Captivated (13 page)

“It’s not necessary to belong to a coven to be a witch, any more than it’s necessary to belong to a men’s club to be a man. Some find joining a group rewarding, comforting. Others simply enjoy the social aspects.” There was a slight pause, then a rustling of silks as she shifted. “Are you a joiner, Nash?”

“Nope. Groups usually have rules somebody else made up. And they like to assign chores.”

Her light laugh drifted into the room. “And there are those of us who prefer our own company, and our own way. The history of covens, however, is ancient. My great-great-grandmother was high priestess of her coven in Ireland, and her daughter after her. A sabbat cup, a keppen rod, and a few other ceremonial items were passed down to me. You might have noticed the ritual dish on the wall in the hallway. It dates back to before the burning time.”

“Burning time?”

“The active persecution of witches. It began in the fourteenth century and continued for the next three hundred years. History shows that mankind usually feels the need to persecute someone. I suppose it was our
turn.”

She continued to speak, he to question, but Nash was having a hard time listening to words. Her voice itself was so alluring. It was a voice meant for moonlight, for secrets, for hot midnight promises. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe she was there with him, curled up on the couch beside him, those long, luscious legs tangled with his, her breath warm on his cheek.

He drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face.

When he awakened, nearly two hours had passed. Heavy-eyed and groggy, he scrubbed his hands over his face, then swore at the crick in his neck. He blinked at his watch as he pushed himself to a half-sitting, half-slouching position.

It shouldn’t be a surprise he’d slept so heavily, he thought. He’d been burning energy on nothing but catnaps for the last few days. Automatically he reached out for the liter bottle and gulped down warm soda.

Maybe it had all been a dream. Nash sat back, surprised at how quickly those afternoon-nap fuzzies lifted from his brain. It could have all been a dream. Except . . . He fingered the stones resting against his chest. She’d left those behind, as well as a faint, lingering scent that was exclusively hers.

All right, then, he decided. He was going to stop backtracking and doubting his own sanity. She had done what she had done. He had seen what he had seen.

It wasn’t so complicated, really, Nash thought. More a matter of adjusting your thinking and accepting something new. At one time people had believed that space travel was the stuff of fantasy. On the other hand, a few centuries back, witchcraft had been accepted without question.

Maybe reality had a lot to do with what century you happened to live in. It was a possibility that started his brain ticking.

He took another swallow, grimacing as he capped the bottle again. He wasn’t just thirsty, he realized. He was hungry. Famished.

And more, much more important than his stomach was his mind. The entire story seemed to roll out inside it, reel by reel. He could see it, really see it clearly, for the first time. With the quick thrum of excitement that
always came when a story unfolded for him, he sprang up and headed for the kitchen.

He was going to fix himself one monster sandwich, brew the strongest pot of coffee on the planet, and then get to work.

*  *  *

Morgana sat on Anastasia’s sunny terrace, envying and admiring her cousin’s lush gardens and drinking an excellent glass of iced julep tea. From this spot on Pescadaro Point, she could look out over the rich blue water of Carmel Bay and watch the boats bob and glide in the light spring breeze.

Here she was tucked away from the tourist track, seemingly a world away from the bustle of Cannery Row, the crowds and scents of Fisherman’s Wharf. Sheltered on the terrace by trees and flowers, she couldn’t hear the rumble of a single car. Only birds, bees, water, and wind.

She understood why Anastasia lived here. There was the serenity, and the seclusion, her younger cousin craved. Oh, there was drama in the meeting of land and sea, the twisted trees, the high call of the gulls. But there was also peace within the tumbling walls that surrounded the estate. Silent and steady ivy climbed the house. Splashy flowers and sweet-smelling herbs crowded the beds Ana tended so gently.

Morgana never failed to feel at ease here, and she was unfailingly drawn here whenever her heart was troubled. The spot, she thought, not for the first time, was so much like Anastasia. Lovely, welcoming, without guile.

“Fresh from the oven,” Ana announced as she carried a tray through the open French doors.

“Oh, God, Ana—fudge cookies. My favorite.”

With a chuckle, Anastasia set the tray on the glass table. “I had an urge to bake some this morning. Now I know why.”

More than willing, Morgana took the first bite. Her eyes drifted closed as the smooth chocolate melted on her tongue. “Bless you.”

“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.

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.