Magical Memories Page 4

  She diced a thick potato with ease and smiled. “Instinct.”

  “What?” he asked confused.

  “I rely on my instinct when I meet people, and it has yet to fail me.”

  His gruff laugh surfaced once again. “You’re about how old? Thirty, maybe thirty-two, and you think you know enough about life to rely solely on instinct?”

  “I’m a bit older than that and well-traveled.”

  “The kind of travel that wealth affords,” he corrected.

  “You’re cynical.”

  “I possess common sense,” he argued.

  “You don’t trust.”

  “I make a point of getting to know a person first.”

  “And however do you do that when you obviously don’t trust a soul?” she asked with what sounded too much like pity to his way of thinking.

  “I ask questions,” he answered tersely.

  “That leads to a certain amount of trusting.”

  “I believe common sense leads to accurate character study.”

  She laughed softly. “Instinct.”

  He found himself smiling at the challenging debate she presented. She not only tempted a man’s passion but challenged his intelligence. “I suppose instinct helps, but only after assessing a person’s character.”

  “Yet by waiting and assessing you often miss the true essence of a person. It is much simpler to be aware, completely aware, through sight and sound on first meeting, and then you will truly come to know even the most remote person.”

  He seemed to contemplate her words, his brow drawing together as if in heavy and almost painful thought. “People can deceive.”

  “Unfortunately true,” she agreed, “but it is usually when we are at our most vulnerable.”

  “Children are vulnerable.” It was a statement issued with harsh regret.

  Tempest realized he spoke from experience, and she opened herself completely to his emotions in hope of better understanding him. She mentally prepared herself for the rush of tumultuous feelings that would descend on her, and as she so often did she made her way through the maze of fear, hurt, disappointment, regret and bitterness. But it was the sensation of a little boy’s heart breaking that disturbed her the most and made her all the more curious.

  She could step inside him and read his life path, but without an invitation to do so she would never intrude on his privacy. And besides, they had plenty of time to come to know one another.

  She patiently waited for him to continue, and was not surprised when he turned the conversation back to her. He was obviously curious, and she couldn’t blame him. She would give him enough information to satisfy.

  “Why do you live in such isolation?”

  Her answer was honest as usual. “I enjoy my privacy.”

  Michael didn’t seem to think so. “You’re not running away?”

  Tempest dropped the sliced potato into the pot. “I have nothing to run from.”

  “An irate lover or broken heart usually causes people to go off on their own and bury themselves in their sorrows.”

  She laughed lightly and reached for another potato in the bowl. “It has been some time since I have had a lover.” She thought it best not to mention her broken heart. Though it had been hundreds of years, the memories remained painful and were better left forgotten.

  Michael threw his hands up in frustration. “Great, now you’re letting me know that it’s been a while since—”

  “I’ve made love,” she finished, her voice light with laughter.

  He began his usual lecture. “I’m a complete stranger—”

  “Who would never force a woman,” Tempest continued for him.

  “Right, but I’m also not a eunuch.”

  “Haven’t had sex lately yourself, have you?” Her soft smile did not at all tease but appeared sincerely empathic, which irritated him all the more.

  “Is that an invitation?” he asked, focusing dark, intent eyes on her that warned he was serious.

  Tempest took a moment to examine the consequences of such action. If he proved to be the one whose return was predicted, the results would set the spell in motion. And if not?

  Their joining could prove interesting.

  Her answer was softly succinct. “Perhaps.”

  It was his turn to smile, and the audacious turn of his lips hinted at a playful wickedness. “You’ll let me know when that perhaps turns to yes.”

  “Without delay.” Her own smile was equally playful.

  His smile vanished suddenly and his expression turned serious. “Why do you trust me? You barely know me. I could be a deceitful character who would use you for his own selfish needs.”

  “Instincts and awareness,” she reminded him and washed her hands before approaching him at the table.

  He watched her walk toward him. Her steps were graceful and taken with confidence and not a hint of fear. Her body moved in a fluid motion as if time and space made way for her, and when her hand stretched out to touch his, his glance drifted to her long, slim fingers. Her nails were relatively short and polished with a clear nail polish that glittered with a hint of gold specks, and her skin was a creamy peach that tempted the lips.

  His breath caught briefly when her fingers lightly traced the scars on his knuckles.

  “You obviously brawled and often, defending yourself and the defenseless. Your convictions are strong and would not allow you to harm the harmless.”

  Her hand drifted up to his face and the stretch of scars that ran across his nose and under his eye. Her touch was gentle and caring and oh so welcoming. But her words intruded where he didn’t want her to go.

  “As you were once harmed.”

  Michael grabbed her wrist and yanked it away from his face. “Don’t go there, Tempest, you’re not invited.”

  Chapter Four

  Tempest made no attempt to back away from him; she simply placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and when his eyes met hers he wanted nothing more than to drown in the solace she unselfishly offered him. He felt an overwhelming gut need to draw her close and press his face against the slight curve of her stomach, wrap his arms around her slim waist, smell the sweet scent of her and forget that life itself existed.

  Instead he did what he had done since he was a young child and felt fearful—he erected an invisible wall that would keep her from getting close to him or perhaps keep him from getting close to her.

  She stepped back suddenly as if she felt the wall rise up between them, and he let her go, though with reluctance that disturbed him.

  “I think it’s time I started earning my keep,” he said stubbornly.

  He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. “As you wish. You can help me in the greenhouse. There’s potting to do.”

  He stood with a wobble. “Never potted plants before, but I learn quickly.”

  “I’ll have you an expert in no time,” she said, confidently.

  “Go through the archway over there into the sitting room, and then take the door near the fireplace into the greenhouse. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Michael nodded and attempted to make his way without the aid of the crutch. After a few faltering steps he turned around only to find Tempest directly behind him, crutch in hand. He took it from her with a gruff, “Thanks.” And hobbled off with a much steadier gait.

  The sitting room was just that—welcoming sofas, chairs, tables, a desk and more bookshelves. No wonder; she was so intelligent, she must have spent all her isolated time reading.

  The fireplace was old stone and gave the room satisfying warmth. French doors with ivory lace curtains ran along the back wall, and a peek past the lace showed a screened porch closed up tightly against the winter weather.

  Several old paintings in gold frames caught his attention, and he inspected them with a keen interest. On his travels he had visited many museums and had developed an eye for fine art. And he was surprised that a few paintings looked as if they were originals, but then she did say
she was wealthy. But it was the picture that hung over the fireplace that caught and held his eye. The scene felt strangely familiar, though that was impossible. He wasn’t certain of the period but he would venture to guess from the clothing that it was about the fourteenth or fifteenth century. It was an outdoor celebration, a feast of sorts, with Stirling Castle in the background.

  He shook his head and turned to walk away when something stopped him, and he glanced back at the picture. His eye caught a dark figure hovering near the tree close by yet removed from the festivity. He stared at the mysterious cloaked figure, blinked a second to refocus, and when he looked upon the scene again the dark figure was gone.

  Another shake of his head, a mumble about being nuts and he hobbled off with the support of the crutch.

  The greenhouse impressed him on first sight. It was a labyrinth of plants. Healthy green foliage spilled over hanging baskets, tumbled out of a variety of different-sized pots, and flowering plants were everywhere. No matter which path he chose to walk along, plants brushed at his shoulders, tickled his head and caressed his cheek, and he couldn’t help but smile at their cheerfully eager welcome.

  He found an area with a cushioned bench, chair and a table that held a magnificent potted fern. He was tempted to sit but curiosity urged him on, and he was glad he continued exploring.

  He discovered the work area. A long narrow bench-like table, waist-high, was braced against the back wall. Two tiers of shelving ran beneath and held all the necessary planting tools, plus containers of all sizes and tubs of soil mixtures, mulch, and what he assumed was fertilizer. A high wooden stool, its long legs painted bright green and the seat top a smiling, brilliant yellow sun stood to the side. Dried herbs hung in bunches overhead, and a large wooden cabinet with several drawers sat to the right of the workbench.

  Tempest was obviously an experienced, perhaps even expert gardener. At least there were two things he knew about her.

  She loved to read and loved plants. He should also add that she was a good cook. She was rather domestic when you added it all together—and yet she just didn’t strike him as the domestic type.

  “You found where I spend much of my time.”

  Michael turned to greet her with a smile, and his smile widened when he saw the colorful smock she wore over her yellow dress. It was its own garden of delight. Flowers of all varieties bloomed against a background of blue sky and green earth. It was the perfect protective garment for a gardener.

  “You have quite a green thumb,” he said, stepping aside as she approached the workbench.

  “I feel a connection with the earth.” She moved the stool nearer to the workbench and gave it a pat. “Come and sit. I will teach you how to connect to Mother Nature.”

  He seemed reluctant. “I’m all thumbs and none of them are green.”

  Tempest laughed. “I think we can do something about that.”

  Michael joined her, though he remained standing.

  “You should really stay off that ankle as much as you can, or at least for a few days. It’s only been set, and the broken bone needs a chance to knit properly.”

  He seemed about to argue then thought better of it, and placing the crutch to the side, he sat on the stool. “Are you a healer besides a gardener?”

  She held up her hands. “Everyone has the power within their grasp to heal and grow. The secret to it is the magic of belief. Do you believe, Michael?”

  His own answer startled him. “I don’t know what I believe in.”

  “Then it’s time for you to learn.”

  He remained silent, unable to respond. Her question was one that recently nagged at him and was the reason he left his sea life behind. He felt the inexplicable need to explore, and his exploration brought him directly to Scotland. Though he didn’t know why, he knew he would find answers here. Of course, first he needed to discover the questions. Perhaps this was his first one.

  Tempest gathered pots, tools and seedlings that looked ready to burst from their confined bedding. She ran her hands lovingly over the small green leaves. “These flourishing ladies can help soothe an upset stomach.” She held her fingers to his nose.

  “Mint,” he said with a smile.

  She nodded. “Correct, and I don’t think they mind your unskilled hands working on them. They are hardy ladies.”

  “Let’s hope so, since my touch is none too gentle.”

  Her slim hand slipped over his work-worn one. “Then I will teach you how to soften your touch.”

  He felt a warmth rush up his arm and tingle his flesh. It was tender and loving warmth given freely, without demands or the need of its return; an unselfish gesture of love, but not the love born of passion; the love of humanity.

  He turned his covered hand and entwined his fingers with hers. “You’ve taken on a hefty chore, Tempest.”

  She gave his fingers a confident squeeze. “I never take on more than I can handle.”

  “And you’re certain you can handle me?” He squeezed her hand firmly enough to demonstrate his strength.

  She leaned close to him. “Never underestimate the power of belief.”

  He almost laughed. “You believe you can break free of my grasp?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then do it,” he challenged.

  She smiled, raised their locked hands up between them and with tender lips kissed his fingers one by one.

  He found her tactic amusing, but refused to surrender until by the third finger his body began to respond to the play of her moist lips against his warm flesh—or maybe his flesh was hot, or perhaps it was the humidity of the greenhouse, or perhaps...

  He tore his hand away from hers. His temperature was rising rapidly, which was causing another unexpected rise he was not yet ready to deal with, so retreat was his best option.

  “You made your point,” he admitted. “Foolishly, of course, b u t ...” He shrugged as if enough was said, and she should understand.

  “Were you never foolish?” Tempest asked and turned to fill the six four-inch pots with soil while waiting for his answer.

  Memories brought a smile to his face. “More than I care to remember.”

  “Enlighten me,” she teased and moved to fill a small tin watering can at the sink at the end of the workbench.

  “That’s not a good idea, and besides, I think I need my full concentration on the chore at hand.”

  Tempest didn’t press the issue. She simply began instructing him on repotting the mint seedlings.

  “You don’t use gloves?” he asked as he carefully dislodged a hardy seedling from the full bed, paying close attention to her instructions.

  “Never,” she said and scooped up a handful of soil from the tub beneath the workbench.

  “Every living, breathing thing needs nourishment. The soil is no different than we are. When our energies connect we nourish each other, and then we grow and flourish. It is a continuous cycle. Birth, growth, passing and rebirth. Mother Nature teaches us this simple fact if we but take the time to look.”

  Michael added more soil around the seedling. “You make it sound simpler than it is.”

  “What makes you say that?” she asked, handing him the watering can.

  He trickled water slowly around the plant. “You grow these plants in optimum conditions. What of the plants that must brave Mother Nature at her worst?”

  “Worst or best, the cycle remains the same. Birth, growth, passing and rebirth. That never changes. It is ever continuous.”

  “So just like humans, some plants are luckier than others.”

  “Life doesn’t come with guarantees for anyone or anything, Michael.”

  “I suppose not,” he said, and reached for another seedling. “But it’s hard when you see some who have so much compared to those who have nothing. It makes you wonder.”

  She let him finish repotting the mint and worked on an asparagus fern that needed replanting in a larger pot. “You must have come across much suffering in your travel
s.”

  “Too much,” he said. “The hardest part was realizing there wasn’t much you could do. Maybe every now and then you could buy food for those kids in need, but you knew it was only a temporary fix and they would soon go hungry again. I think the worst was seeing the kids starving for someone to care about them, someone to love them.”

  “You did, if only for a short time. If they hadn’t experienced that small touch of compassion they would never know its value. You gave them that.”

  He shook his head slowly. “That’s nothing.”

  “That’s everything. You gave of yourself and they felt it and understood it, and they will never forget it.”

  He shook his head to protest again, and she shook her own.

  “Don’t deny the truth, Michael. You yourself have probably experienced that very compassion you gave so freely or else you would never have been able to share it with those children.”

  “I never knew compassion,” he said with disgust.

  “Impossible,” she argued. “If you never knew it, you could never give it. Someone, somewhere in your life taught you it.”

  He was about to argue when he stopped himself, paused in thought and softly said, “My mother.”

  Tempest remained silent and patient. She needed to know about this stranger who so mysteriously entered her life. She wanted to learn of his past, his hopes, his dreams, and she wanted to learn if he was part of her future.

  His fingers remained busy planting. “My mother was an alcoholic and a hardworking woman. She worked the early morning shift at the local diner. It was a busy place, and I guess she made good money because we had a nice, clean apartment, and I always had things. We lived in Hoboken, New Jersey, and we would take the tubes into New York City. She had an eye for a bargain, and we would come home with at least three shopping bags full of clothes, toys and food. She loved to cook, so I never went hungry.”

  He paused as if he wasn’t certain if he wanted to go on, but he did. “She drank mostly at night. She would drink herself to sleep. I think it had something to do with my old man, who I don’t even remember. And if I asked, she would only say he had to go away. I never knew much about him. I don’t even recall seeing a picture of him, but then it wasn’t that important to me. My mother loved me and showed it.”