The Witch's Journey Page 11

  “Now maybe we could go to the attic to see how much work will be involved before renovating.”

  “I’d like that.”

  *

  They climbed the outside stairs. Angelique used the old skeleton key to open the door. Faolan pushed the cobwebs away as they stepped inside. It smelled musty.

  “Wow; there’s a lot of things here. It’ll take longer than I thought.”

  “It has good bones for a living space,” Faolan said.

  “I think so, too. That window’s great.” She pointed to the half-moon window.

  They walked around a bit. Faolan pushed a few items to one side, then wiped his dusty hands on his jeans.

  “This sofa’s seen better days.”

  “It was surely fashionable once,” he replied sinking into it. “Come sit. We’ll deduce how long it might take to accomplish this task.”

  She parked herself on the other end.

  “I wonder who sat here through the years? Couples, families, friends, lovers?”

  “Lovers wouldn’t be merely sitting,” he said moving closer.

  They stared into each other’s eyes, the attraction visceral. He kissed her. She responded in earnest and he lay her back with him atop her. For the first time, she understood what it was to ache to be with someone. His firm body against her made her want him even more.

  “Angel, if we don’t lie together, I’ll spend the rest of my days wonderin’ how it would’ve been—being joined with you,” he huskily said.

  He cupped her breast and kissed her throat.

  “I ache for my galleon to be within your harbor,” he whispered stating her very thoughts.

  She gasped and touched the front of his jeans. He moaned. He was impressively well endowed and rock hard.

  “Women experience frustration too, when they want a man. I admit I hadn’t experienced that till I met you.”

  He slid his hand beneath her top, lightly grazing her back, and her skin tingled. More aroused, her hips arched, her pelvis pushed against his firm erection. When he searched for how to undo her bra, she shifted to assist.

  “Ouch!” she cried when something jabbed her back. He moved and they spotted the spring poking through the fabric. She quickly stood.

  “That has to be a sign we shouldn’t do this. It’ll just be harder…” Clearly the wrong choice of words considering how his jeans now strained.

  “You believe that fiendish wee bit of steel is a sign we shouldn’t become lovers?”

  “It’s made me stop and think. I have to get ready for the lawyer’s appointment. I’ll need to shower after being in this dusty attic.”

  Chapter Twelve

  They passed expensive restaurants and high-end designer shops. Angelique had never felt the need to spend extravagantly on clothing. Of course that was subjective. Many people would question her using extensive funds to restore and furnish her historic home.

  Dressed in a simple beige coat, black scarf, brown tunic top and black leggings, with her hair braided down one side, it was probably too casual for this part of the city. She saw Faolan glance at other women in their absurdly high-priced clothing and shoes, fancy hairstyles, makeup and manicured nails. He looked intently at the window displays.

  A pretty pink leather coat caught her eye. The surely outrageously expensive short grey dress and high grey boots, matching pink and grey scarf did look stunning. Likely Gucci or maybe Louis Vuitton; what need did she have for such upscale clothing?

  Faolan looked drop-dead gorgeous as usual in the black jeans he’d recently selected and the brown leather jacket she’d persuaded him to get. He was an exceptionally good-looking man. Nearly every woman who met them stared at him. His wavy light brown hair was undeniably sexy. She was feeling ridiculously jealous.

  As they entered the lawyer’s lavish reception area with plush chairs and expensive-looking paintings, the receptionist stared hard at Faolan and completely ignored Angelique, which irked her.

  “I have an appointment with Henry Dalton.”

  “Who are you?” Her tone was unfriendly.

  “Does that matter?” Angelique said.

  “I need to know to determine if you do indeed have an appointment,” she snootily said, her thick eyelash extensions fluttering at Faolan as she pushed out her overlarge breasts—undoubtedly implants—in her tight-fitting designer dress.

  “Angelique Kavanaugh,” she said.

  “Yeah right,” the receptionist replied tapping her long, pointy red nails. “She’s like some elusive crazy rich woman who Mr. Dalton’s been trying to contact for weeks. Her family apparently owns, like, half of Boston.”

  “Why couldn’t I be her?”

  She eyed Angelique up and down, took in her hair and clothes and dismissed her with a belittling glance.

  “Have you ever heard of Howard Hughes?” Angelique asked.

  “Who, the Playboy guy?”

  “That was Hugh Hefner,” Angelique said as the annoying woman blatantly flirted with Faolan.

  “She is Angelique Kavanaugh,” Faolan said.

  The woman smiled broader hearing his accent.

  “I’ll need some ID.”

  “For a freakin’ lawyer’s appointment?” Angelique rifled through her bag realizing she only had her fake Samantha Kavan info.

  “I’ll be right back!” Angelique said.

  Faolan remained talking with the annoying woman, while Angelique walked to the nearby elevator, used her magic and was soon attired in the outfit she’d viewed in the shop window. She flicked her wrist and straightened her hair as she’d seen on fashion magazines and produced a mother-of-pearl Dolce handbag and expensive Cartier Paris sunglasses.

  Summoning her proper identification, she walked back to the reception area. Everyone sitting there stared. When Faolan turned to look at her, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped.

  The ditzy receptionist didn’t even realize Angelique was the same person.

  “Ms. Kavanaugh?”

  Angelique nodded her head with a snobbish superiority she’d never used, but deemed appropriate now.

  “He’ll see you right away,” the receptionist said, no longer needing identification and sounding impressed. Henry Dalton, himself, came out to meet Angelique.

  *

  The appointment took longer than she wanted. Mr. Dalton nattered on asking questions about Ireland and her birth mother. He finally gave her the envelope her mom wanted Angelique to have shortly after her death, which was now months ago. She gave him Newt’s card, suggested his paintings would be perfect in Dalton’s offices. He’d no doubt call Newt on her recommendation.

  Walking out she saw Faolan leaning against the desk, now openly flirting with the infatuated receptionist. Angelique was furious. Since Faolan didn’t even notice her, she went out and hailed a cab. It was almost impossible to hail a cab here, but dressed as she was, apparently she demanded different attention.

  After returning the clothing and accessories with magic, she was already back home when Faolan called.

  “Hi,” she coolly said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “What? Why?” He sounded perturbed.

  “I thought you would’ve made dinner plans with your new lady friend.”

  Silence for a bit. “Maybe I will,” he said.

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Why would I? I’ve been telling you to go out,” Angelique said.

  “I’ll see you later then,” he replied.

  “Great!” she snipped.

  “Good-bye,” Faolan said.

  Ending the call, she sent him a text.

  Use your key tonight. I’ve made plans, too.

  I will. He quickly replied, having already mastered technology.

  What a ridiculously adolescent thing to do! Angelique was acting like she was in middle school and her latest crush was paying attention to someone else. Obviously, she couldn’t be here when Faolan came back. M
rs. Boyle and Mr. Nivens retired early. The dog shelter would be closed. Maybe she’d visit Fiona, but no, she met with her Wiccan coven tonight. Angelique would go to the pub.

  She left the envelope on her dresser, selected her favorite jeans and sexiest black top that accentuated her breasts and revealed more cleavage than she usually showed. She zipped up the high black boots she’d purchased at a thrift shop. Leaving her hair down, she used product that emphasized her natural loose curls, put on lip gloss, blush, eyeliner and mascara, even a little perfume, and then left the house and walked to the pub.

  *

  Tristan whistled and stared when she sat on a barstool.

  “Sammy! Wow! You look gorgeous. Massively hot!”

  “Don’t sound so damn surprised,” Angelique said.

  “Bad day?” Tristan asked.

  “Not great.”

  “Where’s your Irish fella?”

  “He’s not my fella.”

  “You had some definite chemistry goin’ on. Isn’t he stayin’ with you?”

  “Whiskey on the rocks, please,” she said.

  Tristan eyed her more seriously. Passing her the glass, he grazed her hand and there was a spark. He appeared stunned.

  “What?” she asked. “You didn’t know I had magic?”

  He shook his head, his usual mischievous grin replaced with shocked disbelief.

  “How the hell did you hide that? I taught you karate so we’ve had physical contact before. I’ve been livin’ in the same house for three years. I swear, I didn’t know.”

  “I knew you had magic as soon as I met you. Danhoul, too. The two women who live with you are witches, right?”

  “True, but why wouldn’t I know you have magic?”

  Angelique shrugged and downed her whiskey. She only drank whiskey when she wanted to be numb—didn’t even like the taste.

  “I can usually conceal my magic. When I’m annoyed or angry, I have trouble hiding it.”

  “You’re a witch?” Tristan asked.

  “I am.”

  “I’ve never known a woman I couldn’t peg for a witch straightaway. You must be powerful?”

  Again she shrugged. “I’ve only met a handful of actual witches.”

  “Do you know where your magic stems from? You mentioned being adopted.”

  “I was born in Ireland—know nothing about my birth mother except she died when I was really young. After Mom was in a bad car crash, lost her husband and baby, a nurse who’d known my birth mother suggested Mom adopt me. She agreed and we moved back here. I always wondered how the adoption was approved so quickly.”

  “You don’t know anything about your birth father?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hey, Danny-Boy,” Tristan said when Danhoul approached. “Sammy needs some cheerin’ up. But one question: did you know she has magic?”

  Danhoul sat on the stool beside her, pushed his blond hair from his blue-grey eyes, staring intently. “No.”

  “What type of witch could hide her magic from a highly intuitive searcher like me and you, a Druid with powerful magic?” Tristan asked.

  “I’ve no idea,” Danhoul said. “Maybe Cal would. As a witchfinder he knows the most about witches. Alainn and Killian, Arianna and Darius will probably be back soon. Hopefully Ainsley and Cal, too.”

  “Is Timothy settling in?” Angelique asked.

  “I think so. I imagine he’ll be glad when his sister, Ainsley, and her husband, Cal, arrive,” Danhoul said.

  “He must feel out of place,” Tristan added.

  “Why?” Angelique asked.

  “He’s never been to Boston before,” Danhoul evasively said.

  “Tell me about the other witches who live upstairs,” Angelique asked.

  “They’re transcendent witches,” Tristan replied.

  Danhoul didn’t seem in favor of telling her.

  “You don’t trust me, Danhoul?” Angelique said drinking a second whiskey and rattling her glass for another.

  Tristan refilled it and Danhoul looked at her more intently. She leaned closer.

  “Trying to gaze into my soul, Danhoul Calhoun? Can’t you see auras?”

  “I can,” he said staring even harder.

  “Then you must know I’m not evil.”

  “I don’t understand why I didn’t know of your magic when we spent an entire evenin’ talkin’ together.”

  “And shared a kiss.”

  “That, too,” he said with an appealing smile.

  “I can’t explain it and can’t make you trust me. Now I should leave before I can’t walk.”

  “What effect does alcohol have on you?” Tristan asked.

  “Probably the same as with most women—clouds my judgment, makes me jabber on about topics I might not otherwise.”

  “It doesn’t make you frisky?”

  “Tristan!” Danhoul scolded.

  “God, I hope not!” Angelique said, thinking that was all she needed. “I’d never heard the term transcendent witch till a cab driver a few nights ago spoke of it. He said two men mentioned they were looking for transcendent witches. He claimed their eyes looked demonic. Care to share what you know of demons?”

  “You might not even understand,” Tristan said seeming worried now.

  “You think I’m drunk,” she slurred.

  “Probably. You’re downin’ those drinks like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “What are transcendent witches?” Angelique asked.

  “Witches so powerful they can transcend the limitations of space, realms and time,” Danhoul said.

  “Interesting,” Angelique said.

  “Your name is Sammy?” Tristan asked.

  “That’s my middle name.”

  “And your first?” Danhoul asked.

  “It’s Angelique but Mom named me. I don’t know my birth name or family background.”

  “I thought you liked history?” Danhoul said. “I’m surprised you haven’t checked into your genealogy.”

  “I never wanted Mom to feel I didn’t think of her as my mother. But, I should go home before I have to crawl or use magic.”

  “You’re not stayin’ to see Faolan? He’s just comin’ in and…shite…now I get it,” Tristan said.

  Angelique turned to see Faolan with the lawyer’s annoying receptionist.

  “Dalton’s secretary?” Tristan asked.

  Danhoul nodded.

  “You know Henry Dalton?” Angelique questioned.

  “We’ve had a few dealings,” Tristan said.

  “May I use the back door?” Angelique requested.

  “I have a better idea,” Tristan replied. “Danny-Boy should sit a little closer. We’ll see how your Irishman reacts.”

  “He’s not mine and I don’t like games.”

  “Nor do I,” Danhoul said, but still, he leaned nearer.

  “Look like you’re havin’ fun,” Tristan said.

  “Hello, Danhoul, Tristan, Samantha,” Faolan said, but Angelique didn’t turn around. He’d never called her that before. “This is Janelle.”

  Danhoul put his arm around Angelique and winked.

  “We’ve met,” Angelique said glowering at the woman.

  “Have we?” Janelle said. “I don’t recall.”

  “I don’t have a penis or a Porsche so I’d be unworthy of you remembering.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Janelle said.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. But I should go.”

  “Have another whiskey, Sammy,” Tristan said.

  “Then I’ll take you home,” Danhoul offered.

  “Aren’t you singing tonight?” Angelique asked.

  “I have tonight off,” Danhoul said.

  “Maybe you’ll serenade me later.”

  She hoped she sounded sensuous and not just drunk.

  “What are your plans tonight, Faolan?” Tristan asked.

  Angelique turned, awaiting his reply.

  “That’s not been decided.”

&nb
sp; “I’d be happy to…take you home,” Janelle said.

  As Angelique stood, one by one the lights behind the bar burst and shattered, spraying glass everywhere. Bottles of alcohol rocked and vibrated. Two tipped over, fell to the floor and smashed.

  “What caused that?” Janelle asked.

  “Craziest damn thing,” Tristan replied, staring at Angelique.

  “Let’s get you home,” Danhoul said.

  Angelique didn’t miss the look he and Tristan exchanged.

  She teetered and Danhoul steadied her.

  “Thanks, Danhoul,” she said not looking back.

  *

  Faolan walked to Angelique’s home. He could have flagged a taxi. Angelique arranged for him to have coin though he’d yet to assist with the attic as agreed. Walking gave him time to think.

  He was going mad wondering if she was even now with Danhoul. He couldn’t duel with him if she invited him to her bed. Apparently he couldn’t duel with anyone over anything, which he still couldn’t fathom. She was bloody adamant he couldn’t bed her. Now she might be with another man—someone she could share her life with. Shouldn’t he be glad of that? Faolan cared for her very much.

  She’d looked remarkably beautiful and no match for him today with her luxurious garments and differently fashioned hair. It made him realize he had no business entertaining ideas of being with her beyond friendship.

  Tonight she’d looked ravishing with lovely, flushed cheeks; her shiny auburn curls unbound; her beautiful full breasts he longed to kiss and caress. He told himself he’d be gone in a little over a fortnight. They’d be back to how they were before. Except…nothing would ever be like it was before.

  The house was silent when Faolan let himself in. He stopped by her bedroom door—barely resisted barging in but then heard a sound from the sitting room. He looked in, relieved to see her alone, wrapped in a blanket with the television low, but looking sorrowful.

  “Angelique? Are you well?”

  “I’m fine,” she sniffled wiping her eyes.

  “You’re weeping.”

  “It’s this stupid movie.”

  “If it’s stupid, why would you watch it?”

  “Because it makes me cry?”

  He sat on the opposite end of the settee. “Is this somethin’ I don’t understand because I’m from another time?”

  “No, it’s because you’re a man.”