Bewitching My Love (2 page)

Lying back against one of her favorite purple chenille cushions, she let her mind wander back to that first time she’d laid her eyes on the wardrobe. It was so strange; she had fallen behind the group and got left in the room by herself. She’d heard a sort of soft whispering sound coming from the corner where it stood. Being the curious sort, she crept over to it, hoping to discover what was making the noise. But when she stood in front of it, the sound stopped.

Thinking she must have been hearing things, she turned to leave. But when she heard the faint whispers resume, she stopped and went back. It was behind a rope barrier, but she paid no mind, stepping over it as if she never saw it. The fluttering she felt in her stomach before she opened the doors almost made her giggle. Reaching forward, she let her hands settle on the rickety knobs. Closing her eyes in case a mouse, or God only knows what else, jumped out at her, she pulled the doors wide open.

There in the middle of the wardrobe was...nothing. She’d thought that maybe a radio or a recorder had been planted in it to scare visitors like her, but there was nothing of the sort. Feeling like a fool, she closed the doors and stepped back over the ropes. She’d just reached the door when she heard the whispers again. Louder and louder, as if people were huddled together inside, telling nasty little secrets. Frustrated, she turned to go back for one last look when the voice from behind her catapulted her heart from its place in her chest to lodge in her throat. Leaning against the wall for support and to keep from screaming, she turned to face the ghost from the wardrobe, then breathed a sigh of relief. It was her professor.

“
Fern, come on, we’re already three rooms ahead of you.” He noticed her panic and joined her by the wardrobe.

“
Mr. Stapleton, did you hear that noise?”

“
What noise, my dear? It is as quiet as a mouse in here.” He smiled down at her.

“
You didn’t hear those whispers just now?” She looked at him as if he had to be lying. Surely he’d heard them. The entire museum had to have heard, they were so loud.

Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, he escorted her from the room. He hadn’t heard the noises, and neither did anyone else, except her. Many times she went back to visit the wardrobe and every time she heard the whispers. She would have even sworn that she’d heard her own name called out from time to time. She knew she wasn’t crazy, but decided to have her shrink confirm it anyway. He laughed at her, telling her to go home and take a long bath. After telling her she had too much stress in her life, he suggested she find a companion.
“Someone to share your life with, my dear,”
he had said.

Then one day the wardrobe was sold and she lost track of it. Until almost five years later, when it showed up in her monthly auction catalog. It nearly sang to her from the page of the catalog, and she knew instantly that it was hers when a soft whisper rustled the hair on the back of her neck. She knew the wardrobe had some bizarre meaning for her life; she had hoped she would be able to figure it out once she got it home.

Feeling the soft fur around her ankles she looked down into the yellow green eyes of her pitch-black cat Wicca. She’d adopted him from a homeless shelter for animals after her shrink made the suggestion that she get a companion. He practically called to her from his cage. “Come on Wicca, get up here on my knee.” She patted her knee and waited for him to jump up. “Maybe mommy can get our piano back, hmm?”

****

The cottonwoods were shedding early again this year. It was beautiful the way the white puffs made their journey across the road in front of her to disappear in the dense forest on the opposite side of the road. It felt like a snowstorm in June. He lived on Winter Island, secluded from the main thoroughfare of the small town of Salem and its many tourists.

Fern drove down the long driveway of the Nichols estate frowning at the grotesque wealth it displayed. It was light longer now that it was almost summer, so she was able to see every detail of the monstrosity. Jagged points pierced the sky from several ancient dormers on the roof. It was a historical mansion built in the early seventeen hundreds, and in all accounts quite beautiful. Something someone might see on “life of the rich and famous”.

When she pulled up and walked to the towering front doors she couldn’t help but wonder how a person could open them, they must weigh a ton. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her lime green sundress that looked like a throwback from one of the
Austin Powers
films, then checked her lipstick in her compact mirror before pushing the doorbell button. It sounded like a medieval foghorn, even from here. When the door opened, she had to practically break her neck to look up at the butler. He had to be at least six foot six. She wanted to ask him if his name was Herman Munster.

“
Welcome madam, the master is waiting for you on the patio. I will escort you there.”

“
Thank you.” She tried to hide her amusement.
The master? Who did Rowen Nichols think he was, anyway?
She followed him through what seemed endless rooms filled with some of the most beautiful antiques Fern had ever seen until they came to the patio surrounded by ivy-covered walls. She would have loved to stop and get a better look but as it was, she had trouble keeping up with the fast pace of the butler.
The Master
was standing with his back turned to them. It seemed to take a long time for him to acknowledge their presence and Fern thought it was rude.

“
Thank you, Marcus, that will be all,” he finally said.

Fern continued to stand where she was until he turned around to face her. She was used to the probing eyes of men, so his quick rundown of her body didn’t embarrass her one bit. He was dressed in blue shorts with seams pressed into sharp lines down the front. She couldn’t help but notice how they displayed the tanned and hard muscles of his long legs. A matching polo shirt topped it off to display his equally muscled and tan arms. Somehow she’d expected an Armani suit or something like it to show off his wealth. The shorts were an interesting surprise. Reaching out, she shook his hand when he extended it toward her. “You have a beautiful home, Mr. Nichols.”

“
Thank you, Fern, it’s been in my family for generations. A bit too big for one man, though. Let’s forget the formalities, call me Rowen, alright?” Pulling out a chair, he beckoned her to a small black wicker table where iced lemonade was waiting. “Tell me Fern, are you anxious to see the wardrobe?” The way her short sundress pulled up over her thighs when she sat down didn’t escape him. He was tempted to tell her how eatable she looked in that lime green dress, but knew better. He had a job to do, or rather, they had a job to do.

“
I’ll have to admit that I’ve been impatient all week. Can we see it before dinner?” Fern took the glass he handed her and set it down. She didn’t particularly care for lemonade.

“
I’ll take you up as soon as we drink our lemonade. My housekeeper seems to get offended when my visitors don’t accept her gifts of food and drink.” He studied her from behind the rim of his glass as he drank his, relieved when she put hers to her lips. Those full pouty lips that he found attractive, lips that were made for kissing. Blinking away the thought, he waited for her to finish.

Fern struggled with the taste, but somehow managed. Smiling the best she could, she set her glass down. “Wonderful lemonade. I’ll have to tell your housekeeper it was the best I’ve ever had. I’m ready to go now.”

“
Well, let’s go in then. No use in waiting.” He looked at his watch and breathed a sigh of relief. It was a quarter to eight, he’d been correct to assume she would be early. From everything he’d studied about her, she always was a stickler for punctuality. “I had it put in my private quarters upstairs, Fern. I hope you won’t mind visiting a strange man’s bedroom.”

Yes, you are a strange man Rowen Nichols, Fern thought to herself. But not scary strange, so following him to his private quarters wouldn’t bother her. “Not at all, Rowen. After all, I’m only here to look at the wardrobe, aren’t I?” She followed him up the long flight of stairs, and then turned with him at the top. The house was eerily quiet except for the distant echo of a radio playing downstairs somewhere and the padding of their footsteps in the deep pile of the carpet. The doors to his room were carved into the huge shapes of ancient flintlock pistols. They were breathtaking. “They’re beautiful, Rowen, do you collect antique guns?”

“
I belong to an elite group of sharp shooters, Fern. We shoot only flintlock pistols. It is a passion handed down through the last several generations of men in my family. Come on, let’s go in and see the wardrobe.” He stepped aside after opening the doors to let her pass. The sweet scent of her perfume as she crossed in front of him made him want to close the door and lock it behind them, then he remembered her reason for being there and had to once again mentally kick himself.

Fern noticed right away that his room was decorated in the same theme as depicted on the doors and many of the other rooms she’d chanced a look at on their way through the long halls. The bed was canvassed under red velvet swags hanging down each side of the four posters and the curtains on the walls were the same. She couldn’t decide if it was the darkness of the room or the sudden pounding in her head, but she was having a difficult time focusing on the wardrobe. It stood just adjacent to his bed and the doors were wide open. The whispers started almost immediately, loud and strong, stronger than ever before. It was maddening to her that Rowen seemed to not hear them.

She felt like her lips were barely moving as she spoke. And the room was beginning to spin, something was wrong. “It fits perfectly in this room Rowen, as if it belongs.” She was trying to walk but her legs felt shaky, what was wrong with her? “Mr.…uh, Rowen! Do you mind if I sit a moment? I seem to be a little dizzy.” She felt her purse drop to the floor next to her sandal-clad feet.

“
Here, let me help you.” Rowen took her by her hand and led her to his bed. He caught her just as her knees gave out. Lifting her up into his arms he looked into her eyes one last time before her eyelashes fluttered slowly down to rest on her cheeks. “Just relax Fern, let it happen. You’ll be awake soon...after the sleeping pills wear off.”

She reminded him of Brandywine, his favorite ale. Pure, yet smooth and never, ever bitter. Which was ironic, considering she was born to kill. He wasn’t one to take what wasn’t given, but he had to see if her full lips were as tasty as they looked. Bending his head, he kissed them softly, murmuring against them before pulling away. “It’s time to go, Fern. It’s time to face your destiny, and mine.”

He dressed her in a Mantua, with a wide cotton collar that sloped over her shoulders. The waist was narrow and the skirt, bell-shaped. The sleeves, although wide, were three-quarter length. The outer gown pulled back from the skirt front. Over the top he placed a cape to keep her head covered. In his haste he kept the vision or her voluptuous body tucked away where it belonged. He couldn’t let her go to his head, it was much more important that he keep his mind sharp, he couldn’t afford idle thoughts of lust right now.

For him he chose
a brown jacket trimmed in white cotton at the sleeves. A white shirt peeked out below the jacket, which gave it a more elongated appearance. Brown was the color most commonly worn. Only the wealthy wore colors or black, and since he didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention, they both wore brown. The high-heeled shoes, which looked like those one would see on a five-year-old tap dancer, except much larger, replaced his Birkenstocks.
He refused to wear the wig; instead, he pulled his hair to the back of his neck and tied it with a string of rawhide. He’d started growing his beard the day after the auction, but it was still just a dark shadow on his chin; he hoped it would be enough.

After throwing a canvas sack full of supplies over his shoulder and making sure his pistol was secure under his belt, Rowen picked Fern up then turned to face the wardrobe. It didn’t take long for the whispers to start again. They had almost deafened him when Fern first walked into his room, removing any doubt of her true identity from his mind. But they had subsided when she fell asleep. “Aw, there you are.” Lifting her as close to his chest as he could, he stepped up and walked through the doors, jumping just slightly when they slammed behind them.

CHAPTER TWO

“
Wicca, get off my feet, kitty. Come on now!” Fern tried to ignore the weight of her cat against her legs. She hadn’t opened her eyes yet and was trying not to. She still had a headache from the night before and would just as soon stay in bed. Besides it was the weekend, and she always slept in on the weekend “Come on, Wicca, get up off mommy’s feet. I’m going to have to put you on a diet, you fat cat, you’re getting much too heavy.” With a twist of her feet she pushed until she felt him move, or at least that was what she thought. When she heard the heavy thud of his body hit the floor, she cursed.

“
I’m sorry Wicca, come here kitty, you can lie next to me.” Patting the blanket, she waited for him to jump back up. He must be sulking under the bed. Rising up to look for him, she stopped when she felt the folds of material wrapped around her legs. Snickering, she pushed the blankets back and sat up. “Mommy must have been a little sauced when she got home last night, Wicca, and put on her winter flannels instead of her cool silkies.”

Groaning and holding her head, Fern let her legs dangle over the edge of the bed. It wasn’t until she actually let her eyes open to scan the candle lit room that it all started to come back. Last thing she remembered, she was standing in Rowen’s bedroom looking at the wardrobe. And because she was fairly certain she wasn’t in her own bedroom, she decided this room must be part of his house. But where was Rowen? And why had she been sleeping? Did the
Master
kidnap her?