The Shoppe of Spells (17 page)

Explaining about herself proved to be a more difficult task, not because of her parents, but because of her. She had been
different
all of her life, but it had always been thought of as a birth defect. Now Morgan knew it wasn’t…she really was different—in ways her parents couldn’t comprehend. Or, maybe they could, Morgan pondered, suddenly remembering her mother’s study of parapsychology. As an expert on hypnosis, she’d attempted to use it on Morgan to squelch the nightmares, with little success. Maybe, Morgan thought, when things settled down, she would bring her parents down and discuss “things” in more depth, getting their take on the situation—after she made damn sure it was safe for them to be here.

Through Dorian, the powers that be—The Abbott House or Foundation or whatever it was—tried to tell her the need for discretion. Did they think she was going to go around shouting it from the rooftops? She didn’t understand what she had, or even what she was, by a long shot. She intended to find out as much as possible. She’d never been one to hide from herself. She understood that open knowledge of the creatures and the portals could cause panic. She certainly didn’t want to cause panic. So, she had sworn her parents to secrecy, which, in her mind, was pointless, knowing they had kept the secret of her adoption for twenty-six years.

****

The next several weeks flew by for Morgan. Very quickly, she and Dorian established a routine. By the time she got a shower, dressed and went downstairs, he was already up and had hot coffee waiting for her. She watched the shop the first part of the morning, which was generally quiet, except for the occasional pharmacy needs. This allowed Dorian more time in his laboratory. She’d finally been granted access to the room under the stairs. It looked like a well-stocked pharmacy, albeit surprisingly large. She would come out, stand in the kitchen and look back at the stairs, trying to figure out how that size room fit under the stairs. Catching her quizzically staring one day, he laughed, grabbed her hand, and led her outside and around to the side of the house. The side was flat. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure it out. Then Dorian stepped through the bushes, put his hand next to some decorative brick and, voila, a door handle appeared. Clever. It was a false side, built out flush to the building and providing a storage area on one side and access to the root cellar—which was far larger than she imagined a root cellar to be—on the other. He took her back inside and showed her several more hidden doors—one on that side of the building at the top of the stairs and one behind the counter in the shop.

“It was built with possible raids in mind. This area was under a great deal of conflict between settlers and Indians in the beginning.”

“I thought Ruthorford was immune to the problems.”

“It was, for the most part. The raids were done by the white settlers, not the Indians. In fact, during one of the attacks, it was the Creek who protected the inhabitants from their own countrymen.”

She was fascinated by the history of the area and hoped to get some books on the subject. Ruthorford had its own library, but it was Abbott House that held the true records about the area and its people. Morgan definitely wanted another trip into Atlanta. She remembered the will—full access into perpetuity. Plus, she didn’t know how long she could avoid the confrontation with Bask. He was pushing her to make a commitment to stay in Ruthorford. That was one commitment she wasn’t quite ready to make. Luckily, his urging had been filtered through Dorian, who was adroitly keeping the man at bay.

In the afternoons, Dorian took over the shop, giving her full access to the gardens in the back. She was in heaven. They were well-designed, well-planted, and well-tended. By the third day, she knew every plant occupying the copious beds, where it was, and what it needed. She stooped and pulled weeds as she went—not that there were many. Meesha normally joined her, lying along the walkways, not wandering among the plants. At night, her muscles ached from overuse, but the hot, lavender scented showers eased the discomfort.

True to her word, Morgan had gathered herbs and made Dorian several meals she knew he would like. The sounds of pleasure he made while eating told her she had done a good job. She refused, however, to take on total kitchen duties, no matter how much he begged.

Late afternoon was the most active in the shop. Morgan figured just about every inhabitant in Ruthorford had passed through the shop at one time or another. They were sweet people and seemed saddened by the loss of Melissa and Thomas, but welcomed her with open arms.

Miss Grace sent a pie by way of Miss Alice. It turned out to be every bit as good as she had heard. So good in fact, she and Dorian demolished half of the pie after dinner.

The twittering group of women came by several times and fussed over her. She never did get all of their names—the constant chattering seemed to interfere.

Teresa came by, always bearing a basket of one goody or another. Morgan, in turn, returned one of the baskets filled with her freshly made herb rolls. Teresa begged for the recipe, and, if she couldn’t get that, asked if Morgan would consent to producing such delicacies for the B & B. Teresa repeatedly asked after Meadow. Her interest had definitely piqued when they informed her that Dr. Yancy had traveled north to help.

The only person who hadn’t put in an appearance was Jasmine. Morgan just couldn’t work up any sadness over that slight. She apparently had gone on vacation shortly after Rob left, leaving her boutique under the care of a couple of the younger crowd. Morgan didn’t think Jasmine would be too thrilled when she returned to find some of her wares had gone rather punk.

As for the Gulatega, there had been no known incidents regarding them as yet. She still didn’t know if they came singularly or in multiples. Just the same, she had opted to stay above the shop. Even though Dorian assured her they were no threat to her, she wasn’t quite comfortable being alone in the cottage.

Besides, she like being close to Dorian. There was something about him—other than the handsome factor. When she was around him, she felt whole. All her life she had felt something was missing, like some part of her was just a little less. Around him, she didn’t feel that way, and that drove her crazy. She didn’t know him well enough to feel so strongly, but it wasn’t just a feeling, it was more tangible…. It was a need.

****

It was late when Morgan pounded the pillow into shape for the umpteenth time. Having worked in the garden most of the afternoon, her shoulders ached. She’d let a hot shower ease the tension in her muscles, put on her softest jersey pajamas, and crawled under the cool covers. She began to drift off when she suddenly sprang up. She felt itchy.
Must be too much sun.
She got up, rubbed the lavender scented lotion up her arms and across the back of her neck and laid back down. She felt as though something was crawling on her skin. She looked down. The hairs were standing up on her arms.

Dorian.
The thought slammed into her. She shot out of bed and ran for the door, yanking it open. The hallway was quiet. A dim light filtered up from the kitchen, the one they left on when they went up to bed. She listened. She heard Meesha’s soft whine on the other side of Dorian’s door. She crept over and reached for the handled. A tingle ran up her arm. She pulled back. Meesha moaned. She reached fast, grabbed the doorknob and turned it, pushing at the door. Meesha sat on the floor facing the bed. Dorian lay on his back, his arms flung across the sheets. The rumpled covers were pushed over the end of the bed. He was wearing pajama bottoms. Morgan caught her breath. Every exposed part of Dorian’s skin glowed—a vibrant white-gold. It sparked. Her hair began to dance lightly off her shoulders. A static current filled the air. Perspiration dotted his forehead, sparkling like tiny diamonds in the glow. He moaned. She wasn’t sure she could get close to him. At first, as she stepped toward the bed, the current beat at her, pushing her back. Suddenly, it stopped, grabbed her, and tugged her forward. She tried to step back. That wasn’t happening. The energy had formed a wall behind her. The force grew, the aura rose higher. She was pulled to the bed. Then, it was as though someone shoved her. She slid across his body. His eyes flew open and he stared at her, unseeing, his eyes a deep sapphire. She pushed back but could only get so far as an arm’s reach. He blinked, brought her into focus. He was looking at her mouth. His hands gripped her shoulders. A pulsing force pulled her head toward his. When she opened her mouth to protest, his lips captured hers.

His mouth was hot. The tingling sensation turned into a hot flame that laved her entire body. His tongue swept her mouth and the current flowed one to the other, a slow pulse connecting the two. Slowly, he slid her off him and rose on one elbow. She stared into lust filled eyes.

“This isn’t fair,” he breathed, his voice deep. “You don’t understand.”

Morgan let her hand ease up his chest and around his neck. “I don’t know that I ever will,” she breathed back. “I want you to…” she looked at his mouth and let her tongue slowly lick her bottom lip, “…complete me.” She heard his moan as he let her pull his head down to hers. His hands stroked down her body. His mouth followed, spreading liquid fire where his lips touched.

Dorian knew he should stop. Knew he must. The feel of her softness next to him, beneath his hand, was too much. She drew him like a magnet. He grew harder with every beat of his heart. He’d done everything to avoid this, to give her time. He’d lived through hell. The longer she stayed in the house with him, the more impossible it was for him not to want her, to crave her.

He let his hand cup her warm breast, feeling its softness. The peak hardened beneath the teasing touch of his fingers. Her breath hitched. She was his. He could take her, make her his without thought, without guilt.

“Damn,” he moaned and pulled away from her. “Morgan, I can’t.” He sat on the side of the bed. The energy in the room dissipated.

She blinked. It took her a moment to get her brain back in order. He looked as though he was in agony. She let her eyes peruse the length of him. All evidence indicated he wanted her. So, what was the problem? He had a warm, more than willing woman in his bed.

She raised up on her elbows. “Is it another woman? Jasmine?”

He turned back to her. Her hardened nipples thrust against the thin jersey tank she wore. His mouth went dry. He forced himself to look at her face; otherwise, he was lost. Code or no code.

“You don’t want me? No, I don’t believe that.” Her breathing became a little more even. She sat up. “Oh, God, you’re not…I mean it’s okay if you are,” she stammered. “I mean—”

“No, Morgan, I’m not gay.” He smiled at her perceived blunder. “Oh, I want you. And there is definitely no one else.” He ran his hand through his hair, stood, and walked away from her, looking out the window into the darkened night. He could see the garden almost clearly. A full moon—that explained it. Hell, what was he thinking? That didn’t explain it at all. She was the reason. Her. A piece of his puzzle. A perfect fit. But she had no clue. He turned back to her. She sat on the side of the bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked down, dejected.

He walked back to her and knelt before her, looking up into her beautiful cat eyes. “We haven’t covered this part of it, yet. There are things I want you—I need for you—to understand before we have a physical relationship.”

She was looking at him with such trust. It was a good thing he was who he was or she would be on her back and him in her in a heartbeat. He wanted her—to complete her, as she put it—in the worst way. Fighting his desire, he took one of her hands, put it to his mouth and kissed the palm. “I don’t think we are going back to sleep tonight. Why don’t you put on something less revealing—like a suit of armor—and we’ll go downstairs. I could use a cup of tea.”

Morgan nodded. All she actually wanted was to turn around and crawl back into his bed. It smelled of him. Warm spice. She wanted to wallow in it, with him. Without a word, she stood and walked back into her room and closed the door. What had she been thinking? What had happened tonight? She threw a pair of jeans over her boy shorts and a sweatshirt over her tank, swiped on lip-gloss for good measure, and went to meet him downstairs.

He was letting Meesha out when she walked in. He looked mussed, evidence of their tussle in the bed. There was a darkness about his eyes. Worry lines creased his forehead. She went over and sat, waiting. As he had done so many times, he fixed a pot of tea, put a cozy on it, and brought it to the table to steep. Setting two mugs, with spoons in them, next to the pot, he sat.

For the longest time he looked at her, studied her face. “I don’t know exactly where to begin,” he said and chuckled. “I feel as though I’m about to tell you about the birds and bees for the first time.”

“Trust me, I already know about the birds and the bees.” She smiled a devilish smile that went straight to his gut.

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” he moaned, feeling his insides tighten. Even her slightest smile went to his groin. “This is more like the wolves and the owls, I should say.”