Magical Memories Page 2

  She nodded and kept steady eyes on the road. “Whatever were you doing out in this storm?”

  “Look, lady—”

  “Tempest,” she corrected.

  “Tempest,” he said on an annoyed sigh. “I don’t intend to tell you my life story and I’m not interested in any chitchat. The only thing I want right now is a cigarette and a shot of Jack Daniels.”

  “Smoking and drinking is no—”

  “Spare me the lecture. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “And you don’t care?” she asked, her tone not at all judgmental, but curious. He was a man that was not only searching but hurting and she wondered what had happened in his life to make him so cynical and self-destructive.

  “I only care about the moment, and right now my ankle hurts like hell and a shot of JD would work wonders.”

  The man certainly knew how to avoid giving a straight answer. He obviously intended to portray himself as a loner, a man who needed no one. A man who walked life’s roads alone. A man too frightened to love.

  A sudden gust of wind whipped at the car and Tempest fought to regain control of the swerving vehicle.

  “Don’t fight it,” Michael yelled at her. “Go with it and then you’ll regain control.”

  She listened to his shouts of advice and in seconds she regained control of the car and she was once again crawling down the snow-drifted road.

  “Good work,” he said, “now relax your grip on the steering wheel. You’re doing just fine.”

  His encouraging words didn’t surprise her. He was harsh in many ways and yet she sensed he cared, though it was difficult for him to show it.

  “Are those lights ahead?” he asked.

  Tempest glanced past the swishing windshield wipers and the falling snow to spot several faint lights in the distance. “I think you’re right. It must be the village.”

  “Good, wake me when we get there,” he said and leaned his head back between the seat and the window to doze.

  He made it quite clear that he intended no further discussion with her and if he wanted to be obstinate that was fine with her. She would deliver him to the doctor, make certain he was all right, pay the bill since his broken ankle was her fault, and be on her way, though something warned her it would not be that easy.

  They arrived at the village thirty minutes later, near to ten at night. With one stop at a well-lighted house she learned where the doctor was located. The friendly woman had called ahead, so the doctor would be expecting them.

  Tempest helped Michael up the snow-laden path to the front door and after explaining the problem to the middle-aged doctor he took it from there, disappearing with a hopping Michael into a back room.

  She removed her coat, hat and gloves and took a seat in a cushioned rocker by the heat of the blazing hearth. She was grateful for the warmth of her long white wool skirt and matching hip-length sweater. She ran gentle fingers through her long reddish blond hair, several strands feeling damp from the snow.

  She had discovered there was a small inn not far from the doctor’s home and that was where she intended to rent a room for Michael for the next few days, feeling herself responsible for his care. She, on the other hand, intended to transport her car back to Rasmus Castle, and then she would simply transport herself home. She was tired and wanted nothing more than a hot cup of tea and the comfort of her bed.

  She leaned back and gently rocked herself into a light slumber, not waking until the doctor gently shook her shoulder.

  “He’s all set,” the portly doctor said with a smile, “a good, clean break that set nicely and should heal in about six weeks.”

  Tempest stretched as she stood. “I’m so glad to hear that and so grateful you where available to help him. How much do I owe you for your services?”

  “The gentleman paid me already,” he said, pulling his wire rimmed glasses down to rest on the tip of his nose and giving a little gruff cough. “I’m a bit concerned about the chap. He asked if he could stay here the night and of course I assured him he could, but I worry about what he’ll do afterwards. I fear he has no money for lodgings and he insisted you were not responsible for him.”

  Tempest was not surprised by the news; she half expected it. His backpack actually did contain all his worldly possessions, along with limited funds. He was probably working his way through the area, and a broken ankle meant no work and no money.

  “A point we disagree on,” she told the doctor. “And one I will tend to. Do you advise travel yet?”

  “I’d like the cast I put on him to set for a while and then he’s free to go, though I’d advise you not to attempt to go far in this storm.”

  Tempest agreed. “The Partridge Inn is our destination.”

  “Good choice.”

  “If you don’t mind I would like to go to the inn, make arrangements for our stay and then return for Michael.”

  “He’ll be ready by then,” the doctor said with a yawn. “Excuse me. The day must be catching up with me.”

  Tempest slipped on her coat and with a gentle touch of her hand to the doctor’s face said, “Rest.”

  He yawned again, sat down in the rocker and promptly fell asleep.

  With a few enchanted words, her luggage and Michael’s backpack were deposited in the room where she stood and then with a snap of her fingers she returned the car to Rasmus Castle.

  She collected her hat and gloves and with a wave of her hand over the pieces of luggage sent them on their way as she walked toward the back room. Now all that was necessary was to transport Michael to her home.

  Chapter Two

  Michael woke with a start, bolting up from his prone position and hitting his head on the ceiling which sloped down over the bed. He mumbled several angry expletives and rubbed his head while he anxiously took in his strange surroundings.

  The room was apparently an attic or dormer-type room since the ceiling sloped down on two sides. A casement window sat tucked between the slopes, a white lace valance and a twig wreath adorned with dried flowers being its only covering. Outside, snow continued to fall heavily, adding to the accumulation that covered at least a quarter of the windowpane, and from the look of the temperamental gray sky, there was no relief in sight.

  Michael was suddenly grateful for the welcoming warmth of the small room, and it certainly did welcome. The walls were pale blue with a border of elegantly scrolled symbols painted in purple and gold. The lettering was completely foreign to him and yet—he shook his head—in a strange way familiar.

  An old wooden rocking chair whose woven cane seat looked recently repaired sat near the window; its companion a square wooden table held a lamp, a stack of books and a thick, round candle whose three wicks burned brightly and was probably the reason the room smelled like vanilla.

  An oak bureau, four drawers high and wide, sat opposite the bed. An assortment of combs, brushes and bottles along with a small vase of dried purple flowers cluttered the top. In the corner between the rocker and the bureau was a wood-burning stove, small yet adequate for the room. An assortment of colorful wool rugs placed at varying angles covered a good portion of the old wood floor, and a closet door stood slightly ajar beside a closed door.

  With a heavy sigh Michael dropped back down on the soft pillow. Where he was and how he got here he didn’t know, but somehow he knew the crazy lady he had met in the snowstorm had something to do with it. The last thing he recalled was arguing with her about taking care of him. She persisted in insisting that he was her responsibility until his ankle healed properly and that she would see to his care.

  No amount of arguing would sway her, and damned if she didn’t have the patience of a saint. Not once did she grow angry with him, threaten or even attempt to cajole him into agreeing with her. She simply made it known that her way was the best way and the only way, and of course to a man like himself who was independent and determined—well, it just wasn’t going to happen.

  So how the hell did he get here? And where
was here?

  He smiled, laughed softly and shook his head. He had a sneaking suspicion of his present location, but couldn’t recall getting here. He didn’t even remember being helped to the car or into this house and least of all being undressed and left to sleep in his briefs.

  And that presented another disturbing question. Who had undressed him and put him to bed?

  The crazy lady named Tempest who can’t drive worth a damn, and who offers to kiss a stranger to make him feel better after running him down with her car, and who is too damned beautiful for her own good?

  He grumbled to himself. The snowstorm hadn’t allowed for an easy view of her features, and when she spoke with him in the doctor’s office he had already been groggy from the pain medicine the doctor had given him, but what glimpses he could recall reminded him that she was a beauty, and beautiful women were nothing but trouble.

  He eased himself up in bed, avoiding contact with the sloping ceiling, and without much effort carefully brought his cast-covered ankle to rest on the floor. He had no worry that he wouldn’t be able to get around on his own. Hard, physical labor had toned and chiseled his body into a mass of muscles. Brawn was a requisite for sailing on the merchant ships and for surviving the often too dangerous ports and he had been sailing for the last twenty years, since he was sixteen. He had received an education in hard knocks and while he lacked a formal education, he was no dummy. A crusty old seaman had introduced him to books that challenged the mind, and he had become a ferocious reader. He held no fancy degree, but his knowledge was vast, and he was proud of his accomplishments.

  Now all he needed to accomplish was to locate his clothes and a bathroom, and then find out where he was. He noticed that his wallet lay on the small table beside his bed, and he glanced inside it, knowing his last fifty dollars would be there; and it was. He put it back on the table and stood with a groan, placing the majority of his weight on his healthy leg.

  “Damned if I’ll take charity,” he mumbled, grabbed the crutches and hobbled over to the closet. It was empty. He gave the room a thorough glance and finding none of his clothing in sight, or his backpack, he had no alternative but to take his search outside the room.

  He found a bathroom right next door and saw to his immediate needs. He found a new toothbrush still in its wrapper on the sink and assumed it was left for his use, so he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it. Combs and brushes lay in a small basket on a stool and he made use of a comb, little good that it did. His dark hair was in dire need of at least a trim, if not a good cutting, but of late he felt the need to let it grow so it fell in layers, skimming his shoulders, ears and forehead.

  Fortunately, a dark-blue velvet robe, suspiciously his size, hung on the back of the bathroom door, so he slipped it on and cautiously proceeded to investigate his surroundings.

  He discovered two closed doors and was about to investigate the one furthest from his room when the scent of bacon and eggs caught his attention. His stomach growled and he agreed with its protest. Changing his direction, he carefully descended the narrow staircase.

  He came upon a parlor, medium in size, a fire crackling in the stone fireplace, overstuffed furniture that welcomed, candles that flickered softly, plants that thrived in dozens of pots and hanging baskets, some flowering and others assorted shades of healthy greens. And books in stacks and on shelves and while he itched to explore their contents, his nose and grumbling stomach took charge and forced him to follow the delicious scent that by now had acquired a strong hint of cinnamon to it.

  But it wasn’t the mouthwatering aroma that hit him full force when he walked into the kitchen. It was the woman who hummed a lively tune while icing cinnamon buns.

  “Hungry?” she asked him, momentarily taking her eyes off her task to smile at him.

  He didn’t answer directly; he couldn’t. She was far more beautiful than he had remembered, and he was annoyed that he found himself speechless. She wore a pale-yellow knit dress that hugged her curves, and a crocheted vest in a darker yellow covered her breasts that looked to be just a bit more than a handful. And while he had always put more stock in a woman’s body than in her looks, he couldn’t help but be captivated by her beauty. He swore that if an angel could step down from heaven she would possess such a stunning face.

  Her complexion reminded him of peaches and cream—soft, smooth and sweet. Yet if asked to describe her, the one word that would come to mind would be serene. Her beauty held a strange peacefulness, as though a man could simply lose himself within her by just glancing at her face.

  And her eyes? He shut his own eyes, the image of hers ingrained in his memory. They were the strangest color green—pale yet bright, young yet old—and he swore they possessed the knowledge of the ages. She was without a doubt a remarkably intelligent woman. And then there was that mass of long, blond hair streaked with red that caught the eye. It was partially pinned and tucked up, and yet several strands fell freely around her face and down her neck. The untidy style was completely seductive, and he winced at that disturbing thought.

  “I have your pain pills if you feel you need one,” she said softly.

  Her gentle voice tingled his flesh, and he silently cursed his libido which he had sorely neglected lately, and which he assumed was the reason for his immediate attraction to this woman.

  He shook his head, more to bring his emotions under control than to answer her query. “Not necessary,” he managed to say. “But my clothes are. Where would I find them and where am I?”

  She took the plate of buns from the island counter and placed them on the round wooden table set with a lace cloth and fine china before answering him. “I washed and stitched the two pair of jeans you have so that the leg will fit over the cast. When the cast is removed I’ll repair the jeans for you. All your clothes are in a basket in the laundry room.” She pointed to a door off the kitchen. “I’ll bring them upstairs to your room after breakfast.”

  “Thanks,” he said, grateful for her thoughtfulness and yet uncomfortable with it. He had always looked out for himself. He didn’t need looking after.

  She removed the covers from the pans on the stove, and the scent of freshly cooked bacon and eggs permeated the air even more strongly and caused his stomach to grumble loudly.

  “Please, sit down,” she said, extending her hand toward the table.

  He obliged her with as much haste as the weighty cast allowed.

  After placing the platter of eggs and bacon on the table and adding a basket of hot biscuits, she joined him and answered his other question. “I am sure by now you realize that you’re in my home.”

  “I assumed as much,” he said, and eagerly reached for the mug of hot, black coffee she had poured for him. There were many questions he wanted answered, but at the moment his first priority was satisfying his empty and protesting stomach. He enthusiastically reached for the platter of bacon and eggs.

  “It was the most logical solution.” Tempest helped herself to a biscuit which she generously spread with butter and honey.

  Michael waited for her to continue, though he had a sneaking suspicion that was all the explanation she intended. Still, he’d give her the benefit of the doubt and wait.

  “Biscuit?” she asked and held the basket out to him.

  He helped himself to two fat ones while his glance strayed to her lips, full and plump and oh so inviting. A spot of honey glistened near the corner of her mouth, and the tip of her tongue slipped out to lick it up slow and easy.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her hand moving to rest with a comforting touch on his arm.

  He looked at her oddly, as if confused.

  “You shivered,” she said, explaining her concern. “Have you a chill?”

  Her hand moved toward his forehead when he realized just how deeply that innocent lick of the lips affected him, and he drew away from her reach. “I’m fine.”

  He concentrated on his meal, keeping his eyes off her.

  “It is
a relentless snow,” she said, diverting the conversation.

  He looked out the large window that all but encompassed the eating area. Not a curtain or valance obstructed the view. And he could understand why. An expanse of snow-covered hills, towering trees and a surrounding field blanketed in pure white stole one’s breath and captured the senses.

  Though his sensibility quickly took hold and warned him that the roads in this area could barely be passable, especially with the way Tempest drove, his one question was, “How did we get here?”

  She was not at all startled by his curt query. She smiled pleasantly at him and patted his arm. “A wish and a prayer.”

  “You’d need both with the way you drive.”

  She laughed at his intentional barb. “True enough.”

  “The roads were passable?”

  Tempest placed the last of the eggs and a fat cinnamon bun on his near-empty plate, and spoke truthfully, since she could do no less. “I know a more passable route.”

  Michael watched her slim fingers gracefully pour herself another cup of tea from the china pot on the table before she chose a smaller bun for herself. He allowed the silence to purposely grow between them and added a hint of suspicion to his voice when he asked, “I don’t recall getting in the car.”

  “I imagine not,” she said with ease and added a teaspoon of honey to her tea. “The medicine had taken its toll on you.”

  “Then however did you get me in the car?”

  “A wish and a prayer,” she said yet again with a smile.

  He simply could not be annoyed with her. No matter how hard he tried, her smile was just too sincere, her voice much too soothing, and her hospitality much too generous. A thought had him asking, “Are you always in the habit of bringing stray men home?”

  “Are you always so blunt?”

  He nodded. “Yes, and are you always so foolish?”

  “You think it’s foolish to help someone in need?”

  He shook his head. “You know nothing about me and yet you bring me, a complete stranger, into your home in the middle of a raging snowstorm, stranding us both here alone.”