The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches 1)

"Well, we ought to drink the champagne at least," Rowan said, "before we collapse."

He nodded, throwing aside the cutaway coat and tugging at the ascot. "I'll tell you, Rowan, you have to love somebody to dress up in a suit like this!"

"Come on, Michael, everybody here does this sort of thing. Here, the zipper, please." She turned her back to him, and then felt the hard shell of the bodice released at last, the gown falling loosely down around her feet. Carelessly, she unfastened the emerald and laid it on the end of the mantel.

At last everything was gathered away, and hung up, and they sat in bed together drinking the champagne, which was very cold and dry and delicious, and had foamed all over the glasses, as it ought to do. Michael was naked, but he loved caressing her through the silk nightgown, so she kept it on. Finally, no matter how tired they were, they were caught up in the deliciousness of the new bed, and the soft candlelight, and their usual heat was rising to a boil.

It was swift and violent, the way she loved it, the giant mahogany bed sturdy as if it were carved out of stone.

She lay against him afterwards, dozing and contented, and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Finally she sat up, straightened out the wrinkled nightgown, and drank a long cool sip of the champagne.

Michael sat up beside her, naked, one knee crooked, and lighted a cigarette, his head rolling against the high headboard of the bed.

"Ah Rowan, nothing went wrong, you know, absolutely nothing. It was the perfect day. God, that a day could be so perfect."

Except that you saw something that scared you. But she didn't say it. Because it had been perfect, even with that strange little moment. Perfect! Nothing to spoil it at all.

She took another little drink of the champagne, savoring the taste and her own tiredness, realizing that she was still too wound up to close her eyes.

A wave of dizziness came over her suddenly, with just a touch of the nausea she'd felt in the morning. She waved the cigarette smoke away.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, just nerves I think. Walking up that aisle was sort of like lifting a scalpel or something for the first time."

"I know what you mean. Let me put this out."

"No, it's not that, cigarettes don't bother me. I smoke now and then myself." But it was the cigarette smoke, wasn't it? Same thing earlier. She got up, the light silk nightgown feeling like nothing as it fell down around her, and went barefoot into the bath.

No Alka-Seltzer, the one thing that always worked at such moments. But she had brought some over, she remembered. She had put it in the kitchen cabinet along with aspirin and Band-Aids and all the other household supplies. She came back and put on her bedroom slippers and peignoir.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Downstairs, for Alka-Seltzer. I don't know what's the matter with me. I'll be right back."

"Wait a minute, Rowan, I'll go."

"Stay where you are. You're not dressed. I'll be back in two seconds. Maybe I'll take the elevator, what the hell."

The house was not really dark. A pale light from the garden came in through the many windows, illuminating the polished floor of the hallway, and the dining room, and even the butler's pantry. It was easy to make her way without switching on a light.

She found the Alka-Seltzer in the cabinet, and one of the new crystal glasses she had bought on a shopping spree with Lily and Bea. She filled the glass at the little sink on the island in the middle of the kitchen, and stood there drinking the Alka-Seltzer and then closed her eyes.

Yes, better. Probably purely psychological, but better.

"Good. I'm glad you feel better."

"Thank you," she said, thinking what a lovely voice, so soft and with a touch of a Scottish accent, wasn't it? A beautiful melodious voice.

She opened her eyes, and with a violent start, stumbled backwards against the door of the refrigerator.

He was standing on the other side of the counter. About three feet away. His whisper had been raw, heartfelt. But the expression on his face was a little colder, and entirely human. Slightly hurt perhaps, but not imploring as it had been that night in Tiburon. No, not that at all.

This had to be a real man. It was a joke of some kind. This was a real man. A man standing here in the kitchen, staring at her, a tall, brown-haired man with large dark eyes, and a beautifully shaped sensuous mouth.

The light through the French doors clearly revealed his shirt, and the rawhide vest he wore. Old, old clothing, clothing made with hand stitches and uneven seams, and big full sleeves.

"Well? Where is your will to destroy me, beautiful one?" he whispered, in the same low, vibrant, and heartbroken voice. "Where is your power to drive me back into hell?"

She was shaking uncontrollably. The glass slipped out of her wet fingers and struck the floor with a dull noise and rolled to one side. She gave a deep, ragged sigh, and kept her eyes focused upon him. The reasoning part of her observed that he was tall, perhaps over six feet, that he had heavily muscled arms and powerful hands. That his face was perfect in its proportions, and that his hair was softly mussed, as if by a wind. Not that delicate androgynous gentleman she'd seen on the deck, no.

"The better to love you, Rowan!" he whispered. "What shape would you have me take? He is not perfect, R

owan, he is human but not perfect. No."

For a moment her fear was so great that she felt a tight squeezing inside of her as if she were going to die. Moving against it, defiant and enraged, she came forward, legs trembling, and reached out across the counter, and touched his cheek.

Roughened, like Michael's. And the lips silky. God! Once again, she stumbled backwards, paralyzed, and unable to move or speak. Tremors moved through her limbs.

"You fear me, Rowan?" he said, lips barely moving as she focused on them. "Why? Leave your friend, Aaron, alone, you commanded me, and I did as you commanded, did I not?"

"What do you want?"

"Ah, that would be a very long time in the telling," he answered, the Scottish accent thickened. "And he waits for you, your lover, and your husband, on this your wedding night. And he grows anxious that you do not come."

The face softened, torn suddenly with pain. How could an illusion be this vital?

"Go, Rowan, go back to him," he said sadly, "and if you tell him I am here, you will make him more miserable than even you know. And I shall hide from you again, and the fear and the suspicion will eat at him, and I will come only when I want to come."

"All right. I won't tell him," she whispered. "But don't you harm him. Don't you bring the slightest fear or worry to him. And the other tricks, stop them! Don't plague him with tricks! Or I swear to you, I will never never speak to you. And I will drive you away."

The beautiful face looked tragic, and the brown eyes grew soft and infinitely sad.

"And Aaron, you're never to harm Aaron. Never. Never to harm anyone, do you hear me?"

"As you say, Rowan," he said, the words flowing like music, full of sorrow and quiet strength. "What is there in all the world for me, but pleasing Rowan? Come to me when he sleeps. Tonight, tomorrow, come when you will. There is no time for me. I am here when you say my name. But keep faith with me, Rowan. Come alone to me, and in secret. Or I will not answer. I love you, my beautiful Rowan. But I have a will. I do."

The figure suddenly shimmered as if a sourceless light had struck it; it brightened and a thousand tiny details of it were suddenly visible. Then it became transparent, and a gust of warm air struck her, frightening her, and then leaving her alone in the darkness, with nothing there.