He looked at her, his dark eyes compelling and trustworthy. “I know, Tempest, and you don’t know how good you made me feel.”
She reached her hand across to his, and he took it. “I like when you kiss me.”
“That’s a dangerous admission, woman; it might just force me to kiss you more often.”
She smiled and threaded her fingers with his. “I’d like that.”
He shook his head slowly. “Your honesty astonishes me.”
“Why shouldn’t I tell you that I like your kisses?”
He tightened their locked fingers. “Because I’ll keep kissing you, and kisses can lead to intimate touches, and... “He let his words trail off, leaving her to imagine.
She didn’t hesitate or grow flustered; she answered with her usual honesty. “And to make love if we so choose.”
“Are you leading me into temptation, Tempest, or casting a spell over me?” he asked with a teasing smile.
“A spell can’t force you to do something you don’t want to do.”
“And if I want?”
“It can then expedite the desire,” she informed him with her own playful smile.
He released her hand so they both could return to their meal.
“Can you teach me about spells?”
His question both surprised and disturbed her. She had to examine his past, his distant past, before she could take such a dangerous chance. “Do you believe in witchcraft, Michael?”
“The book stirred my interest,” he admitted.
“Then I suggest you learn more about it, and then we’ll discuss spells.”
“What was your ancestor’s name?” he asked.
She looked at him as if she didn’t understand.
“The witch,” he clarified.
She smiled. “Guess.”
He laughed. “That’s easy. Tempest. You’re named after her?”
“I bear her name.”
“Any particular reason why she was named Tempest?”
Her wide smile told him all he needed to know.
“Had a temper, did she?”
“At times her temper flared.”
“A powerful witch with a soaring temper. She must have been a sight to behold,” he said.
“I’m told she’s had her moments.”
“Tell me, Tempest,” he asked curiously, “in the book I was reading it made mention of witches having second sight and of those who could fly. Exactly what powers does a witch possess?”
Tempest attempted to pour herself a cup of tea from the teapot on the table, but Michael beat her to it. He had warned her that he would take care of the meal and dishes this evening and that she wasn’t to lift a finger, especially her wounded finger.
“You’re too independent for your own good,” he said with a smile and a shake of his head. “Now about my question.”
Tempest relaxed in her chair, teacup in hand. “Not all witches are the same. Some are far more powerful than others. Most possess second sight to some degree or another. Most can cast spells, some more potent than others. The degree of power depends on the individual witch.”
“How about flying powers? If someone thought that a witch could fly, then don’t you think that somewhere in history there would be a basis in fact for that accusation?”
“Imagination.”
Michael pushed his bowl and plate aside and leaned his arms on the table, intent on finding answers. “But in our imagination also lies the truth, so then couldn’t it be possible that someone somewhere saw a person floating in midair? Or do witches—or anyone, for that matter—possess the power to transport their spirit or energy, if not their body?”
“You ask questions that have been continually examined and debated over the years. And you will find a group of believers in one corner and debunkers in another.”
“Do you believe that your ancestor possessed such powers?”
Tempest hesitated, uncertain how to answer. She chose her words carefully. “I believe she possessed a wisdom and understanding far beyond that of an ordinary soul.”
“Is that what witchcraft is then a deeper awareness that few if any possesses?”
She shook her head. “I think everyone possesses the awareness, but few nourish it.”
“So if I nourished it, I could be a witch like your ancestor?”
Fear rose to tingle her flesh. If he nourished awareness, and he was who she thought he might be, then the spell would spin forward and seek a conclusion. “If your belief was strong enough, I imagine you could.”
“Interesting idea,” he said almost to himself. “You don’t mind if I make use of your vast selection of books?”
“Please, feel free,” she offered.
He poured her another cup of tea. “Relax and enjoy. I’ll do the dishes.”
“I should help,” she protested.
His solid “No” kept her in her seat.
They shared conversation while he worked, common everyday chatter, and the remainder of the evening they spent in the sitting room, each engrossed in a book. Late evening found them saying good night upstairs, followed by a gentle kiss on the cheek and a whispered kiss across the lips.
Bear had made it a habit of sleeping in Michael’s room, in his bed, curled up against him. He had to admit that he didn’t mind the animal sharing his bunk. He was getting used to his presence and looked forward to his soft fur cuddled against him.
With an arm around Bear, his sleepy eyes drifted as they always did to the symbols on the wall. They intrigued him and now that he knew what they were he planned to read up on them and learn exactly what the symbols meant.
He drifted off to sleep mumbling words that were foreign to him.
He watched her every move from a distance and smiled. She was beautiful, more beautiful than he could ever have imagined. And her power radiated in a soft light around her. People were drawn to her light and he easily understood why. As soon as they entered the glowing sphere around her they were bathed in her love and hope.
Her skills had to be tremendous and for a moment he wondered if his own power, though substantial, was enough to match hers. But then what would it matter—once he joined with her their powers would unite, and he would not need to concern himself with trivial worries.
He continued to study her and her surroundings. She appeared a simple peasant woman at market, carrying a partially filled basket on her arm. She took time to stop and chat with other villagers and anyone who spoke with her walked away with a smile. Children ran up to her, and she was patient with their grabbing hands and curious stares. She even stopped by an old, injured dog sprawled out in the dirt. She spoke softly to the animal, patting its head, and with the simple touch of her hand and a whispered spell, she healed its leg. The grateful dog licked her face until she laughed, a charming sound that reminded him of a favorite melody. The dog followed her, and he was certain she had gained herself a trusty companion.
She brushed her hair back from her face, the flaming color bright in the summer sun. She approached a market stall overflowing with vegetables and flowers. Her eyes sparkled, and she made her selections. The old portly man helping her beamed broadly, doing all he could to please her, and as she finished her purchases, he placed a long-stemmed red rose in her basket, a gift from him.
She offered him a pat on his arm and a whispered blessing the man didn’t hear though instantly felt, for his smile widened. She walked past the market stalls, coming toward him where he stood beneath a large old tree. She looked eager to touch the rose, and she did, pricking her finger on a thorn.
She smiled at the painful stab and was about to touch her injured finger to her lips when he stepped forward.
“Allow me,” he said to her and took her hand, bringing her finger to his lips and before she could protest he kissed her bleeding finger. He felt her body tingle and sensed her uncertainty, and he felt her erect a protective barrier around herself. He smiled and knew the hunt had begun.
“Tempest!
” Michael woke with a shout, startling Bear, who hissed his disapproval over being disturbed.
He fought the urge to jump out of bed, as fast as his broken ankle would allow and go check on Tempest. He feared for her safety, but why? Recalling bits and pieces of his dream made him think that her injury this evening was the cause of his strange dream. And his odd choice of reading material had helped to transport him to a different time period. Yet he couldn’t shake his concern for Tempest.
With a damn, a hell and a few other choice oaths, he got out of bed, Bear not at all interested in where he was going.
The cat chose to move to the warm pillow and curl itself up in a ball to sleep.
Michael slipped on his jeans, though he left the top button open. He only planned to take a quick peek in her room to make certain that she was safe and sound, and then it was back to bed and hopefully no more odd dreams for the night.
He walked down the hall quietly, trying not to make a sound, though it wasn’t an easy task with his cumbersome cast.
He found her door ajar and eased it open, slipping soundlessly into her room. A small entrance area greeted him with an archway leading to the bedroom itself. The archway bore similar symbols to those in his room, and he grew all the more fascinated with them. His eyes remained steady on the symbols until he finally walked beneath the archway and into her room.
Shadows and light danced around her room from the flickering flames of the cornerstone fireplace. She lay asleep in her large bed, her thick, soft, blue quilt covering her though her one arm peeked out. He approached slowly and wasn’t surprised to see the familiar symbols from his room carved in her headboard. He walked around to the side of the bed where she was turned on her side and looked to see her eyes closed and her breathing even.
She was safe and sound and relief washed over him. He turned to leave, and his eyes caught sight of her bandaged finger. He leaned over her and ran his own finger gently over the white bandage. “I wish you well,” he whispered and leaned further down to kiss her cheek tenderly.
“Marcus,” she whispered, her warm breath fanning his face.
A chill ran down his spine and he stiffened. She had loved another and had never forgotten that love. He straightened and left the room, annoyed by his own agitation. He climbed back in his own bed, talking to himself.
Bear once again hissed his disapproval at being disturbed and cuddled against him when he finally settled down.
“Envious?” he asked himself. He had long ago given up on finding good, solid love with a woman. And yet perhaps he had always hoped... hoped that one day he would find a special love, a forever love, a love that transcended time and reality and would exist for all eternity.
“You’re crazy.” He laughed at himself. His fantasies were foolish and impossible. Such a love didn’t exist, never had and never would. He would be lucky if he found a brief love that was good and satisfying, never mind one that defied time.
But had Tempest? She couldn’t seem to forget this man she once loved. He lingered in her mind and heart and her dreams.
He ran his hand over his face and let out a hefty sigh. “I’m crazy. Definitely crazy.”
And with a promise to himself to keep a level head, he drifted off to sleep.
o0o
By the end of a week and a half Michael realized his promise wasn’t worth a hill of beans. There was no way— absolutely no way— the two of them could deny the attraction they felt toward each other, though they tried damn hard enough. And the more they tried the more they found themselves drawing closer and closer together. It was easy, especially in the kitchen when he helped her. They always managed to brush up against each other, place a hand on the other, brush cheeks and simply smile, though the smile wasn’t a simple one. It was suggestive and often much too seductive.
Then there were the conversations they shared. They seemed to find interest in any and all subjects. It was almost as if they had known each other forever, a strange yet exciting thought, and Michael looked forward to each day he spent with Tempest.
To Michael’s surprise, the weather was beginning to change. The days grew slightly warmer and the snow began to melt. Not that the road appeared drivable, since he still couldn’t determine where the roads were, but the mounds of snow grew smaller, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the first bud of spring peeked its head out of the ground. And the closer spring came, the closer he came to having his cast removed and the closer he came to his time here with Tempest coming to an end.
Then there were the strange dreams that continued to haunt his nights. He wondered who the mysterious man in his dreams was. He seemed almost familiar and there was a power about him that fascinated Michael, though he did think that his continuous dreams could possibly be caused by his growing interest in witchcraft.
He had been reading all the material he could on the subject, and the more he read the more his interest grew. Tempest had obliged him in his quest to learn more about her ancestor. She would answer his questions as best she could, though he always felt that she held something back, some small bit of information he felt would be worth knowing. Why, he couldn’t say. He only knew that she kept something from him, and he wanted to find out her secret.
While her finger healed he had taken over the kitchen duties, and when the stitches were finally removed, leaving barely a trace of a scar, to his surprise, he remained on kitchen duty. Tempest was a good and patient teacher in more ways than one.
One subject he persisted in learning more about was the man she had loved, but she usually found a way around the questions, not quite avoiding them, but not providing an answer.
He had decided that the direct approach was the best, especially since he wasn’t a patient man. When he wanted to know something, he wanted to know it immediately. And he had waited long enough; he wanted some clear, defined answers.
Not that it was really any of his business, but—he wanted answers anyway.
They were enjoying hot chocolate and oatmeal apple cookies in the living room one day when he asked, “Who is Marcus?”
Chapter Eight
Tempest was relieved that she had set her mug of hot chocolate on the end table only a moment before Michael asked his startling question. She appeared calm and indifferent to his query, though inside she quivered with nervous tension. “Marcus?” she repeated, leaving it up to him to explain where he had learned the name since she didn’t recall mentioning it to him.
“You mumbled it in your sleep.”
She could very well have done that, but whatever was he doing in her bedroom, she wondered.
He seemed to read her thoughts, or he understood how odd his explanation sounded. “I don’t make it a habit of visiting your bedroom. The night you injured your finger I felt the need to check on you, and you whispered the name. Was he the relationship that didn’t work out?”
Tempest nodded, but offered no more information.
He looked at her. She appealed to all the senses. She made a stunning sight in a red turtleneck ankle-length knit dress, her fiery hair falling down around her shoulders in a stream of waves, and her red, sock-covered feet peeked out from under the hem. She smelled like freshly cut roses and her voice sounded as soft as the delicate petals. Her lips looked ripe for tasting and he damn well itched to touch her. Yup, all the senses—sight, smell, sound, taste, touch—she certainly had them all covered.
He sipped at the chocolate, staring at her over the rim of the mug, warning himself that now was not the time to be thinking of what she wore beneath that red dress. With much effort and his thoughts elsewhere, he asked, “The man’s clothes in my room, do they belong to this Marcus?”
Since she had purposely produced them for him, she could answer honestly, “No.”
“Brief with your responses, aren’t you?”
“There’s nothing more to add.”
“Nothing?” he repeated. “Or you just don’t want to talk about him?”
“I don’t wis
h to discuss him,” she said candidly. “But I get the feeling that doesn’t matter to you.”
He continued his questions, confirming her remark. “You said they belonged to a special friend.”
“I have many friends, and several who are special to me. Don’t you?”
“No,” he said, discarding his empty mug to the coffee table. “In my profession you don’t stay long enough in one port to make long-lasting friends. I had many acquaintances, but no one I could call a true friend.” He realized she had once again successfully maneuvered the conversation away from herself, but not for long. “Was this Marcus a true friend?”
“I had thought so, but...”
“Showed his true colors after a while?”
Tempest recalled the darkness that had always surrounded Marcus. “I knew his true colors; I simply chose to ignore them.”
He continued, needing to know more. “Blind to his faults?”
Her smile was sad. “Thinking, hoping I could change him.”
Michael shook his head. “You can’t change anyone; they can only change themselves.”
She laughed softly and he was reminded of a light, heartfelt melody. “A fact I often remind others.”
“But never took it to heart?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Curiosity continued to wage war on him. “Yet the relationship ended.”
“I opened my eyes and—” She stopped abruptly, recalling the dreadful feeling of closing her heart off to him.
Michael waited for her to finish and when she didn’t, decided that perhaps he had intruded enough for one evening. While she maintained a calm composure he could have sworn he sensed her sorrow, and that troubled him. He didn’t wish to cause her unhappiness and evidently the memories had done just that.
He was about to change the subject when she did. “In all your travels, what place did you like the best?”
His answer came easily. “Here in Scotland. I felt a strange affinity with the land. It was almost as if I had returned home. The emotion was so strong, I had difficulty leaving, and I swore to myself that I would return someday to stay.”
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