by Nora Roberts
arms. She wondered if he knew, by the blossoms he had chosen, that he was offering her love, passion, fidelity, and hope.
“Blooms picked in moonlight carry the charms and secrets of the night.”
He’d forgotten about them. Like a man waking from a dream, he glanced down. “I stole them from your garden.”
Her lips curved beautifully. He wouldn’t know the language of the flowers, she thought. Yet his hand had been guided. “That doesn’t make their scent less sweet, or the gift less thoughtful.” Lifting her hand from them, she touched his cheek. “You knew where to find me.”
“I . . . Yes.” He couldn’t deny the urge that had brought him into the grove. “I did.”
“Why did you come?”
“I wanted to . . .” He remembered his frantic rush to leave the house, his impatience to see her. But, no, it was more basic than that. And infinitely more simple. “I needed you.”
For the first time, her gaze wavered. She could feel the need radiating from him like heat, to warm her and to tempt her. It could, if she did nothing to stop it, bind her to him so firmly that no charm, no spell, would ever free her.
Her power was not absolute. Her own wishes were not always granted. To take him tonight would be to risk everything, including her power to stand alone.
Until tonight, freedom had always been her most prized possession. Lifting her gaze to his again, she cast that possession away.
“What I give you tonight, I give with a free heart. What I take from you, I take without regrets.” Her eyes glittered with visions he couldn’t see. “Remember that. Come with me.” She took his hand and drew him into the circle of light.
The moment he stepped through the flames, he felt the change. The air was purer here, its scent more vivid, as if they had climbed to the top of some high, untraveled cliff. Even the stars seemed closer, and he could see the trails of moonlight, silver-edged white streaks through the sheltering trees.
But she was the same, her hand firm in his.
“What is this place?” Instinctively he lowered his voice to a whisper, not in fear, but in reverence. It seemed to drift off, twining with the harp song that filled the air.
“It needs no name.” She drew her hand from his. “There are many forms of magic,” she said, and unfastened her belt of crystals. “We’ll make our own here.” She smiled again. “An it harm none.”
Slowly she placed the crystal rope on the edge of the cloth, then turned to face him. With the moonlight silvering her eyes, she opened her arms.
She took him in, and the lips she offered were warm and soft. He could taste the lingering sweetness of the wine she had drunk, as well as her own richer, more potent flavor. He wondered that any man could survive without that heady, drugging taste. That any man would choose to. His head spun with it as she urged him to drink deeper.
On a moan that seemed to spring from his soul, he dragged her closer, crushing the flowers between them so that the night air swelled with their scent. His mouth branded hers before moving frantically over her face.
Behind her closed lids she could see the dance of candlelight, could see the single shadow her body and Nash’s made sway. She could hear the deep, pure resonance of the breeze singing through the leaves, the night music that was its own kind of magic. And she heard the whisper of her name as it breathed through the lips that once again searched for hers.
But it was what she felt that was so much more real. This deep well of emotion that filled for him as it had never filled for anyone. As she gave him her heart for a second time, that well brimmed, then overflowed in a quiet, steady stream.
For a moment, she was afraid she might drown in it, and that fear brought on racking shudders. Murmuring to her, Nash drew her closer. Whether it was in need or comfort, Morgana didn’t know, but she settled again. And accepted.
The captivator became the captivated.
He was struggling against some clawing beast prowling in his gut, demanding that he take her quickly, feed himself. He had never, never experienced such a violent surge of hunger for anything, or anyone, as he did for Morgana in that glowing circle of light.
He fisted his hands in her hair to keep them from tearing the robe from her. Some flicker shadowed by instinct told him she would accept the speed, respond to this gnawing appetite. But it wasn’t the way. Not here. Not now.
Pressing his face to the curve of her neck, he held her close and fought it back.
Understanding didn’t make her heartbeat less erratic. His desire to take warred with his desire to give, and both were ripe with power. His choice would make a difference. And, though she couldn’t see, she knew that the texture of their loving tonight would matter to both of them in all the years to come.
“Nash, I—”
He shook his head, then leaned back and framed her face in his hands. They weren’t steady. Nor was his breathing. His eyes were dark, intense. She wondered that they couldn’t see into her and study her heart.
“You scare the hell out of me,” he managed. “I scare the hell out of me. It’s different now, Morgana. Do you understand?”
“Yes. It matters.”
“It matters.” He let out a long, unsteady breath. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
You will hurt me. The certainty of it shivered through her. The pain would come, no matter what defenses she used. But not tonight. “You won’t.” She kissed him gently.
No, he thought as his cheek rubbed against hers. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Though desire continued to beat in his blood, its tempo had slowed. His hands were steady again as he slipped the robe from her shoulders, followed it down her arms until they were both free of it.
The pleasure of looking at her was like a velvet fist pressed against his heart. He had seen her body before, when he had watched her dance naked in the circle. But that had been like a dream, as if she were some beautiful phantom just out of his reach.
Now she was only a woman, and his hand would not pass through if he tried to touch.
Her face first. He glided his fingertips over her cheeks, her lips, her jaw, and down the slender column of her throat. And she was real. Hadn’t he felt her warm breath against his skin? Wasn’t he now feeling the hammerbeat of her pulse when his fingers lingered?
Witch or mortal, she was his, to cherish, to enjoy, to pleasure. It was meant to be here, surrounded by the old, silent trees, by shadowed light. By magic.
Her eyes changed, as a woman’s would when her system was crowded with desire and anticipation. He watched them as he trailed those curious fingers over the slope of her shoulders, down her arms and back again. Her breath began to shiver through her parted lips.
Just as lightly, just as slowly, his touch skimmed down to her breasts. Now her breath caught on a moan, and she swayed, but he made no move to possess her. Only skimming patiently over those soft slopes, brushing his thumbs over nipples that hardened and ached in response.
She couldn’t move. If the hounds of hell had burst out of the trees, jaws snapping, she would have stood just as she was, body throbbing, eyes fixed helplessly on his. Did he know? Could he know what a spell he had cast over her with this exquisite tenderness?
There was nothing else for her but him. She could see only his face, feel only his hands. With each unsteady breath she took, she was filled with him.
He followed the line of her body, down her rib cage, detouring around to her back, where her hair drifted over his hands and her spine trembled under them. He wondered why he had thought it necessary to speak, when he could tell her so much more with a touch.
Her body was a banquet of slender curves, smooth skin, subtle muscles. But he no longer felt the urge to ravish. How much better it was, this time, to sample, to savor, to seduce. How much more power did a man need than to feel a woman’s skin singing under his hands?
He skimmed over her hips, let his fingers glide over those long, lovely thighs, changing the angle on the return journey so that he absorbed all
the little bolts of pleasure at finding her already hot and damp for him.
When her knees buckled, he gathered her close, lowering her to the cloth so that he could begin the same glorious journey with his lips.
Steeped in sensation, she tugged his shirt away so that she could feel the wonder of his flesh sliding over hers. His muscles were taut, showing her that the gentleness he gave her took more strength than wild passion would have. She murmured something, and he brought his mouth back to hers so that she could slide the jeans over his hips, cast them away and make him as vulnerable as she.
Sweet, mindless pleasure. Long, lingering delights. The moon showered its fragile light as they offered each other the most precious of gifts. The scattered flowers they lay upon sent up exotic perfumes to mix with the scent of the night. Though the breeze rustled the leaves, the encircling flames ran straight and true.
Even when passion gripped them, sending them rolling over crushed blooms and rumpled silk, there was no rush. Somewhere in the shadows, the owl called again, and the ring of flames shot up like lances. Closing them in, closing all else out.
Her body was shuddering, but there were no longer any nerves or fears. Her arms encircled him as he slipped inside her.
With his blood roaring in his head, he watched her eyes flutter open, saw those gold stars shining against the deep blue as magnificently as those overhead shone in the sky. He lowered his mouth to hers as they moved together in a dance older and more powerful than any other.
She felt the beauty of it, the magic that was more potent than anything she could conjure. He filled her utterly. Even when the ache drove them both, the tenderness remained. Two glistening tears slipped from her eyes as she arched for him, letting her body fly with that final staggering release. She heard him call out her name, like a prayer, as he poured himself into her.
When he buried his face in her hair, shuddering, she saw the flash of a shooting star, streaking like a flame through the velvet sky.
* * *
Time passed. Minutes, hours, it didn’t concern him. All he knew was that she was as soft as a wish beneath him, her body relaxed but still curled into his. Nash thought it would be delightful for them to stay just like this until sunrise.
Then he thought, more practically, that he would probably end up smothering her.
When he started to shift, Morgana clamped herself around him like a vise. “Uh-uh,” she said sleepily.
Since she insisted, he thought he might as well nibble on her neck. “I may be on the thin side, but I’d guess I have you by a good sixty pounds. Besides, I want to look at you.”
He levered himself onto his elbows and pleased himself.
Her hair was spread out like tangled black silk on the white cloth. There were flowers caught in it, making him think of gypsies and faeries. And witches.
He let out a long, labored breath. “What happens when a mortal makes love to a witch?”
She had to smile, and did so slowly, sinuously. “Did you happen to notice the gargoyles on the tower of the house?” Nash’s mouth opened, then closed again. Morgana let out a long, rich laugh as her fingers danced down his spine. “I love it when you’re gullible.”
He was feeling entirely too good to be annoyed. Instead, he played with her hair. “It seemed like a reasonable question. I mean, you are . . . I know you are. But it’s still tough to swallow. Even after what I saw tonight.” His eyes came back to hers. “I watched you.”
She traced his lips with a fingertip. “I know.”
“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. You, the light. The music.” His brows came together. “There was music.”
“For those who know how to hear it. For those who are meant to hear it.”
It wasn’t so hard to accept, after everything else. “What are you doing here? It looked like some kind of ceremony.”
“Tonight’s the spring equinox. A magic night. What happened here, with us, was magic, too.”
Because he couldn’t resist, he kissed her shoulder. “It sounds like a tired line, but it’s never been like this for me before. With anyone.”
“No.” She smiled again. “Not with anyone.” Her pulse leapt as she felt him harden inside her. “Again,” she murmured when his lips lowered to hers.
* * *
The night moved toward morning before they dressed. As Nash pulled on his sweatshirt, he watched Morgana gathering up the crushed and broken flowers.
“I guess we did them in. I’ll have to steal you some more.”
Smiling, she cradled them in her arms. “These will do nicely,” she said. Nash’s eyes widened when he saw that the flowers she held were now as full and fresh as when he had first picked them.
He passed a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I’m going to get used to that anytime soon.”
She merely placed them in his hands. “Hold them for me. I have to remove the circle.” She gestured, and the candle flames died. As she took them from the ground, she chanted quietly.
“The circle cast in the moon’s light is lifted now by my right. The work is done, with harm to none. With love and thanks I set thee free. As I will, so mote it be.”
She set the last candle in the basket, then lifted the cloth. When it was folded, she put it away.
“That’s, ah . . . all there is to it?”
She picked up the basket and turned to him. “Things are usually more simple than we believe.” Morgana offered a hand, pleased when he curled his fingers around hers. “And, in the spirit of that simplicity, will you share my bed for what’s left of the night?”
He brought their joined hands to his lips and gave her a simple answer. “Yes.”
* * *
She couldn’t get enough of him, Nash thought dreamily. During the night, they had turned to each other again and again. Drifting off to sleep, drifting into love while the moonlight faded. And now, when the sun was a pale red glow behind his closed lids, she was nuzzling his ear.
He smiled, murmuring to her as he let himself float toward wakefulness. Her head was a warm, welcome weight on his chest. The way she was tickling and teasing his ear told him she would not object to some lazy morning loving. More than willing to oblige her, he lifted a hand to stroke her hair. His hand stopped in midair.
How could her head be on his chest and her mouth be at his ear? Anatomically speaking, it just didn’t figure. But then again, he’d seen her do several things that didn’t figure in terms of the simple laws of the real world. But this was too weird. Even half-awake, his lively imagination bounced.
Would he open his eyes to look and see something so fantastic, so out of his realm, that it would send him screaming out into the night?
Day, he reminded himself. It was day. But that was hardly the point.
Cautiously he let his hand lower until it touched her hair. Soft, thick, but . . . God, the shape of her head was wrong. She’d changed. She’d . . . she’d shifted into . . . When her head moved under his hand, Nash let out a muffled cry and, with his heart skating into his throat, opened his eyes.
The cat lay on his chest, staring at him with unblinking—and somehow smug—amber eyes. Nash jolted when something cold slid over his cheek. He found that Pan was standing with his forelegs on the bed, his big silver head tilted curiously to one side. Before Nash could speak, the dog licked him again.
“Oh, boy.” While Nash waited for his mind to clear and his pulse to settle, Luna stood, stretched, then padded up his chest to peer into his face. Her muttered purr seemed distinctly like a chuckle. “Okay, sure, you got me.” He reached out with each hand to rub a furry head.
Pan took that for a welcome and leapt onto the bed. He landed—light-footed, fortunately—on Nash’s most vulnerable area. With a strangled oof, Nash sat bolt upright, dislodging the cat and making her rap up against Pan.
Things looked dicey for a moment, with the animals glaring and growling at each other. But Nash was too concerned with getting his wind back to worry about the
prospect of fur flying.
“Ah, playing with the animals?”
Sucking in air, Nash looked up to see Morgana standing in the doorway. The moment she was spotted, Luna flicked her tail in Pan’s face, strolled over to a pillow, circled, sat and began to wash her hindquarters. Tail thumping, Pan plopped down. Nash figured he had about seventy pounds of muscle pinning his legs to the mattress.
“My pets seem very fond of you.”
“Yeah. We’re one happy family.”
With a steaming mug in one hand, she crossed to the bed. She was already dressed, in a little red number with beads and embroidery on the wide shoulders, and tiny snaps running down the front until they ran out at the hem, which stopped several inches above her very sexy knees.
Nash wondered if he should undo the snaps one at a time, or in one quick yank. Then he caught a scent that was nearly as exotic and every bit as seductive as her perfume.
“Is that coffee?”
Morgana sat on the edge of the bed and sniffed the contents of the cup. “Yes, I believe it is.”
Grinning, he reached out to toy with the end of the hair she’d woven into an intricate braid. “That was awfully sweet of you.”
Her eyes mirrored surprise. “What was? Oh, you think I brought this in for you.” Watching him, she tapped a fingertip against the mug. “That I brewed a pot of coffee, poured a cup and decided to serve it to you, in bed, because you’re so damn cute.”
Properly chastened, he sent one last, longing look at the mug. “Well, I—”
“In this case,” she said, interrupting him, “you happen to be exactly right.”
He took the cup she offered, watching her over the rim as he drank. He wasn’t a coffee snob—couldn’t afford to be, with the mud he usually made for himself—but he was sure this was the best cup to be found west of the Mississippi. “Thanks. Morgana . . .” He reached up to set one of the complex arrangements of beads and stones at her ears jangling. “Just how damn cute am I?”
She laughed, pushing the mug aside so that she could kiss him. “You’ll do, Nash.” More than do, she thought as she kissed him again. With that tousled, sun-streaked hair tumbled around a sleepy face, that surprisingly well-muscled chest tempting her above the tangle of sheets, and that very warm, very skilled mouth rubbing against hers, he did magnificently.
She pulled back, not without regret. “I have to go to work.”
“Today?” Lazily he cupped his hand around the back of her neck to urge her closer. “Don’t you know it’s a national holiday?”
“Today?”
“Sure.” She smelled like night, he thought. Like flowers that bloom only in starlight. “It’s National Love-In Day. A tribute to the sixties. You’re supposed to celebrate it by—”
“I get the picture. And that’s very inventive,” she said, closing her teeth over his bottom lip. “But I have a shop to run.”
“That’s very unpatriotic of you, Morgana. I’m shocked.”
“Drink your coffee.” She stood to keep from letting him change her mind. “There’s food in the kitchen if you feel like breakfast.”
“You could have gotten me up.” He snagged her hand before she could retreat.
“I thought you could use the sleep, and I didn’t want to give you any more time to distract me.”
His eyes slanted up to hers as he nibbled on her knuckles. “I’d like to spend several hours distracting you.”
Her knees went weak. “I’ll give you a chance later.”
“We could have dinner.”
“We could.” Her blood was beginning to hum, but she couldn’t make herself pull her hand free.
“Why don’t I pick something up, bring it by?”
“Why don’t you?”
He opened her hand to press a kiss on the palm. “Seven thirty?”
“Fine. You’ll let Pan out, won’t you?”
“Sure.” His teeth grazed her wrist and sent her pulse soaring. “Morgana, one more thing.”
Her body yearned toward his. “Nash, I really can’t—”
“Don’t worry.” But he could see that she was worried, and it delighted him. “I’m not going to muss you up. It’s going to be too much fun thinking about doing just that for the next few hours. I left something for you on the front stoop last night. I was hoping you’d find time to read it.”
“Your script? You’ve finished?”
“All but some fine-tuning, I think. I’d like your opinion.”
“Then I’ll try to have one.” She leaned over to kiss him again. “Bye.”
“See you tonight.” He settled back with the cooling coffee, then swore.
Morgana turned at the doorway. “What?”
“My car’s parked behind yours. Let me get some pants on.”