The Shoppe of Spells (8 page)

“Just don’t touch me,” she said.

“Okay. I’m sorry about that. We aren’t quite in sync yet.”

Before she could question him, he opened the gate and waited for her to go through.

“Stay here, Meesha,” he called over his shoulder. The dog sat.

“She’s not going to sit there the whole time, is she?”

He smiled for the first time. “Trust me; she’s just putting on the good girl act for you. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a plant or two uprooted when we return.”

Morgan smiled back and seemed to relax a little. Yet, the way she hugged her purse to her side, she looked as though she was ready to bolt. After all, what did she owe him, or this town? They needed her; he needed her. He would have to make her understand.

Morgan studied the way his brows drew together when he thought. He looked as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. She would give him the courtesy of listening. If she didn’t like what he had to say, she was out of here. No one had cared about her before; why should she care about them now. This whole thing unsettled her. Yet, she had a feeling he held the answers to her night terrors, as well as other things. Things she wasn’t even aware of—yet. However, she wasn’t making any promises, other than listening.

She was busy silently reaffirming her convictions when they stepped out onto the sidewalk. This was the first time she had walked around during the daylight. It was bright and airy. The well-tended median erupted in a profusion of color. The fountain shot water high into the air, letting it splash down into the basin. A toddler, closely watched by his young, very pregnant mother, raised back his arm and threw a coin with all his might. The coin fell short of the fountain. The young mother gingerly placed a hand under her burgeoning belly as she bent to retrieve the coin. Handing it to her child, she gently urged him a little closer and clapped heartily when the coin plopped into the water. In a motion belying her ungainliness, she quickly grabbed his arm as he tried to follow the coin into the fountain. He pointed at the fountain, tears streaming down his face. Drying his tears, she spoke softly to him. Morgan watched him take another coin, scrunch up his little face in concentration, close his eyes, make a wish, and toss the coin. This time it clinked as it hit the upper lip before splashing into the water. Beaming, he took his mother’s hand and they crossed the street.

Happy chatter preceded two teenage girls exiting a boutique near the woman and child. They stopped, made much over the little boy, and then bounded down the block to catch up with their friends. All perfectly normal activities for a hot summer day in a small town. She relaxed a little more as they crossed the street and began walking under the shade of the overhanging trees.

“Ruthorford is a very old town,” Dorian told her. “Originally considered very sacred ground by the Cherokee and Creek tribes, they began allowing a few white men to settle here. Which is ironic, since the tribes wouldn’t settle here themselves. A joint tribal council gave the final okay on the people. Surprisingly, no matter what uprising or war ensued, the people who were allowed to settle in Ruthorford remained untouched. Disturbances just seemed to flow around them. The few “unauthorized” people who made attempts to settle here without permission were—how should I say this—forcibly discouraged. More than a few of the families here today can trace their lineage back to the original settlement.”

“You?” She looked over at his handsome profile. The sun glinted off deep red highlights in his black hair.

“Oh, no. I was born in Washington, D.C.” He thought for a moment. “I say that, but I guess anything is possible.” He reached down and snapped a daisy, holding it out to her. Careful not to come in contact with him, she accepted the flower. Its pretty face beamed at her. She smiled back.

They had stopped walking. He turned and watched the pleasure play across her face. She lifted her emerald eyes to his. His breath hitched. Quickly, she looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Stop that.”

“Sorry.” She looked down and studied the pavement.

He started to reach out, but stopped. Instead, he let his words sooth her. “You have beautiful eyes.”

“According to your friend—”

“Ignore her. That was all an act.” Risking it, he dampened his energy and touched her chin, lifting her face upward until he was looking into her sparkling emerald eyes.

Morgan felt a tiny tingle tickle her chin as he touched her. She ignored it, although she had trouble ignoring the heat she felt moving through her veins.

“Melissa had beautiful, expressive eyes. You got them from her. They shimmer, like faerie dust. They’re very special.” His breath feathered against her lips and she realized how close they were standing.

She swallowed and watched his focus move to her mouth, not her eyes. She stepped away. Without a word, they both turned and began walking again.

Dorian picked up the story. “Ruthorford remained isolated from the rest of the country. Whether by intent or accident, the people remained close to their Native American sponsors.”

“I haven’t seen any Native American descendants that I know of,” she mused.

“You won’t. The Native Americans wouldn’t and won’t inhabit the area around here. They still say it is very special, sacred.”

“Then why allow outside settlers?”

They had arrived at Abbott’s Bed & Breakfast. Without answering her question and instead of going inside, he led her to the side of the building and through a black iron fence. They walked through the gardens she had seen the night before from inside the restaurant. As they passed the fountain, its spray cooled the air around them. In the back, century-old trees provided deep shade. Iron tables with glass tops were scattered around the lawn, the spacing giving good separation and privacy to each table. Dorian didn’t stop but moved down a slope toward the water. He parted the hanging branches of a huge willow, allowing her to pass. Another small table and chairs sat cozily sheltered under feathery limbs. He walked over and held the chair. Morgan slipped into it and looked around. She peered through the veil of branches, hidden but seeing. A light breeze whispered around her.

“This is exquisite.” She smiled at him.

“It’s my favorite place to hide—besides our gazebo during a light rain.”

She noted his use of the word “our.” Was he referring to the Kilravens or her? That was something else they needed to deal with, and, given the circumstances, the sooner the better. She wanted to get out of here. Yet, the thought of never seeing him again tugged at her. She felt a slight ache.

His chiseled features softened and she followed his gaze. Teresa was making her way over to them, waving and smiling. Morgan, too, smiled.

“That is also an interesting story,” he said, then added, “for later.”

Teresa swept through the branches, leaned over, and gave Dorian a loud smack on the cheek. “Heard you pissed off Jas,” she chortled.

“Now, how’d you hear that?” He lifted a brow.

“Well,” she drawled out, “if I hadn’t gotten an earful from Julia Emerson and that group—”

“The little old ladies from this morning,” he interjected for Morgan’s benefit.

Morgan smiled and nodded. She’d liked them, as invasive as they were.

“Jasmine, her royal self, decided to grace us with her presence for lunch.” She turned an eye on Morgan. “Haven’t been in town twenty-four hours and already you have her hackles up.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shoosh.” Teresa waved her quiet. “Everything gets that girl’s hackles up, especially if it pertains to Dorian here.”

“Teresa,” he implored.

“Well, honey bunny, she sure is upset with you. Both of you. Good thing that girl doesn’t have any might in her magic or you’d be croaking—as in ribbit.” She turned on Morgan, her smile full beam. “I don’t even want to think what she’d like to do to you,” she laughed long and loud. “Does my heart good. She gets away with way too much as it is. Now, whatcha gonna have?” she asked without taking a breath.

Morgan realized there were no menus. “Whatever is good?”

“You?” she glanced at Dorian.

“Oh, I’ll have the same,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“Be right out. You two enjoy.” With a wave, Teresa was off toward the house, waving at other seated guests as she passed.

“I like her,” Morgan said.

“And she likes you. Especially since you let her do the ordering.”

“There weren’t any menus.”

“You noticed.” He laughed and added, “You did just right, and you’ll have the best lunch you’ve ever eaten. Plus, you pleased her.”

Morgan found herself focusing on his smile. When he smiled, really smiled, his blue eyes sparkled and the fine lines in the corners of his eyes crinkled, showing her he knew how to laugh and did so often—just not with her.

“How’s that?” she asked, forcing herself back to their conversation.

“Jasmine’s her cousin.”

She sucked in her breath. “Oh, Dorian, I’m so sorry.”

He laughed. “Don’t be. She had it coming. She and Teresa are as different as night and day.” He sobered somewhat. “They are both from founding families, as are you.”

“Melissa?”

“And Thomas,” he nodded and waited until the approaching young girl set down two drinks, very nearly dropping them, her eyes so attached to Dorian. He thanked her, ignoring her blush.

“A fan?” Morgan teased when she left.

“I used to babysit her, believe it or not. Somewhere in there, she began to grow up but she never quite outgrew the crush. She’s a sweet gal, so I try not to hurt her feelings.”

“She’s cute.”

He gave a husky laugh. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t have a chance much longer. She’s going to Emory University in the fall.”

Morgan watched the pretty young girl clean one of the tables, eyes still lifting repeatedly to look their way. “I don’t know,” she teased. “Looks like true love to me.” She laughed and took a sip of her tea. Peppermint with a hint of lime. Perfect. She let the cold drink run down her parched throat and let her gaze wander around her surroundings.

Across the water, a wall of what looked like stacked granite rose upward, forming the backdrop for a small waterfall. A pair of swans glided effortlessly across the lake. It was lovely here. When she looked back, Dorian was watching her, a thoughtful expression on his face. “A penny,” she said and smiled at him.

“Not a million,” he looked away, flustered.

“Dorian, you started telling me about yourself,” she encouraged, ignoring his comment.

“There’s not a lot to tell,” he evaded.

“You were born in D.C. and yet came to be raised by
my
biological parents. But, you were never adopted by them.” She paused, hoped he wouldn’t pick up on her emphasis.

“It’s complicated.”

Morgan shook her head and placed the napkin in her lap. “That seems to be a pat answer for you, doesn’t it? Well, I am in over my head here,” she chided softly, “and you’re all I’ve got for answers.”

“In this case, answers only beget more questions.”

Morgan actually growled in frustration.

A different waitress approached with a large tray. She expertly swung a stand she had looped over her arm, flipped it open and set it next to the table, all the while balancing the large tray on her shoulder. Her movements were quick and efficient. Morgan winced, knowing that, had she tried that trick, all the food would have landed on the ground.

The aroma rose from the plate as the girl placed it in front of her. A steaming slice of quiche with a side of spinach-strawberry salad adorned the plates. The waitress set a basket of fragrant herb bread in front of them. Nestled next to the bread was a crock of honey butter. Dorian broke off a piece of bread, slathered it with butter, and handed it to Morgan.