Magical Memories

by Donna Fletcher

  That was, until Michael began his questions.

  Tempest, on the other hand, seemed to expect his displeasure, though made no reference to it. “I thought it best.”

  He told himself she was being responsible and sensible, so why the hell did it disturb him so? “Do you want children?”

  “Very much,” she admitted. “When the time is right.”

  “When is the time right?”

  “When I know without a doubt that they will be conceived from love.”

  Her remark near infuriated him. “You doubt my love?”

  Her hand went out to touch him gently on the shoulder. “No, I don’t doubt your love.”

  “Then do you doubt your love for me?” he was quick to ask.

  “No, Michael, I love you.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  She turned the question on him. “Do you wish a child now?”

  “That isn’t the point.”

  “But it is. We’ve just begun to love, and that love needs nurturing. How can we nurture a child with love if we haven’t nurtured our own love?”

  Why did she always make sense? And why had he been irrational about her being responsible? They hadn’t even discussed marriage yet and here he was arguing over a child.

  Whatever was his problem? “You’re right, I’m putting the old cart before the horse. It’s marriage I should be discussing with you.”

  “Are you proposing to me?” she asked with a smile.

  “Damn,” he said, “I just keep sticking my foot in my mouth every time I open it.” He sent her a wicked little quirk of a smile. “I guess you can tell I’m not the most romantic guy.”

  “So then that was a proposal?” she teased.

  “Sweetheart, you’re challenging me again.”

  She sighed, dramatically recalling how he had handled her last challenge. “You’re so good with challenges.”

  She grabbed the door handle when he suddenly swerved the car off the road and brought it to an abrupt stop. He leaned across the console, grabbed her chin, squeezing her face in his rough-worn hand and puckering her lips. “Listen well, sweetheart, I never thought I would find love, never thought I was the type of guy that could give love or receive it. When we first met I thought you were a beautiful but crazy broad, and I thought I was nuts for even thinking that I could fall in love with you and crazier still for thinking you would love me. It was all the stuff of fairy tales and I damn well didn’t believe in fairy tales, but then something strange happened. You taught me to believe, to believe in possibilities. And I did. I believed I loved you and that you loved me and damned if it didn’t work.”

  He kissed her puckered lips awkwardly and laughed. “I love you, Tempest, and I want you to be my wife—no,” he said with a huge smile. “I believe you’re going to be my wife forever.”

  Her hand ran up his arm gently to remove his hand from her face and she held it firmly in hers. “I believe, Michael, that you are right.” She phrased her acceptance carefully. “I love you, and I want to be your wife. Michael’s wife,” she emphasized.

  He was about to kiss her when he felt a rush of heat engulf him and he jolted back away from her. He closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness and placed a firm hand on the steering wheel.

  “Michael!”

  He heard her call to him but she sounded so far away and the distance frightened him. She was too far, too far out of his reach and he fought to return, to come back to her, fought with every ounce of strength he possessed.

  “Michael, please, Michael.”

  Her anxious pleas grew louder and he finally opened his eyes to her worried face.

  “Damn,” he said, “that was strange.”

  Tempest realized that Michael’s proposal of love made Marcus attempt to surface and fight for dominance. But Michael had been the victor and she was thrilled. She threw her arms around him and kissed him with serious intent, her hand slipping into his jacket.

  He grabbed her hand and tugged playfully at her bottom lip with his teeth as he reluctantly pulled away from her. “Keep that up and we’ll never make it to your sister’s.”

  “We could stop along the way at one of the small inns.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Tempest,” he said with a shake of his head. “Or it will be well into tomorrow before you see your sister.”

  Her free hand slipped to his lap and covered the hard length of him. “There’s a small, quaint inn up the road.”

  “Tempest!” he warned, going for her hand that was causing him havoc.

  Her lips moved to torment his ear with nips, kisses and a whispered, “I’m hungry to taste you.”

  “Damn,” he muttered, pushed her away from him and pulled the car onto the road. “We’re going to that inn.”

  They were two hours behind schedule when they rode into a rainstorm. With the windshield wipers on full speed, the thermos filled with hot chocolate and their passion well satisfied they settled in for the remainder of the long drive.

  “How do you think your sister and Dagon will feel about us?”

  “They will be happy, but cautious,” she said honestly.

  Michael could understand that. Here he was a stranger who had entered Tempest’s life only about eight weeks ago and now all of a sudden he was to be her husband. “I don’t blame them—it’s a reasonable reaction. I am, after all, pretty much a stranger. They know nothing about me.”

  Tempest hid her smile. Sarina knew much about him when they first met, though she could only read his present life. Prevented from seeing more only made her more suspicious.

  “And I don’t have much to offer you.”

  Her temper flared. “You offer me love, the richest of all gifts.”

  “But is love really enough?” He wanted to believe. Lord how he wanted to believe the truth of her words. But being a cautious man, he had to ask, “Won’t your family be concerned by my lack of finances, and aren’t you?”

  “They’re not marrying you, I am. And I have enough money for us both.”

  “You are nuts,” he said, sounding annoyed.

  “Why? Because I choose to share my wealth with the man I love?”

  “You really know nothing about me, and yet you accept my proposal of marriage. I could be a lunatic.”

  “Then we’d make a perfect pair,” she said with a laugh.

  “You don’t have a lick of sense,” he said with a shake of his finger at her face.

  “Do you love me?” she snapped at him, though she smiled.

  “Damn right I do,” he snapped back.

  “The problem then?”

  He looked about to tell her when he grumbled beneath his breath, “Crazy.”

  “Crazy in love,” she said sweetly.

  “Are there anymore crazies in your family I should know about?”

  She almost laughed out loud. “You may find a few of my family and friends eccentric.”

  “I guess being eccentric is better than being crazy.”

  “There’s Rasmus Castle in the distance,” Tempest said with pride and a point of her finger, ending their debate.

  Michael stared at the awesome sight. It imposed, impressed, and intimidated all in one glance, and that was from a distance. Woods surrounded the stone edifice, giving the impression that there was no entrance or exit to the castle. A light mist hovered over the top towers and drifted down to enshroud a turret or two.

  He found himself anxious to see it up close. Castles had always fascinated him and he had visited many during his travels. There were those that had seen modernization over the years, but it was the ones that had retained their bleak, dark character that had caught his interest. They possessed a strength that had survived centuries of progress while retaining their integrity and secrets. Castles always had secrets and he had often touched the cold stone walls to see if they would share them with him.

  Warlock.

  The word rushed into his thoughts with strength and conviction. He shook his head
to chase the fragmented thought away and he grew annoyed with himself, though he couldn’t understand why.

  Tempest sensed his unease and attempted to distract him. “Sarina should have tea ready when we arrive. Though spring has barely arrived, the chill of winter persists.” She slipped her arms into her black wool coat that lay over her shoulders.

  She had worn a pale gray knit dress that buttoned down the entire front with black pearl buttons and hugged her every curve. She had been pleased to see that Michael had dressed in black wool trousers, a gray cashmere sweater and a black wool sports jacket. His fine toned-muscled body did his attire justice.

  “I could go with something stronger,” he admitted, feeling strange and yet not understanding why.

  “Dagon has some good Scots whisky I’m sure you’d enjoy.”

  She grew concerned herself when as they approached the private road that led to the castle she felt a surge of energy swirl in the air.

  Something was wrong.

  Michael felt it, too, she could tell, though he didn’t understand its source and he simply picked up speed.

  Tempest wished she could transport herself to the castle immediately. Something was terribly wrong and Sarina was involved.

  Michael brought the car to a sudden stop and hurried out of the car, joining Tempest who was already on a run up the front steps. The castle appeared to quake and shake as if hit by an earthquake and yet the surrounding area was completely still.

  They didn’t knock at the door. Michael grabbed the door handle and flung the thick wooden door wide open.

  Chaos greeted them.

  Michael stared with shock at what looked like a tornado whirling in the center of the foyer, its force sounding as if it was about to crumble the entire castle. And within the center of the whirling funnel were Sarina and a man who held her firmly.

  Dagon rushed up to Tempest while two other women held hands and cast anxious eyes at her.

  “You must help them,” Dagon insisted, grabbing Tempest by the arms.

  Michael watched with a keen interest, feeling a strong sense of power emanating from the funnel and feeling an odd kinship with the whirling force. It was almost as if it nourished him, made him whole, and gave him life. And he took a deep breath, drinking from the power it offered.

  Tempest was too busy attempting to calm Dagon to notice Michael’s reaction. “Tell me what happened. I must know the source to help them.”

  Dagon hurried to explain. “Sarina was helping Sebastian practice his magic when something went wrong. Whatever happened is too powerful for any of us to correct.”

  “What type of magic?”

  “Floating, moving, emerging,” he said, trying frantically to recall.

  Tempest grew alarmed, casting an anxious glance at Michael and what she saw in the depths of his dark eyes frightened her even more. Raw power ready to burst free.

  She hurried forward to break the spell but she wasn’t fast enough.

  Michael took two firm strides forward, shooting a light of energy from his extended hand and with a force that rivaled the swirling funnel he shouted, “Cease!”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The whirlwind died away as if obeying a master and brought the swirling couple to a gentle rest on the marble tile floor.

  Dagon rushed to his wife’s side, his arms wrapping around her, and Ali and Sydney hurried over to Sebastian.

  Michael turned furious eyes on Tempest, reaching out to grab her by the wrist. “We need to talk.” He yanked her toward him but before he could leave the foyer Dagon and Sebastian were in front of him.

  “You can talk with her here.”

  Michael shot a vehement look at the stranger.

  “Michael,” Tempest said as calmly as possible. “This is Sebastian Wainwright and the beautiful blond-haired woman is his wife Ali. The gracious lady beside her is Sydney Wyrrd.”

  He nodded, though kept warning eyes on the two men. “Under the circumstances, you will understand the need for Tempest and me to talk privately.”

  Dagon reiterated Sebastian’s remark. “You can talk with Tempest here.”

  Michael was an impressive man, standing an inch or two over both other men, and the scope of his shoulders and chest hinted at his strength; but then physical size mattered little where witches were concerned, and that was what worried Tempest. She was certain Michael had regained Marcus’s powers and neither Sebastian nor Dagon could come close to or combat his skills.

  She took command of the situation, as was her way. “I think it would be wise for Michael and me to talk privately.”

  “Are you certain?” Sebastian asked his obvious concern and courage endearing him to her.

  “It’s time,” she said and they all seemed to understand.

  Dagon offered them his study, assuring Tempest they would all be close by if needed.

  Michael kept a firm grip on her wrist as they proceeded to the study, Tempest knowing her way.

  Once alone in the room that smelled of aged leather and lemon polish, he released her and got directly to the point. “Explain.”

  There was so much to be discussed, only where did she start? She slipped out of her coat and draped it over a chair near the fireplace. She rubbed her hands together and then rubbed at her arms, taking a moment to glance out the window and see that the rain had turned heavy and the skies foreboding, appropriate weather for her current dilemma.

  Her pause gave Michael time to calm down, and he slipped out of his sports jacket, dumping it on top of Tempest’s coat.

  He caught sight of a crystal liquor decanter on the table in front of the window and walked over to pour himself a glass of what he hoped was whisky. He wasn’t disappointed when he took a gulp; it was whisky at its best. He looked to Tempest, his glass raised.

  She understood his silent question. “No, thank you.”

  “Let’s talk,” he said more calmly, and she nodded.

  They sat at opposite ends of the settee in front of the fireplace, the burning log casting just enough heat to make the room comfortable.

  “Where to begin?” she asked of herself, though Michael answered.

  “At the beginning.”

  “That was a long, long time ago.”

  “For us?” His question was strange to his own ears.

  She nodded and told him what she knew she must. “Michael, I’m a witch.”

  He didn’t seem surprised. “I figured as much, all those books on the subject, your knowledge of the Craft, your ancestor being one. I had a feeling you were a practicing witch.”

  She realized that he wasn’t aware of the depth of her powers.

  “I’m a real witch and I perform real magic...” She took a deep breath and continued. “Just like you.”

  He took a large gulp of whisky before he responded. “You’re telling me that I’m a witch, too.”

  “A witch most definitely, though possibly—” she paused, gathered her courage and said, “a warlock.”

  He stood then and shook his head. “But warlocks are evil, and I’m not evil.”

  “Let me attempt to explain what I think is happening.”

  “Please do, because this whole thing is making me feel like I’m nuts.” He raked his fingers through his dark hair. “Did you see what I did out there? I have no idea how I did it, and the damnedest thing about it is that it made me feel good and strong, and I damn well want to feel that surge of power again.”

  “That force of power is a witch’s natural ability. It can be developed and made stronger but it takes time, concentration and work. Every witch possesses it to some degree or another.

  It is meant for good and must never be used in a harmful manner.”

  “And I take it warlocks use that power to their advantage.”

  “For their advantage and to take advantage of others.”

  “I don’t feel the need to harm, but let’s forget about warlocks for the moment,” he said with a wave of his hand as if dismissing the dis
turbing subject. “Why do you say that I’m a witch?”

  “You have the power and have always had the power, in this life and in another.”

  He downed another gulp of whisky. “You’re saying I’ve lived before and as a witch?”

  “There’s a strong possibility that you have and that I have known you before.”

  He finished the whisky in his glass. “Tell me the whole thing through, Tempest.”

  She obliged him, knowing it was time, though not for the entire truth. “I’ve lived many centuries and in one of those centuries I met a warlock who was eager to join with me and combine our powers to form a formidable force that could not be destroyed. I foolishly fell in love with him, though he felt love was foolish. I thought I could teach him the true power of love, but I was wrong. When I refused to give him what he wanted most he went into a rage, causing others to suffer. I could not stand by and watch him harm others. I had no choice but to do something about it.”

  She took a breath and looked directly at him. “That warlock was Marcus.”

  Michael instantly understood the implication. “The man you spoke of, the one you loved so deeply.” He shook his head slowly. “Is that why you love me—because you believe me to be him?”

  She heard and felt his disappointment and his painful emotions tore at her heart. “No, Michael. You are who you are. Marcus can be a part of you, but he isn’t the whole of you. I fell in love with you, Michael... the man who I ran into with my car because I can’t drive. The man who thought I was crazy and who constantly warned me about my lack of common sense, the man who has a good soul and deeply cares about people, the man who has led a good, decent life and wishes to many and have children... and the man who believes in love.”

  He went to her, his arms instantly going around her and drawing her as close as he could get her. He had the need to feel her firmly up against him, hear her heart beat, feel the heat of her, smell the scent of her and know she was his and his alone.

  “The dreams,” he whispered.

  “What?” she asked, her face resting against his chest.