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But damned if he wanted to be anything but that.

  She whimpered and clung more tightly to him, and it was then that her fear invaded his senses and he suddenly turned protective.

  His whispered words that soothed and reassured. “I’m here, Tempest, don’t worry. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  “Please, please.” Her whisper was a pitiful plea and tore at his heart.

  “Shhh,” he soothed with a gentle voice. “I’ll protect you. Always, Tempest, always.”

  She calmed, though her body continued to tremble against his.

  He wondered what nightmare haunted her and attempted to chase it from her mind with reassuring words and a tender touch and as his eyes grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep he heard her whisper, “Marcus.”

  He hovered on the edge of darkness. One step and he would plunge forever into the dark, murky pit. And yet he sensed the power the darkness possessed and yearned to taste it. It called to him like a lover in need and the urge to respond, to unite was like an intoxicant he found hard to resist.

  A softer voice entered the darkness, calling to him, and while not as alluring, it possessed a strange tug that made him take notice and step back from the edge. The gentle voice tempted him to join her, to seek the pleasure that she and she alone could give him. An everlasting pleasure that knew no boundaries or restrictions and all he had to do was choose.

  What choice did he make? And why did the choice seem so difficult?

  The soft voice called out to him again, urging him to choose wisely, urging him not to repeat his mistakes, urging him to step forward.

  Instead he stood his ground not moving to the darkness, not moving toward the light voice. He remained as he was, making no move in either direction, yet knowing a decision was necessary.

  And when the time came he would make one, but which one would he choose?

  Tempest woke, wrapped around a sleeping Michael. Surprising as his presence was, it was also comforting and she cherished this quiet moment with him. He slept peacefully, at comfort with himself and his surroundings, which lead her to believe he found solace with her... a nice thought.

  Her sigh was low, a mere whisper so as not to wake him, and she was surprised when he stirred.

  “Nightmare gone?” he asked.

  She looked up at him, his eyes fully alert. “Thanks to you.”

  “No problem,” he said his voice low and his body suddenly taut.

  Tempest realized then that she lay near naked across him and that her legs were intimately straddling his, and that if she could feel herself growing moist, then he certainly could, too.

  She attempted to move away from him gracefully, but his arms held her firm.

  “Don’t,” he urged on a whisper. “I enjoy the feel of you.”

  It was too soon for intimacy, even though she ached for it herself. She didn’t know enough, didn’t understand enough about this man and his past. There were questions yet to be answered and discoveries yet to be made.

  Yet she remained as he asked, in his arms, because she simply could not convince herself to leave his side.

  “The feeling is mutual,” she said and snuggled against him.

  His hand traveled slowly down her back until it rested on her hip, and he eased the shirttail of her pajama top up so that his hand could feel her soft, silky skin. He caressed her with methodical slowness that drove her insane.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.

  Her answer was honest. “I’m thinking how much I like your touch.”

  “I like the feel of you. Somehow it’s familiar, as strange as that may seem.”

  Her fingers traced circles up and down his chest. “We’ve come to know one another.”

  His fingers skimmed her backside. “I want to know you better.”

  She could have surrendered right there and then but that wasn’t possible so she reluctantly gave the only answer she could. “In time.”

  “Then I suggest we get out of this bed or that time will be now.”

  She wanted to offer some explanation. “Michael—”

  “Don’t, Tempest,” he said firmly. “When you’re ready.”

  He gently eased her off him, got out of bed and walked toward the door. “I’m going to wash up.”

  “I’ll get breakfast started.”

  “I’ll be down shortly to help.”

  She nodded and he left, and that’s when a tear slipped down her cheek. She battled with emotions she had thought were long since buried and feeling them surface now was a shock to her. She had forgotten how good falling in love could feel.

  It felt simply delicious.

  It warmed the heart and soul and ignited the senses. And it frightened her.

  She wiped the single teardrop away. She understood that fear was self-imposed and to rid herself of the destructive emotion she had to face the cause. She had to face her past, and she wasn’t certain she was prepared to do that just yet.

  She decided action was better than feeling sorry for herself and she hurried out of bed to dress. Black tights, black socks and a hip-length black-knit sweater that hugged her curves went on fast and she pulled her long, reddish-blond hair back with a black silk ribbon. Not that all the strands stayed in place; several fell free around her face, particularly the deeper red strands. The flaming color added to her flawless peach complexion which required not an ounce of cosmetics.

  After making her bed she glanced around the room for Bear and seeing he was nowhere in sight, hurried off to the kitchen.

  Her cat was a traitor. Ever since Michael’s arrival and a quick assessment of the stranger, Bear decided that he liked the man enough to make him his constant companion.

  She entered the kitchen with a smile. She was glad the cat had befriended Michael. He needed a friend, and there was nothing like a feline forming an attachment to you.

  Tempest went to work getting breakfast ready and found her day pretty much followed the same hectic pace. By late afternoon she and Michael found themselves relaxing in the living room with hot cider and oatmeal cookies.

  “And I thought living a solitary life was boring,” he said and munched on a cookie.

  She reached for her own cookie. “I never lack for things to do and the village isn’t as far away as you think.”

  “A walk?”

  “A bicycle ride.”

  “And the village?”

  She smiled after she finished munching. “A picture postcard place. You would love the small bookstore there. Mr. Hodges runs it and has for many years.” She paused a moment, recalling that Mr. Hodges had recently turned 210 years old. He was a dear man and a powerful witch. “The shelves overflow with old, used and new books. The musty smell of old leather and aged pages adds to the wonderful atmosphere of the place. He travels and collects whatever strikes his fancy, and if I request a book on a subject, he does his best to locate it for me.”

  “Sounds irresistible. I’d love to visit it.”

  “With the snow melting considerably and your cast coming off in less than two weeks, we should be able to visit the village soon.”

  Michael chose to ignore the issue of his impending departure. “Tell me more about the village.”

  Tempest loved the village of Cullen. It was a place where witches and mortals resided side by side and had for centuries. “You must visit the sweetshop. Mrs. Killcullen makes the best candy I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Sweet tooth?” he asked with a laugh as she reached for another cookie.

  “Guilty,” she admitted and bit into the soft, moist treat.

  He liked talking with her like this. She was curled up in the overstuffed chair looking much like a contented feline. Her relaxed posture told him she was just as comfortable with him as he with her. They never lacked for conversation. There was always a subject to pursue or an interest they thought to share.

  It was as if they were good friends. Good friends who were on the verge of becoming lovers.

  He direct
ed his thoughts back to the conversation. “I must admit, I thought you were isolated here.”

  “In a sense I am, but I like my solitude and when I wish company I invite friends or family to visit. Otherwise I keep busy with my interests.”

  “Tell me of your interests, Tempest, the ones that I don’t know of,” he asked, eager to learn more about her.

  “I am involved in several charities, the major one being Wyrrd Foundation, run by a dear friend of mine, Sydney Wyrrd. We sponsor several charitable events throughout the year.”

  “Here in Scotland?”

  “Scotland, the States, London, Paris—wherever is necessary.”

  “You travel frequently?”

  “When necessary and whenever I wish to visit with someone.”

  He had wondered at times what it would be like to have the money to do as he pleased. He had always had to work for every cent he had and presently he had few cents. “Did your family always have money?”

  “My wealth dates back considerably,” she answered, recalling the many centuries it had taken to build her wealth.

  He looked around the unpretentious cottage. “You don’t live like someone with means.”

  She placed her empty mug on the table. “I learned long ago the true value of things, like my home, which always comforts me when I return to it. And the friends I have in the village that are always happy to see me and special friends who are there when I need them. I am blessed with many riches, money being the least important of them.”

  He was honest with her. “I always had to struggle for money. The work was hard, the hours endless, the results unsatisfying. Friends were few and rarely lasted and I never had a permanent home to return to. I guess you could say I was poor in many ways.”

  “No longer,” she said softly. “You have a special friend now—me. And, of course Bear.” She pointed at the sleeping feline curled beside him. “And this place will always be here for you to return to, Michael.”

  Return.

  He never wanted to leave. He wanted to stay forever in this secluded little world with Tempest, not caring if he ever saw another solitary soul again. Here he felt as if he had come home, back where he belonged, and the thought of leaving tore at his heart.

  Tempest sensed his distress and it disturbed her. She understood his misgivings, and she could offer no reassurance, for she wasn’t certain of the future herself. But for now...

  “Let’s roast frankfurters and marshmallows in the fireplace for supper tonight.”

  “I’ve never done that before,” he admitted eagerly.

  “And we’ll pop corn over the flames, too.”

  “Fresh popcorn?” he asked, sitting forward and disturbing Bear, whose ears had already perked up at the mention of roasted marshmallows.

  She nodded. “And we’ll spread it all out in front of the fireplace so it feels like a campfire meal.”

  “Sounds great to me,” he said, his eagerness soaring. “Are you sure you have frankfurters?”

  Michael had been in her refrigerator and large freezer on numerous occasions. He was familiar with her stock of supplies, and she herself wasn’t certain she had frankfurters, though it wouldn’t be a chore to get them. A simple snap of her fingers would produce what she needed. But how to explain that to Michael? And there was that honesty factor.

  She snapped her fingers. “I just remembered that there may be two packages of franks in the back of the freezer, bottom shelf.”

  He nodded. “Could be, that shelf is hard for me to get to. What about buns?”

  Another snap of her fingers. “Probably with the franks.”

  “Marshmallows?” he asked with a steady eye on her fingers.

  She snapped them again. “The pantry.”

  He stood up, dislodging an annoyed Bear, and walked around the coffee table to lean over her. He grabbed her fingers in his hand. “Can you produce the popcorn without a snap?”

  His question startled her for a moment. Did he realize she used magic? She sensed he didn’t. He was merely teasing her—and yet—she had an uncanny feeling that somewhere deep inside him lurked Marcus’s memories. And in strange ways those memories would surface whether he understood them or not.

  She was relieved that popcorn was one staple she refused to be without. “There’s tons of it in the pantry.”

  “Sweet tooth and popcorn lover,” he said, releasing her hand. “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “And you?”

  “Me?” he asked, offering his hand to her.

  She took it and stood, keeping hold of his hand as they walked together to the kitchen. “Foods that you crave?” she asked.

  He thought for a moment, wrapping his hand more firmly around hers. “Can’t think of any.”

  She seemed surprised and stopped just inside the kitchen to stare at him in surprise. “Everyone craves something.”

  He searched his brain, furrowing his brow. “Nothing. I ate what I could get when I could get it and never gave it thought beyond that.”

  She sighed. “Impossible. You must have craved a type of food sometime in your life. Maybe when you were young you had a favorite.”

  He shook his head. “My mother was a great cook, and she’d try all sorts of recipes so my menus varied. One dish was as good as the next. Never had a favorite, though.”

  “That’s impossible,” she insisted. “Think. If you could taste anything at all right now, what would you want to taste?”

  He knew he shouldn’t. He warned himself to be a gentleman, but then he’d been a gentleman far too long and that devilish side of him was itching to escape. So he had no choice, he gave it free rein with his answer. “You.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Michael didn’t expect her smile or the playful response.

  “Food, Michael, not pleasure.”

  “Sustenance,” he said, as if correcting her. “That which man needs to survive.”

  “And the taste of a woman is necessary to a man’s survival?” she asked, leaving his side, her destination the pantry.

  He followed. “Imperative.”

  She reached for the bag of marshmallows and the popcorn on the lower shelf and seemed to give his answer thought.

  Her response not only surprised him; it aroused him.

  “I suppose I can understand how you feel since I do enjoy the taste of a man, and when deprived too long of such a satisfying experience it does seem to become a craving.”

  “Damn it, Tempest,” he nearly shouted.

  “What?” she asked so innocently that he almost believed her statement naïve?

  “How do you expect a man to react to that remark?” he asked, grabbing at the bag of marshmallows and popcorn she shoved at his chest.

  She searched the shelves for the skewers for roasting. “How did you expect me to react to yours?”

  He attempted a response, but she continued. “Shyly? Perhaps blush?”

  He gave a short burst of laughter. “Shy? Blush? Not you.”

  She turned a direct look on him. “Then what, Michael? What did you expect my response to be?”

  He felt backed up against a wall and he figured he had put himself there.

  She answered for him. “You expected the same reaction from me that I got from you. You grew aroused.”

  He was about to argue when instead he asked, “And did you?”

  She stared at him with those beautiful pale-green eyes and her voice took on a softly sensuous tone. “How could I not when you placed such a seductive thought in my head?”

  He stepped toward her. “You don’t mince words, do you?”

  She remained where she stood. “What purpose would it serve?”

  “Some people like the chase, the cat-and-mouse game.”

  She stepped up to him and kissed him softly. “Isn’t that the game we’re playing now?”

  He took another kiss from her, demanding a deeper taste. “Think the mouse will get caught?”

  Her return kiss po
ssessed its own demand and left them slightly breathless. “Caught? Never,” she said.

  “Surrender?”

  She smiled. “A distinct possibility.”

  “Then the cat shouldn’t stop chasing?” he asked on a laugh.

  “I don’t think the cat has any intentions of halting the chase.”

  “Perceptive.”

  She leaned up and caressed his cheek with a kiss. “Aroused.”

  “You’re tempting me, Tempest,” he said with a smile that was purely sinful.

  “I hope so,” she whispered and with a wink walked passed him into the kitchen.

  He followed yet again.

  She decided it was wise to change the topic of conversation; her passion had heated considerably and required a cooling-off period. She really had no intention of taking their banter to the physical level, at least not presently, so her wisest choice was not to tempt.

  “Tell me of your dreams, Michael.”

  He looked at her as if she had caught him off guard.

  She clarified. “Your dreams of the future. What it is you look for in life?”

  He had thought she meant his night dreams. Those dreams he was not ready to discuss with anyone or for that matter face them himself. They haunted him nightly and were growing in intensity. What significance they possessed he didn’t quite understand, but somehow he felt he would come to realize their importance. Until that time he intended to share them with no one.

  He searched for an answer to her question, but then he had searched some time for that answer, the question having haunted him. “I can’t honestly say.”

  “Yet you have given it significant thought,” she said, busily preparing for their campfire meal.

  He had placed the items he held on the counter and worked with a familiar ease beside her. He didn’t understand how she so easily understood him or how comfortable they had become with each other in such a short time. But he also didn’t wish to question their strange relationship or the fact that he even considered it a relationship.

  Where to next? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. He only knew here with Tempest was where he wanted to be at this moment in time.

  “Lately, it seems to be a constant thought.”

  “But one you have difficulty with.”