Captivated, Page 9

  “So.” Ana took her seat so that she could look out over the gardens and grass to the bay. “I was surprised to see you out here in the middle of the day.”

  “I’m indulging in a long lunch break.” She took another bite of cookie. “Mindy’s got everything under control.”

  “Do you?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  Ana laid a hand over Morgana’s. Before Morgana could attempt to close them off, Ana felt the little wisps of sadness. “I can’t help feeling how unsettled you are. We’re too close.”

  “Of course you can’t. Just as I couldn’t help coming out here today, even though I knew I was bringing you problems.”

  “I’d like to help.”

  “Well, you’re the herbalist,” Morgana said lightly. “How about some essence of Helleborus Niger?”

  Ana smiled. Helleborus, more commonly called Christmas rose, was reputed to have the power to cure madness. “Fearing for your sanity, love?”

  “At least.” With a shrug, she chose another cookie. “Or I could take the easy way out and mix up a blend of rose and angelica, a touch of ginseng, sprinkled liberally with moondust.”

  “A love potion?” Ana sampled a cookie herself. “For anyone I know?”

  “Nash, of course.”

  “Of course. Things aren’t going well?”

  A faint line appeared between Morgana’s brows. “I don’t know how things are going. I do know I wish I wasn’t so bloody conscientious. It’s really a very basic procedure to bind a man.”

  “But not very satisfying.”

  “No,” Morgana admitted, “I can’t imagine it would be. So I’m stuck with the ordinary way.” As she sipped the reviving tea, she watched the snowy sails billowing from the boats on the bay. She’d always considered herself that free, she realized. Just that free. Now, though she had done no binding, she, herself, was bound.

  “To tell the truth, Ana, I’ve never given much thought to what it would be like to have a man fall in love with me. Really in love. The trouble is, this time my heart’s too involved for comfort.”

  And there was little comfort she could offer, Anastasia thought, for this type of ailment. “Have you told him?”

  Surprised by the quick aching in her heart, Morgana closed her eyes. “I can’t tell him what I’m not entirely sure of myself. So I wait. Moonglow to dawn’s light,” she chanted. “Night to day, and day to night. Until his heart is twined with mine, no rest or peace can I find.” She opened her eyes and managed a smile. “That always seemed overly dramatic before.”

  “Finding love’s like finding air. We can’t survive without it.”

  “But what’s enough?” This was the question that had troubled her most in the days since she had left Nash. “How do we know what’s enough?”

  “When we’re happy, I’d think.”

  Morgana thought the answer was probably true—but was it attainable? “Do you think we’re spoiled, Ana?”

  “Spoiled? In what way?”

  “In our . . . our expectations, I suppose.” Her hand fluttered up in a helpless gesture. “Our parents, mine, yours, Sebastian’s. There’s always been so much love there, support, understanding, respect. The fun of being in love, and the generosity. It’s not that way for everyone.”

  “I don’t think that knowing love can run deep and true, that it can last, means being spoiled.”

  “But wouldn’t it be enough to settle for the temporary? For affection and passion?” She frowned, watching a bee court a stalk of columbine. “I think it might be.”

  “For some. You’d have to be sure it would be enough for you.”

  Morgana rose with a grumble of annoyance. “It’s so exasperating. I hate not being in charge.”

  A smile tugged at Anastasia’s mouth as she joined her cousin. “I’m sure you do, darling. As long as I can remember, you’ve pushed things along your own way, just by force of personality.”

  Morgana slanted her a look. “I suppose you mean I was a bully.”

  “Not at all. Sebastian was a bully.” Ana tucked her tongue in her cheek. “We’ll just say you were—are—strong-willed.”

  Far from mollified, Morgana bent to sniff at a heavy-headed peony. “I suppose I could take that as a compliment. But being strong-willed isn’t helping at the moment.” She moved along the narrow stone path that wound through tumbling blooms and tangled vines. “I haven’t seen him in more than a week, Ana. Lord,” she said. “That makes me sound like some whiny, weak-kneed wimp.”

  Ana had to laugh even as she gave Morgana a quick squeeze. “No, it doesn’t. It sounds as though you’re an impatient woman.”

  “Well, I am impatient,” she admitted. “Though I was prepared to avoid him if necessary, it hasn’t been necessary.” She shot Ana a rueful look. “A little sting to the pride.”

  “Have you called him?”

  “No.” Morgana’s lips formed into a pout. “At first I didn’t because I thought it was best to give us both some time. Then . . .” She’d always been able to laugh at herself, and she did so now. “Well, then I didn’t because I was so damn mad he hadn’t tried to beat down my door. He has called me a few times, at the shop or at home. He fires off a couple of questions on the Craft, mutters and grumbles while I answer. Grunts, then hangs up.” She jammed fisted hands in her skirt pockets. “I can almost hear the tiny little wheels in his tiny little brain turning.”

  “So he’s working. I’d imagine a writer could become pretty self-absorbed during a story.”

  “Ana,” Morgana said patiently, “try to keep with the program. You’re supposed to feel sorry for me, not make excuses for him.”

  Ana dutifully smothered a grin. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Your mushy heart, as usual.” Morgana kissed her cheek. “But I forgive you.”

  As they walked on, a bright yellow butterfly flitted overhead. Absently Ana lifted a hand, and the swallowtail danced shyly into her palm. She stopped to stroke the fragile wings. “Why don’t you tell me what you intend to do about this self-absorbed writer who makes you so damn mad?”

  With a shrug, Morgana brushed a finger over a trail of wisteria. “I’ve been thinking about going to Ireland for a few weeks.”

  Ana released the butterfly with her best wishes, then turned to her cousin. “I’d wish you a good trip, but I’d also have to remind you that running away only postpones. It doesn’t solve.”

  “Which is why I haven’t packed.” Morgana sighed. “Ana, before I left him, he believed I am what I am. I wanted to give him time to come to terms with it.”

  That was the crux of it, Ana thought. She slipped a comforting hand around Morgana’s waist. “It may take him more than a few days,” she said carefully. “He may not be able to come to terms with it at all.”

  “I know.” She gazed out over the water to the horizon. One never knew exactly what lay beyond the horizon. “Ana, we’ll be lovers before morning. This I know. What I don’t know is if this one night will make me happy or miserable.”

  * * *

  Nash was ecstatic. As far as he could remember, he’d never had a story flow out of his mind with the speed and clarity of this one. The treatment, which he’d finished in one dazzling all-nighter, was already on his agent’s desk. With his track record, Nash wasn’t worried about a sale—which, in a gleeful phone call, his agent had told him was imminent. The fact was, for the first time, Nash wasn’t even thinking about the sale, the production, the ultimate filming.

  He was too absorbed in the story.

  He wrote at all hours. Bounding awake at 3:00 a.m. to attack the keyboard, slurping coffee in the middle of the afternoon with the story still humming like a hive of bees in his head. He ate whatever came to hand, slept when his eyes refused to stay open, and lived within the tilted reality of his own imagination.

  If he dreamed, it was in surreal snatches, with erotic images of himself and Morgana sliding through the fictional world he was driven to create.
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  He would wake wanting her, at times almost unbearably. Then he would find himself compelled to complete the task that had brought them together in the first place.

  Sometimes, just before he fell into an exhausted sleep, he thought he could hear her voice.

  It’s not yet time.

  But he sensed the time was coming.

  When the phone rang, he ignored it, then rarely bothered to return any of the calls on his machine. If he felt the need for air, he took his laptop out to the patio. If he could have figured out a way, he’d have dragged it into the shower with him.

  In the end, he snatched the hard copy from his printer as each page slid out. A few adjustments here, he thought, scrawling notes in the margins. A little fine-tuning there, and he’d have it. But as he read, he knew. He knew he’d never done better work.

  Nor had he ever finished a project so quickly. From the time he’d sat down and begun the screenplay, only ten days had passed. Perhaps he’d slept only thirty or forty hours total in those ten days, but he didn’t feel tired.

  He felt elated.

  After gathering the papers up, he searched for an envelope. Books, notes, dishes, all scattered as he dug through them.

  He only had one thought now, and that was to take it to Morgana. One way or the other, she had inspired him to write it, and she would be the first person to read it.

  He found a tattered manila envelope covered with notations and doodles. After dumping the papers inside, he headed out of his office. It was fortunate that he caught sight of himself in the mirror in the foyer.

  His hair was standing on end, and he had the beginnings of a fairly decent beard. Which, as he rubbed a curious hand over his chin, made him wonder if he should give growing a real one a shot. All that might not have been too bad, but he was standing in the foyer, gripping a manila envelope—and wearing nothing but the silver neck chain Morgana had given him and a pair of red jockey shorts.

  All in all, it would probably be best if he took the time to clean up and dress.

  Thirty minutes later he rushed back downstairs, more conservatively attired in jeans and a navy sweatshirt with only one small hole under the left armpit. He had to admit, the sight of his bedroom, the bathroom, and the rest of the house had come as quite a shock, even to him. It looked as though a particularly ragged army had billeted there for a few weeks.

  He’d been lucky to find any clothes at all that weren’t dirty or crumpled or hadn’t been kicked under the bed. There certainly hadn’t been a clean towel, so he’d had to make do with a trio of washcloths. Still, he’d located his razor, his comb, and a matching pair of shoes, so it hadn’t been all that bad.

  It took him another frustrating fifteen minutes to unearth his keys. God alone knew why they were on the second shelf of the refrigerator beside a moldy peach, but there they were. He also noted that that very sad peach and an empty quart container of milk were all that was left after he took the keys.

  There would be time to deal with that later.

  Gripping the script, he headed out the door.

  It wasn’t until the engine sprang to life and the dash lit that Nash noticed it was nearly midnight. He hesitated, considered calling her first or just putting off the visit until morning.

  The hell with it, he decided, and shot out of the drive. He wanted her now.

  * * *

  Only a few miles away, Morgana was closing the door behind her. She stepped out into the silvery light of the full moon. As she walked away from the house, the ceremonial robe drifted around her body, cinched at the waist with a belt of crystals. In her arms she carried a simple basket that contained everything she would need to observe the spring equinox.

  It was a night of joy, of celebration, of thanksgiving for the renewal spring brought to the earth. But her eyes were troubled. In this night, where light and dark were balanced, her life would change.

  She knew, though she had not looked again. There was no need to look, when her heart had already told her.

  It was difficult to admit that she had nearly stayed inside. A challenge to fate, she supposed. But that would have been the coward’s way. She would go on with the rite, as she and others like her had gone on for aeons.

  He would come when he was to come. And she would accept it.

  Twisted shadows stretched over the lawn as she moved toward the grove. There was the smell of spring in the night air. The nocturnal bloomers, the drift of the sea, the fragrance of earth she had turned herself for planting.

  She heard the call of an owl, low and lonely. But she didn’t look for the white wings. Not yet.

  There were other sounds, the gentle breath of the wind easing through the trees, stroking leaves, caressing branches. And the murmur of music that only certain ears could hear. The song of the faeries, a song that was older than man.

  She was not alone here, in the shadowy grove with the drift of stars swimming overhead. She had never been alone here.

  As she approached the place of magic, her mood shifted, and the clouds drifted from her eyes. Setting the basket down, she took a moment for herself. Standing still, eyes closed, hands cupped loosely at her sides, she drew in the flavor and beauty of the night.

  She could see, even with her eyes closed, the white moon sailing through the black sea of the sky. She could see the generous light it spilled onto the trees, and through them to her. And the power that bloomed inside her was as cool, as pure, as lovely, as the moonlight.

  Serenely she opened the basket. From it she took a white cloth, edged in silver, that had been in her family for generations. Some said it had been a gift to Merlin from the young king he had loved. Once it was spread on the soft ground, she knelt.

  A small round of cake, a clear flask containing wine, candles, the witch’s knife with its scribed handle, the ceremonial dish and cup, a small halo woven from gardenia blossoms. Other blooms . . . larkspur, columbine, sprigs of rosemary and thyme. These she scattered, along with rose petals, over the cloth.

  This done, she rose to cast the circle. She felt the power drumming in her fingertips, warmer now, more urgent. When the circle was complete, she set candles, pure as ice, along its edge. Fourteen in all, to symbolize the days between the moon’s waxing and its waning. Slowly she walked beside them, holding out her hand.

  One by one, the candles flickered to flame, then glowed steadily. Morgana stood in the center of the ring of light. She unhooked the belt of crystals. It slid onto the cloth like a rope of fire. She slipped her arms from the thin robe. It drifted to her feet like melting snow.

  Candlelight gleamed gold on her skin as she began the ancient dance.

  * * *

  At five to midnight, Nash pulled up in Morgana’s driveway. He swore, noting that not a single light glowed in a single window.

  He’d have to wake her up, he thought philosophically. How much sleep did a witch need, anyway? He grinned to himself. He’d have to ask her.

  Still, she was a woman. Women had a tendency to get ticked off if you dropped by in the middle of the night and got them out of bed. It might help to have something to pave the way.

  Inspired, he tucked the envelope under his arm and began to raid her flower bed. He doubted she’d notice that he’d stolen a few blooms. After all, it seemed she had hundreds. Awash in the scent of them, he got carried away, gathering an overflowing armful of tulips and sweet peas, narcissi and wallflowers.

  Pleased with himself, he adjusted the load and strolled to her front door. Pan barked twice before Nash could knock. But no light flicked on at the dog’s greeting, or at the pounding Nash set up.

  He glanced back to the driveway to assure himself her car was there and then pounded again. Probably sleeps like a stone, he thought, and felt the first pricklings of annoyance. There was something working in him, some urgency. He had to see her, and it had to be tonight.

  Refusing to be put off, he laid the script on the stoop and tried the knob. Pan barked again, but to Nash the dog sounded
more amused than aroused. Finding the door locked, Nash started around the side. He was damn well getting in, and getting to her, before the night was done.

  A sudden rush of immediacy quickened his step, but somewhere between the front of the house and the side terrace he found himself looking toward the grove.

  It was there he needed to go. Had to go. Though his brain told him it was utterly foolish to go traipsing into the woods at night, he followed his heart.

  Perhaps it was the shadows, or the sighing of the wind, that had him moving so quietly. He felt somehow it would be blasphemous to make unnecessary noise. There was a quality in the air here tonight, and it was almost unbearably lovely.

  Yet, with every step he took, the blood seemed to pound faster in his head.

  Then he saw, in the distance, a ghostly shimmer of white. He started to call out, but a rustle of movement had him glancing up. There, on a twisted cypress branch, stood a huge white owl. As Nash watched, the bird glided soundlessly from its perch and flew toward the heart of the grove.

  His pulse was drumming in his ears, and his heart was rapping hard against his ribs. He knew that, even if he turned and walked away, he would be drawn again to that same center.

  So he moved forward.

  She was there, kneeling on a white cloth. Moonlight poured over her like silver wine. Again he started to call her name, but the sight of her forming a circle of candles, jewels at her waist, flowers in her hair, struck him mute.

  Trapped in the shadows, he stood as she made the small golden fires spark atop the snowy candles. As she disrobed to stand gloriously naked in the center of flames. As she moved into a dance so graceful it stopped his breath.

  Moonlight slithered over her skin, tipped her breasts, caressed her thighs. Her hair rained, an ebony waterfall, down her back as she lifted her face to the stars.

  And he remembered his dream, remembered it so vividly that the fantasy and the reality merged into one potent image, with Morgana dancing at its center. The scent of flowers grew so strong that he was nearly dizzy with it. For an instant, his vision dimmed. He shook his head to clear it and struggled to focus.

  The image had changed. She was kneeling again, sipping from a silver cup while the flames from the candles rose impossibly high, surrounding her like golden bars. Through them he could see the shimmer of her skin, the glint of silver between her breasts, at her wrists. He could hear her voice, softly chanting, then rising so that it seemed to be joined by thousands of others.

  For a moment, the grove was filled with a soft, ethereal glow. Different from light, different from shadow, it pulsed and shivered, glinting like the edge of a silver sword in the sun. He could feel the warmth of it bathing his face.

  Then the candle flames ebbed once again to small points, and the sound of chanting echoed away into silence.

  She was rising. She slipped the white robe on, belted it.

  The owl, the great white bird he had forgotten in his fascination with the woman, called twice before gliding like a cloud through the night.

  She turned, her breath rising high in her throat. He stepped from the shadows, his heart hammering in his breast.

  For a moment she hesitated. A warning whispered to her. Tonight would bring her pleasure. More than she had known. And its price would be pain. More than she would wish.

  Then she smiled and stepped from the circle.

  Chapter 7

  Thousands of thoughts avalanched into his brain. Thousands of feelings flooded into his heart. As she moved toward him, her robe flowing around her like moondust, all those thoughts, all those feelings, shivered down to one. Down to her.

  He wanted to speak, to tell her something, anything, that would explain how he felt at that moment. But his heart stuttered in his throat, making words impossible. He knew this was more than the simple desire of a man for a woman, yet whatever was spiraling through him was so far out of his experience that he was sure he could never describe it, never explain it.

  He knew only that in this place of magic, at this moment of enchantment, there was only one woman. Some quiet, patient voice was whispering inside his heart that there had always been only one woman and he had been waiting all his life for her.

  Morgana stopped, only an arm span away. Soft, silent shadows waltzed between them. She had only to step into that lazy dance to be in his arms. He would not turn from her. And she was afraid she had gone beyond the point where it was possible for her to turn from him.

  Her eyes remained on his, though the little fingers of nerves pinched her skin. He looked stunned, she realized, and she could hardly blame him. If he was feeling even a fraction of the needs and fears that were skidding through her, he had every right to be.

  It would not be easy for them, she knew. After tonight, the bond would be sealed. Whatever decisions were made in the tomorrows, by both of them, that bond would not be broken.

  She reached out to trail a hand over the flowers he still cradled in his