you aren’t a fan of Ms. Cross yet, this book will definitely win you over. Smartly written with more than an ample touch of comedy, Love Potion #9 will rise like cream to the top of the charts.”
Kathee S. Card for Under the Covers
“Love Potion #9 is a delightful, enchanting and magical book…This is one for your keeper shelf!”
Rita Hyatt for WCRG on AOL
“Claire Cross does an excellent job of blending passion, romance and humor in this story…This book is definitely one I could dive into over and over again.”
Sharal Heinemann for All About Romance
“Cheers to Ms. Cross for having written a wonderfully endearing fantasy romance that readers will have a difficult time putting down – and an even harder time forgetting.”
Brenda K. Johnson for New Age Bookshelf
“I laughed so hard, my cat got up and left the room.”
Jennifer Dunne
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Love Potion #9
by
Claire Delacroix
Smashwords Edition
Cover illustration by Judy York.
Cover by Kim Killion.
Copyright 1999, 2011 Claire Delacroix, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright preserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
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Love Potion #9
by
Claire Delacroix
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0
The Fool
Northern Italy - August 1420
The gypsies slid into the town square as quietly as the dusk, gold on their earlobes glinting like starlight, women’s voluminous skirts rustling like the wind. They clung to the twilight shadows, silent and watchful.
The gypsies came in silk and velvet, fabulous colors, gold and silver, gems aplenty, their tanned feet bare. To Lilith’s eyes, her clan was like visiting royalty among the dour townspeople, a glimmer of something rich and fine that these peasants would otherwise never know.
She walked proudly in the midst of her kumpania, refusing to acknowledge the townspeople’s watchful silence. There had been a time when the Rom’s arrival had been greeted with cheers in this town. But on this night, suspicion was in the air, a taint of danger that no one with a nose could miss.
Cards and palms, even the tang in the wind, told the Rom that something of import would happen here this night, something with dire consequences for their own fate. It was as clear as a summoning. A shiver raced over Lilith’s flesh as she stepped into the square, but she ignored the whisper of her Gift.
In her secret heart, she admitted that she was afraid.
Lilith fingered the tarot card hidden beneath her shawl. It had been the last card Sebastian had drawn, the card that had seemed so inappropriate at the time.
Lilith could almost feel the warmth from Sebastian’s fingers still lingering on the card; she ran her thumb across its painted surface as the crowd parted. She craned he
r neck, seeking a glimpse of him in the crowd, seeking an explanation, seeking reassurance that her uncle had called the matter wrong.
But Sebastian was not there.
As Lilith’s heart sank and her uncle’s expression turned grim, the town crier raised his voice. He was a portly man, obviously filled with self-importance. “As you know, a woman, a kind and gentle widow has been killed in the sanctity of her own home.”
The crowd stirred angrily and the gypsies exchanged glances of concern.
“We gather this evening to see justice served, for the guilty culprit is in our own hands.”
The hangman stepped forward in his dark hood, something dark tainted the air and the Rom instinctively shrank back against the walls. The peasants cheered in bloodthirsty anticipation as the hangman tied a knot in his rope.
Time Travel Romances Boxed Set Page 101