Magical Memories Page 11

“He wanted a child, and I had taken precautions so that no child would be conceived. When he discovered this he grew furious and we argued. I left, telling him our time together was over. He unleashed his fury on the innocent, and it was then that our powers were put to the ultimate test.”

  “And you cast the spell?”

  Tempest wiped at the single tear that fell down her cheek. “I knew that I couldn’t send him away forever. And memories of our time together led me to believe that he was not all evil and darkness, so I cast a spell that would give him another chance.”

  “Tell me it,” Sarina said softly.

  Tempest recited it in a mere whisper, though Sarina felt its power rush through her.

  “With my love I send you away; for you to return on a future day; your life will be yours to create; choose wisely and repeat no mistakes; cherish life and hold it dear; fill no hearts and souls with fear; surround yourself with magic and light; and seek not to return to the dark night; if by chance you should lose your way; remember all these words I say; magical memories you will recall; and the choice will be yours to stand or to fall!”

  Sarina wiped at her own tears. “You gave him a second chance.”

  “A final chance,” Tempest said, “and if his choice proves unwise I will have no choice but to—” Tempest wept.

  Sarina hurried to her sister’s side, hugging her fiercely. “This time will be different.”

  Tempest looked at her through tear-filled eyes. “Do you see that?”

  Sarina possessed an extraordinary gift of sight, but it was a sister’s heartfelt wish that produced her prediction, not her skills. She was honest. “I wish I could say it was so, but you know yourself that the results of this spell are yet to be determined. It is in the hands of fate.”

  “I know that all too well,” Tempest said and slipped off the stool to return to the workbench.

  “And you know what will happen if you join with Michael, and he proves to be Marcus returned?”

  “The reminder is appreciated, but not necessary. I know all too well that if I join with Michael and he is Marcus, his memory will begin to return, and the spell will carry out to its conclusion. I can only hope that Michael will have learned what Marcus never did, and perhaps he will finally become the immensely powerful witch he was always destined to be.”

  “Perhaps Dagon and I should remain for a few days,” Sarina suggested.

  “I appreciate the thought, but your presence here will only serve to delay the inevitable.”

  Sarina intended to protest, but the baby chose to do so for her and gave her a hardy kick. She laughed, her hand going to rub her stomach.

  Tempest rushed to her side, eager to feel the child’s movements, and their conversation was soon forgotten as the topic changed to babies, though it lingered in the back of both of their minds.

  Dagon realized his sister-in-law had cast a brief spell over him when he took a seat in the living room with Michael. He decided this man proved important to her if she would do something that she knew would annoy him and caused him to complain to his wife; after all, it would do him little good to complain to Tempest herself. Her power far surpassed his, so he thought it best to learn more about this stranger.

  “Do you find yourself feeling confined here after your sea adventures?” he asked, having learned a little about the man while they worked in the kitchen together.

  Michael expected the third degree; actually, he thought he would finish questioning him, though he didn’t remember that Dagon had ever started, and y e t...

  He ignored his confusion and answered, “No, I enjoy the change, and I enjoy the peace and quiet of this house. I’ve been doing a lot of reading.”

  “Anything of particular that interests you?”

  “Oddly enough, witchcraft.”

  Dagon smiled, feeling he was about to learn something. “That’s not odd; Scotland abounds with the tales, and witches play a large part of them.”

  “Then you know something about witchcraft?”

  “Some,” Dagon said, realizing most mortals were fools when it came to the Craft, but Michael didn’t strike him as a fool, and he had no intentions of underestimating him.

  “The subject never caught my interest before, though in my travels I must admit that I found local voodoo or shamanistic type ceremonies fascinating.”

  “All cultures have their magical beliefs,” Dagon said, relaxing back in the chair by the fireplace, eager to discuss more with Michael.

  Michael was just as eager, and rested his injured ankle on the ottoman in front of the couch while Bear curled contentedly at his side. “Do you suppose that magic is the key to all such beliefs?”

  “Belief is the key to magic.”

  “Simply believing allows you to fly a broom?” Michael asked confused.

  Dagon laughed. “You sound like my friend Sebastian, believing that witches fly brooms.”

  “Well, if you believe they do, then don’t they?”

  “I suppose one could argue the point, since there were many accused of flying the night sky on brooms during the burning times.”

  “So what you’re saying is that the accusers wished to believe what they saw, so therefore they convinced themselves they did.”

  “A more logical explanation, don’t you agree?”

  Michael nodded slowly. “Then you believe that any type of magic, voodoo or such, has to do with belief?”

  “Belief is a powerful emotion,” Dagon said. “It can cause fear, joy, pleasure and more. Think about the history of the topic. Witches were really a simple lot, believing in nature’s way. They cherished the land, the sun, the passing seasons, and respected the continuous cycle that nourished life. They learned from it by making themselves aware and attuned to their environment. And from this their skills grew. Grew to the point where they were knowledgeable in the properties of plants, they understood the planting seasons and the soil so their crops were always bountiful, and they prospered from their wisdom and were content.”

  Michael understood. “And those who weren’t knowledgeable suffered and accused those people who were prosperous of being cohorts with evil.”

  “A reasonable explanation.”

  “Then you don’t think witches ever possessed extraordinary powers?”

  “That would bring us back to the beginning of our discussion and belief. If a witch believed she could fly on a broom through the night sky, then who is to say she couldn’t.”

  “Aerodynamics?”

  Dagon laughed.

  “What about spells? Your theory would mean they can only work if you believe.”

  “Do you believe?” he asked, and waved his hand in front of Michael. “Rest.”

  Michael yawned, his hand rushing to cover his mouth.

  “A spell, or suggestive thought?”

  “If I believe, it works. If I don’t?” he shrugged.

  “But we also must remember that history tells us that witches were powerful spell-casters, so is it possible that their beliefs were so strong that they were able to make unsuspecting mortals believe?”

  “An interesting thought.”

  “You must also have read that witches can never cause harm.”

  “What if they did?” Michael asked curiously.

  “Then they would be called a warlock.”

  A chill ran over Michael, a strange, discomforting chill. “I haven’t read any material on warlocks.”

  “I’m sure Tempest has a book that makes reference to them.”

  “To whom?” Sarina asked, a white ceramic bowl filled with potpourri in hand and her sister coming up behind her.

  Dagon and Michael answered in unison: “Warlocks.”

  The bowl crashed to the ground and Sarina’s hand flew to cover her rounded stomach protectively.

  Dagon was by her side in a flash. Michael wasn’t even certain that he saw him move. His arm went around her, and his hand covered hers.

  “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously
. “You look pale.”

  Her voice shook. “An unexpected kick caught me off guard.”

  Michael stood, leaving the couch free for them both to sit as Dagon helped his wife over to it.

  Sarina rested back in her husband’s arms and turned to her sister to offer an apology. “I’m sorry, Tempest, for breaking—”

  Tempest never let her finish. She held up the white ceramic bowl, completely intact. “Not a nick; I caught it just before it could shatter.”

  Michael looked at the bowl as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He had heard the crash, he was certain of it. That bowl sounded as though it had shattered into a hundred pieces.

  Sarina poked her husband gently in the ribs when she saw he was about to make a flippant remark. Dagon wisely remained quiet, his curious glance going from Tempest to Michael.

  “Warlocks interest you, Michael?” she asked.

  Michael sat in the single oversized chair that Dagon had occupied, and Bear jumped into his lap. “Dagon made mention of them.”

  Sarina gave her husband another jab to his ribs, but he was ready for her and magically deflected the poke before it reached him. He grinned at her, but her smile warned she would get him.

  “We were speaking of witches and evil, so it was only natural that warlocks should be mentioned,” Dagon said, sensing an explanation was necessary.

  Michael stroked Bear, who had curled into a ball on his lap. “Dagon thought you might have a few books on warlocks.”

  “They’re an evil lot,” Sarina said curtly. “Not worth reading about.”

  Tempest walked over to the fireplace, moving the screen aside to add another log to the dwindling flames. Dagon and Michael moved to help her but she raised her hand. “I can manage, thank you.”

  Both men remained in their seats.

  Tempest addressed Sarina’s remark while she tended the fire. “If Michael is interested in witches then he must also learn about warlocks.”

  “Think Tempest knew any?” Michael asked.

  Dagon and Sarina stared at him so oddly that for a moment he thought he had grown two heads.

  Tempest replaced the screen in front of the now blazing hearth and turned to answer him. “It’s possible.” She then looked at Sarina. “Michael was curious to know if we had an ancestor who was a witch.”

  “Oh, and you told him of Tempest?” Sarina asked casually, though her husband was the brunt of her true reaction; she squeezed his hand until he thought she would crack a bone or two.

  “A tale or two that I could recall,” Tempest said.

  Dagon turned playful after extracting his hand from his wife’s. “She was known for her fierce temper.”

  “She was not,” Sarina said sharply in defense of her sister.

  “I don’t know,” Dagon said with a slow shake of his head. “I recall a tale where she descended on a castle in a whirl of wind and light and had cast a spell that interfered with two lives.”

  Michael sat forward, his eyes wide with interest. “Tell me.”

  Sarina sent her husband a look that warned he was in for it, since the tale he was about to relate concerned the two of them. But Dagon ignored her, enjoying himself, though he kept his eyes off Tempest. “I heard that her entrance was a sight to behold, her astounding beauty radiating the entire area.”

  Sarina smiled, pleased by her husband’s compliment to her sister.

  Tempest did not smile. She simply listened, her expression vague.

  “She was there to remind someone that her spell required her best feat.”

  Michael seemed confused and directed his concern to Dagon. “I don’t understand. You told me that a witch can’t cast a spell that harms.”

  “It wasn’t a harmful spell,” Dagon clarified and took his wife’s hand. “The spell was cast out of love and actually brought two people together to join in a perfect union.”

  “Then why did Tempest descend on the castle with such power?”

  “Showing off, I suppose,” Dagon said with a teasing smile that he turned on his sister-in-law.

  Tempest returned his smile. “I suppose that is a possibility.”

  Sarina spoke without thinking. “Why shouldn’t she show off? Her powers and wisdom have survived centuries of censure.”

  “Centuries?” Michael asked.

  Dagon and Tempest grinned pleasantly at Sarina and waited for her answer.

  Sarina refused to be bullied by their smug smiles. “A tale persists regarding her age.”

  “But centuries?” Michael asked. “How could anyone live for centuries?”

  “You know gossip,” Sarina said with a soft laugh and looked to her husband for help. His hesitation did not disturb her. He had once promised her that he would always be there to help her, and she never doubted his word or his love.

  Dagon didn’t disappoint her as he spoke up. “Tales or facts, Michael. You will have to determine on your own what you believe and what you don’t.”

  “Witches, spells, warlocks.” Michael shook his head. “I have no idea why I suddenly find all this fascinating.”

  “Time on your hands with nothing to do can spark an unusual interest,” Dagon said. “I think I recall a book or two you might enjoy on the subject. I’m sure Tempest has them in her vast library. Why don’t we see if we can find them?”

  Tempest scooped up Bear off Michael’s lap. “A good idea. And I’ll see to opening a bottle of wine for us and making tea for Sarina.”

  “And sandwiches—I’m starving,” Sarina said.

  The sisters went off to the kitchen, and Michael joined Dagon in the sitting room to hunt for the books. The remainder of the day was an enjoyable one. Good conversation, good wine and good food served to strengthen budding friendships, and it was with handshakes, hugs and kisses and a promise that Tempest would visit with them soon, Michael being welcomed of course, that Dagon and Sarina left the pair alone.

  Tempest leaned against the closed door with a sigh and a smile.

  “Tired?” Michael asked and brushed back a stray hair that had fallen along her cheek.

  She nodded, her eyes suddenly fascinated with his face. Shadows played across it, giving the appearance of him being bathed partially in darkness and partially in light. One seemed to war with the other, each fighting for dominance—or was it wishful thinking on her part?

  She placed her hand to his shadowed cheek and whispered, “Don’t struggle so.”

  He appeared surprised by her words, and yet they made sense to him. He felt he had struggled his entire life and was still struggling, but with what? With life itself? Or with himself?

  At the moment his immediate struggle was his overwhelming urge to hold her tightly to him and kiss her senseless.

  His other struggles could wait. He wanted Tempest now. Right now. Nothing else seemed to matter, not even his irrational thoughts. He only knew that he wanted her in his arms, and he reached out to take what he wanted, and what he was certain she wished to give.

  Chapter Eleven

  Michael reached out for her, his hand firm on the back of her neck as he urged her with a tug toward his waiting lips. Her eyes drifted shut, her lips began to ache for his taste and her body tingled in anticipation. He sensed it all with the suddenness of a wave crashing to shore, and when her lips were barely an inch from his, his mouth hurried toward hers eager to taste.

  She felt as if his kiss united their souls. His lips demanded yet pleaded, and she simply surrendered. Time stood still, the air grew heavy and nothing could be heard but the beating of their hearts.

  Tempest savored the taste of him; she thought of no one but Michael, and the way his lips fed hers, the way his tongue mated with hers, and the way he held her so tightly to him as though he never intended to let her go. She returned the kiss full force, holding nothing of herself back, giving all she could and wanting all he could give her.

  When his hand began to drift up her sweater she didn’t resist; she wanted to feel his work-worn hand on her tender
skin and drown in the pleasure. With one snap her bra came undone and his hand closed slowly over one breast, squeezing it ever so lightly.

  She moaned in his mouth and he deepened their kiss, demanding more from her, and she gave it.

  He took her nipple between his two fingers and played with it until it throbbed with a hardness that alarmed her and then his hand left her breast at the same moment his mouth released hers.

  His fingers moved to frantically undo the buttons on her sweater and he did so with a speed that astonished her. In moments she had her purple sweater spread open and his mouth hurried to her breast. She cried out and wrapped her arms around him when his mouth fully settled over her nipple.

  His teeth worked along with his lips, tormenting her until her moans reverberated through the small cottage, yet he didn’t stop. He moved his mouth to her other nipple and she welcomed the intrusion, arching her back and offering herself to him.

  Somewhere beneath this insanity reality intruded and cautioned her. With a soft whispered reminder, her sister’s words floated up and into her mind, warning her of the danger of joining with Michael in haste. But her emotions bordered on the uncontrollable, and she realized that if she didn’t soon take control and of the intense situation all would be lost, and she herself would forever regret it.

  When his hand went to slip down in her skirt she stopped him. “Michael.” Her breath was labored, his name shaky on her lips.

  She knew he heard, and his hand halted briefly and then began to descend slowly. “Just one touch. Just one.”

  His own trembling voice betrayed his heated passion and Tempest understood without a doubt that if he touched her intimately that there would be no turning back.

  His fingers grazed her flat stomach and dipped beneath the band of her lavender underwear when she whispered, “Another time.”

  He stopped, but not before his fingertips swept intimately across her and sent a shock of desire so strong racing through her that she gasped for air and gasped his shoulders.

  “Another time,” he promised and kissed her gently while her body shuddered against his. He kept an arm around her waist until she gave him a gentle shove, then he stepped away from her. His eyes remained steady on her while she attempted to hook her bra and button her sweater.