Sorcerer's Legacy (7 page)

“How did they come to your grandmother?”

“I believe they belonged to my father.”

“What was your father’s name?” Maybe the man had been a thief or con man, not that he’d tell her that.

“I don’t know.” Her quiet answer expressed more confusion and disappointment than the actual words. Pieces fell into place. Not all of them, but enough to explain her lack of self-confidence.

“Your mother’s and grandmother’s last name is Jones?”

“Yes. Was.”

She impressed him as she battled back tears. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t remember my mother. She died when I was only three. It’s strange, though. I feel like she’s near me.”

“She is, Becca. Our loved ones watch over us.”

A soul-deep sigh escaped her. “I just want to know who my father is. Maybe he’s alive. Maybe he doesn’t know I exist.”

She was lost and needed to find her home. His heart broke a little.

Perhaps the scroll could provide clues, but would her father be an honorable man? Or a para who might hurt her? Or worse, be a member of the Mundus Novus or another faction? This scroll had been lost for centuries; one of her ancestors could have been a witch or a sorcerer who’d forsaken their oath to do no harm.
Power corrupts.

Only one task remained: translate the scroll.

Two hours later, Ian had gained insight into his forefather but hadn’t found anything to help Becca with her quest. Her drumming fingers and frequent sighs didn’t diminish his delight in his ancestor’s words.

“Healing potions and scrying spells. This is no more helpful than a cookbook.”

Becca banged the pen down on the open notebook and rested her forehead on the table. After a couple of breaths, she sat up with a jerk and a frown. “I’m sorry, Ian. That must sound really disrespectful to you. Sacrilegious. I don’t mean any harm.”

I don’t mean any harm.
If she had a paranormal ancestor, at least she already had the right mind-set.

A shiver ran up his spine. Fearful certainty that she’d be in peril as his mate lodged firmly in his throat. Her safety was his paramount concern. Sharp pain seared his heart. In three short days, she’d branded her name on his soul. No way he could deny her as his mate. She fit him body, heart, and soul. Letting her go would cut him off at the knees. Seeing her hurt would kill him.

No perfect answer came to him. He would handle it the best he could.

“Sweetheart, I know you were hoping for a clue. Maybe there’s one deeper in the scroll.” He rubbed her shoulder. “We’ve been at this for a while. Let’s take a break. Take a walk. You’ll feel better.”

Walking away from the scroll was hard. These writings sprang from Myrddin’s head, flowed from his fingers, uttered from his very lips. He’d have all the time in the world to translate the incantations after he returned home. Once Becca returned to her home, safe and sound, he’d grieve the loss of his heart and soul over the ancient document.

Until the time to let her go, he would make memories to tuck away. Later, alone in the wee hours of the night, he’d take them out and hold them tight and try to remember why he’d let his soul mate go.

How can there be so many psychics and so few answers?

“Ian, we didn’t find anything,” Becca said as he led her to a quiet table in the dining room.

People stared at them. Ian clearly hadn’t told her everything. More than once staff members had almost called him something that started with “ch.” It didn’t matter if he were a prince or a pauper. Every minute of their time together would be treasured. She pushed aside the nagging voice insinuating he should trust her implicitly with every secret. It wasn’t as if they were planning a lifetime together.

He pulled out her chair, ever the consummate gentleman, ever controlled. After she eased into her seat and he’d relaxed into his own, she released a heavy sigh.

She’d hoped to find at least a sign to her path, some crumb to follow to her father’s history.

Tears threatened. Time was running out. Three days of translating the scroll yielded no clues to her parentage. Ian tried to hide his excitement, but she could see how much the scroll meant to him. When she left the island, she would give it to him. He loved the old moldering parchment text; to her, it represented a means to an end.

She gritted her teeth because she used Ian, too. He translated the text so she could find a clue to her father’s identity. Even though she loved him, she used him for his knowledge and skill. While the scroll intrigued him, she had no doubt he helped her because he liked her, lusted for her. He never mentioned the other “l” word. Undeniably, their relationship was temporary.

She would take him with her in her heart.

His son needed him. He’d told her about how Allan shut down after losing his mother. Ian had not spoken of his own grief about her death, but she’d sensed his guilt. Something about his job had put her in jeopardy, and Allan had witnessed his mother’s death.

She wanted to take Ian in her arms to comfort him. She wished to meet Allan and get to know him, but he had his path and she had hers. Her heart ached at the thought of going home without him. She would go on. Finding the truth about her father might soothe the pain.

“Becca, I can help you. My way.”

She smiled. “That’s okay, Ian. I don’t want to impose on you anymore than I already have.”

A muscled jumped in his jaw. “You’re not imposing. You haven’t asked me to do anything I didn’t want to do.” He pulled her into his arms.

Leaning into his warm embrace, she inhaled his now familiar scent. For the first time in her life, she felt whole. “What can you do?”

His smile held a secret. “Much more than you can imagine.”

She grinned and chuckled. “More than control fire?”

He raised a cocky eyebrow. “Much more.”

What the hell. She didn’t have anything to lose.

She had been curious about his abilities. She’d reined in her vivid imagination, but now she wondered. Could he fly? Make things disappear?

Over a quiet meal, she sensed his forced enthusiasm as he distracted her with immaterial small talk about the weather, movies, and music. Who cared what temperature it was in New York City in the summer? Screw the weather. Screw everything.

Doubts she’d be able to walk away from him built like a thunderhead on a humid summer day. Who was she fooling? She’d leave with her heart broken. Worse, would she even have a shred of evidence to follow to find her father’s identity? Would she care?

Her hand clenched into a fist. Bitterness rose in her throat, burning, stinging. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force her stomach to stop churning.

His warm hand covered hers.

“Shh. Becca, it’ll be all right. I’ll make it all right. I swear.”

Her frustration and anxiety melted away with the certainty he’d keep his word. Hope sprouted.

***

“Isn’t it dangerous, Ian? Remember the last time?”

Apprehension skittered up her spine as Becca trekked through the woods back to the secluded beach. An owl hooted and she started, surprised.

Ian’s fingers squeezed her hand. “Darling, you are safe with me. Besides, Rekkus dressed those young wolves down. I guarantee they are locked down at the bunker, battling each other on some video game.”

“Okay.” Still, something was off. Something wasn’t right.

“Come on. What you’ll see will amaze you.”

“You amaze me.”

“You humble me, Becca.”

He shifted the bag he’d stuffed with a blanket and candles as they arrived at the cove. After assisting her down to the beach, he dropped the bag and pulled her to him. Sinking into his kiss, she struggled with the rising disappointment roiling in her stomach.

Tears welled in her eyes. He wiped the moisture from her cheeks. His voice low and rough, he said, “You do not know how much this hurts me, too. I’ve never felt like this with anyone.”

“What about your wife?”

A sad smile turned up the corners of his lips. “I loved her. Of course, I did. But she was my friend. We got along. Really, more a contract than a relationship.” His lips caressed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her cheeks. “This, us, is completely different. I can’t control what I feel for you. You make me feel so much it almost hurts.”

“Me, too.”

He stared into her eyes for what seemed like minutes before he sucked in a breath. “Let’s find out what this scroll knows.”

He spread the blanket on the sand. Candles circled the blanket. With a flick of Ian’s wrist, the flames speared up on their wicks.

With the full moon glinting off the calm waters of the sea, this place, this man entranced her.

They knelt on the blanket, their knees touching. He gazed into her eyes and placed the scroll between them. Chanting in a foreign tongue—probably Welsh—Ian laid his hands on the ancient parchment.

What he said was anyone’s guess.

Wind swirled about them with the unfamiliar chant, yet the candles continued to flicker. Like a benign tornado, air spun visibly around them, separating them from anything and everything else. The moon, ripe and bright, shone down on them like a spotlight as if all the magic in the world centered on them. Who knew? Truth was stranger than fiction.

Ian’s eyes glittered, lit from within. Green fire danced in their depths.

God help me. I’m getting giddy and silly.

A smile stretched across his face, revealing his perfect teeth. “I’d forgotten the simple joy of magick. I got so bogged down in the day-to-day business of governing, I lost the connection.” He looked at his hands in wonder as if he didn’t recognize them then chuckled and clasped them together like caging a firefly gently between his palms. With a single motion, he threw his hands to the sky, releasing a shower of periwinkle sparks into the swirling winds.

She gaped at the spectacle then lowered her gaze to the happy man before her. Wide smile, relaxed features, intense eyes, he let his guard completely down and let her in. His pleasure warmed her heart. His smile faded and he firmed his mouth.

“Let’s find out about this scroll.”

Ah, back to business. With a nod as the only acknowledgment, Becca fought the sinking of her heart. He was not hers to lose. Their relationship could only be temporary. How would she ever forget a man like Ian?

With one hand cradling the scroll, he took her hands and placed them on the parchment. Laying his other hand on top, he began chanting. Her rational mind identified the words as foreign while her intuitive side, the side that had never questioned magick, understood every one.

“Myrddin, father of my father, the first and the evermore, grant our wish to see the past. We wish to understand the significance of the product of your mind and your soul. We do not seek glory or power or riches, only answers. Let it be.”

Murmuring began, like a rustling of leaves, building to a roar. The vortex of wind changed to fire. A scream stuck in her throat.

Let it wash over you. Through you. Don’t fight it, love. Breathe.

His familiar, beloved voice in her mind calmed her. If he said it would be all right, it would be.

The flames lowered, the noise dulled, and the winds died. Before them, a watery pale blue wall shimmered with images of a young couple leaving a cave.

Myrddin.

Who was the woman?

He paused for a moment then gripped her hand. Had he connected with his ancestor in some metaphysical way? Like revisiting a past life? How did the scroll play a role in her own past?

Ian interrupted her curiosity.

Her name is Anwyn. I’ve never heard Myrddin had a lover at this time of his life. Nor the name Anwyn. Only of his sister bringing him food and supplies from time to time.

Anwyn, whose long red hair riotously curled about her face, clung to Myrddin. His eyes squeezed closed as he pulled her into a tight embrace. No sound resonated from the wavering scene, but the utter anguish was palpable. Myrddin raised his head, murmured to Anwyn, and unwound her arms from him. Clearly, he was sending her away, and it killed them both inside.

Becca’s heart clenched as a fist of misery tightened in her chest. Her heartache mirrored Anwyn’s. She would leave her love in a couple of days. How would she learn to live without the man who made her hopes and dreams reality? He was her heart.

As Anwyn shambled away, her sight obviously obscured by tears, Myrddin hung his head and tore at his hair. He dropped to his knees and rocked forward, planting his forehead on the bare ground.

The scene dispersed like mist in the late morning sun.

Ian turned her face toward him with his fingers on her chin. “Darling, don’t cry.”

“I can’t help it.” She accepted the handkerchief he offered and blew her nose. “Did you find out how the scroll relates to me?” With luck, he’d communicated with Myrddin on a psychic level to get the answers she needed.

“Yes. Your ancestor Anwyn carried his baby. We’re very distantly related cousins. Probably at least thirty times removed.”

Having a common ancestor from centuries before didn’t faze her. What rocked her was how fate seemed to weigh more than free will. And that neither of them seemed willing to fight for love.

“I guess that makes us kissing cousins.” She tried for a laugh but instead a sob broke from her lips. Sorrow swamped her. “She left him, just like I’ll leave you. Both our hearts broken.”

He shimmered before her watery eyes. “Be mine then,
fy nghariad.”

Sure she hadn’t heard correctly, she shook her head. “Be yours?”

His crooked smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yes. Mate your soul with mine.”

Her world crumbling, her heart breaking, she wordlessly agreed. Why not? The memory of one perfect night with her white knight to embrace when she returned to the real world.

“How?” She sniffed and wiped her face on her arms.

“Listen to your heart and your soul. Magick is in your blood. If you let go, we will unite.”

She nodded, her heart blocking any words from escaping her lips.

He cradled her face in his hands like she was the most precious work of art or delicate artifact. “We kiss. See us together in your mind; let your soul come to mine.” He nipped at her lips. “You’ll lose your breath, but I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Trust me.”