Sorcerer's Legacy (3 page)

“Becca Jones,” he repeated, one dark eyebrow raised. “Much more than a librarian, Becca.” He reached past her to retrieve the book that had caught her interest. “Here. May you find the answers you seek.” He handed her the book and walked out.

What the hell?

Why had Cyrus Rowan, owner of Wiccan Haus, lent her a priceless text without blinking an eye?

After glancing at her watch, she hurried out of the library with the ancient book pressed to her chest like the treasure it was.

***

Kill me now.

Ian stretched his arms over his head while gauging the yoga instructor, Trixie. Young, buff, and sexy, she exuded a serenity gained from years of yoga. She smiled at him. He smiled in response, irritated the tall, ethereal beauty didn’t inspire the same instant lust the redhead did.

Becca had stopped by the dining room archway to see him. Not to talk to him, just to see him. She’d blushed when he caught her staring, and he’d smiled the rest of the meal despite being stuck with the self-absorbed vamps.

He scowled now.

There could be nothing between them. His responsibilities to humans and paras to maintain a delicate balance through a strict code of ethics and behavior rose above his baser needs. Hell, he couldn’t even control his own abilities right now.

Soft music drifted on the air, rich with birdsong and Celtic fiddle. Once he’d practiced yoga daily to compensate for the constant onslaught of others’ feelings. Already, his mind released, his muscles relaxed. He’d avoided the mental quiet of yoga; he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. Meditation made it too easy to lose himself in anger, anxiety, and grief.

He settled on his mat, adjusting his shorts for propriety. Trixie eased down on her mat, facing him, and folded herself into the traditional lotus pose.

What was she waiting for?

Being irritated certainly wasn’t the right frame of mind to practice yoga so he closed his eyes, inhaled, and counted to ten. He’d avoided yoga since his wife’s death, preferring the pure mind-numbing physical exhaustion running and kickboxing afforded to drain his tension. Yoga allowed too much time in his own head, but he came here for healing so he had to trust the Rowans and their staff knew what they were doing.

He exhaled slowly, determined to make the best of this experience, and opened his eyes.

Legs. And pretty coral-painted toes.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Was it really so much to hope for a private session? When he inhaled, the scent of vanilla and lavender filled his head.

Her.

He ground his teeth to keep the curses swirling in his brain from escaping out his mouth.

Is nothing sacred?
he silently asked the gods, casting his gaze skyward.

“Namaste. Welcome. I’m Trixie.”

He averted his eyes as the copper-haired woman sank to her mat and crossed her legs in lotus, mirroring the instructor. By the gods, how could he endure an entire session looking at her and maintain his sanity?

She stuttered a bit, revealing her nervousness. “I’m Becca.”

“Nice to meet you, Becca.”

Two sets of eyes stared at him expectantly.

“I’m Ian.”

Wow, socialize much, idiot?

Trixie wrinkled her brow for a moment. She must have expected more from him as well.

“Okay. This first evening we’re only working on breathing and stilling our minds. Just a short session. Tomorrow we move up in intensity in body and mind. There are towels and water in the corner. Take what you need.” She pointed to the mini-fridge at the far end of the room next to the table laden with perfectly rolled towels. “And if you need a block to aid in some positions, we have those, too.”

He glanced at Becca who filled out a pair of black yoga pants and tight emerald-green tank top to perfection.

Damn.

He folded his legs into what his son called “crisscross apple sauce” and pulled images of anything cold into his mind. Icebergs, igloos, Popsicles. Why, oh why, did his libido have to come roaring back to life on this trip?
Becca
, his inner voice said, taunting him. He’d get through this session and make sure they didn’t have a lesson together again.

The fates have a plan.
Forget their plan. He had free will and he would not get involved with this woman.

“Ian?”

He shook his head.
Ah, hell.
How long had she been talking to him? “Um. Yes?”

“Is everything all right?” Trixie asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

“Fine. Just fine. Let’s breathe, shall we?”

He didn’t dare glance at Becca, whose worry washed over him in inescapable, warm waves. Sweet, really, that she would worry about a complete stranger. He tried to close himself to her but couldn’t. Concern mixed with an intense sexual awareness, an attraction. He shouldn’t let her in but his balance was so off, he couldn’t fend off her emotions, so he consciously opened himself.

God, such potent emotions.
Exhilarating and intoxicating, those emotions poured into him.
He savored the power.

So much anxiety, fear of anything new, her empathy for others she didn’t know or understand. He recognized a potential as an empath from the deep well of compassion she hadn’t tapped. Maybe didn’t know how to access.

He shook his head clear. Such an anxious woman did not need a new problem. Nor did he.

The sound of someone clearing his throat from the door interrupted his thoughts. “Excuse me, Trixie. We need you in the lobby.” The employee hesitated as he glanced at Becca for a second before turning his attention back to the instructor. “There’s a problem with the feeding schedule.”

Ian read between the coded lines.

Vamps. Damn blood suckers refuse to follow rules and everyone suffers.

Trixie rose effortlessly from the floor and turned to Ian. “Would you lead the meditation, Chair—I mean, Ian? I’ll be right back.” She followed the other staff member out the door without waiting for his answer.

With no other choice, he moved his mat to face Becca. He could do this. He inhaled deeply before raising his gaze to look at her.

“We can cancel.” She sensed his hesitation. A dead man could sense his hesitation.

Pride forced him to straighten his spine. He folded his legs into lotus pose and glared at her. “No, we’ll do this.”

She rewarded him with a cocky smile, revealing a dimple. Determined not to be charmed by her, he deviated from Trixie’s prescribed easy breathing lesson and led her in asanas more challenging to the mind and body. At least to his less limber body.

During the cool down, he realized Becca’s anxiety had vanished during the session. Her emotions calmed, and he didn’t need to erect a wall against her to function. Perhaps she
would
be a good yoga buddy.

The yoga was good for him, too, simultaneously energizing and relaxing his body and soothing his mind. If only her rear wasn’t so perfect or her breasts so alluring. Her cleavage had enticed him every time she leaned toward him. He couldn’t ignore the full bounty right in front of him.

She popped up, demonstrating his workout hadn’t overly strained her, and sauntered to the fridge. As she returned, she tossed a bottle of water to him, along with a towel.

“Thanks, Ian. That was fun.”

Fun? Damn.
His body already ached in places he’d long forgotten existed, and she thought it was fun?

Running and kickboxing got him through his stressful days. His flexibility suffered as he would surely suffer tomorrow.

Unable to think of anything witty, he said, “Any time.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Uh. Okay. Good night.”

She swept out of the room, taking with her his peace of mind.

Bleary eyed from a restless night of tossing and turning, Ian woke with an aching head and sore body. A glance out the window confirmed the weather reflected his mood. Huge drops pounded against the glass and dark clouds made the morning like night.

The whole bloody night thoughts of her—Becca—crowded his mind, blocking all his efforts to escape her spell. Damned attractive with her pinup body and shy glances, his body throbbed with undeniable need. He hadn’t been this randy since he’d first been with Georgia Blankenship at the tender age of fifteen.

As he stripped off his pajama pants and pulled on a rugby shirt and khakis for the day, he glared at the ceiling and, in effect, the fates themselves.

You listen to me. I don’t want her. I don’t need her. I’ll pick my own damn woman.

As he closed the door behind him, he was sure he heard the fates laughing.

In the dining room, Ian prepared his Irish breakfast tea and selected one of the blueberry scones from the buffet table.

Reading would calm his frayed nerves this dreadful day, so he passed the few early risers and the front desk where Myron flipped her ubiquitous cards. Didn’t that woman ever sleep?

With his breakfast balanced precariously in one hand, he levered open one of the heavy oak doors and slipped into the quiet of the library. As he inhaled the scent of old books and woodsmoke, the tension flowed out of his body. The fire crackled in the big stone fireplace, enticing him with its warmth and light. Flickering flames leapt up from the glowing logs. Fire was not his element—earth was—but fire entranced. Fire was passion, with the ability to create or destroy. Dangerous and seductive, fire could enchant a man to do what he shouldn’t, like fine whiskey or a sensual woman.

Two leather armchairs faced the hearth. He sank into one, setting his tea and scone on the table next to him. Sipping his tea, he savored the first taste then the second. The wind rattled the window with a mighty gust and drew his attention.

In the window seat, huddled like a child beneath a throw, slept the very woman he wanted to avoid. He watched her a moment but she didn’t move, so he finished his cooling tea and ate his scone.

Copper hair escaped her braid and waved about her face. Her pretty pink lips were parted slightly and her hands lay beneath her head, pressed together as if in prayer.

Allan sleeps like that
.

Loneliness stole over him as he stared at the lovely woman he had no business desiring. She must be at least ten years younger than he, and innocent. So innocent of the evils of the world, human and paranormal.

He let down his guard, allowing his emotions out of the box where he kept them locked down. Here, with Becca asleep, he could open his soul. Her emotions were muted while asleep. He could handle the vulnerability.

With his head back against the chair, he closed his eyes and blew out the remaining tension from his body. He stilled his mind.

Open. I free you.

Darkness crept over him as a black, smothering mist. Fear slammed into his gut and his heart like a physical blow. He fought it, pushed it back. Reinforced by desire for revenge, the dread caused by his son’s attack ricocheted inside his body like a jagged bullet.

No. Not my son. Bastards. You leave my son alone. He’s just a boy. I’ll hunt you down and kill you.

Myrddin stood before him and the wicked mist slunk away. “Protect my legacy.”

His shoulder jerked. Then again.

“Ian. Wake up. Ian.”

He opened his eyes to gaze into Becca’s very concerned face. Her quiet voice trembled slightly as though she were afraid of him. Why? She had nothing to fear from him. She dropped her hand from his shoulder and retreated a few feet.

“I’m sorry to wake you. It’s just that you seemed agitated.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face and found it wet
. How can I explain crying? And why the hell does she appear afraid of me? Damn!

She jumped, startled.

Did I say that aloud? By the gods, am I losing my fucking mind?

By the expression on her face—her eyes wide, her brows drawn together—she didn’t understand what was going on either. Her anxiety pulsed from her in rolling waves that threatened to take him under.

Breathe. Control. Lock everything down again.

With every thought, she reacted with an arched brow or quirk of the mouth.

Use your words, Ian.

“Okay, Becca. Everything’s fine.” He tried his most soothing tone but from the increase in her emotional wave frequency, she didn’t buy his load of horseshit.

“How can I hear your thoughts?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I’m not sure and I don’t like it, but we’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t think I want to.” She ran to the window seat and grabbed an ancient book and a rolled scroll. Her corduroy pants rubbed noisily as she hurried toward the door.

Ha. No way to outrun your problems. I know.

“Watch me try.”

Shit, I hope there’s a distance limit to her psychic ability. And a time limit.

“You’re not the only one.”

The door opened as she touched the handle, and Cemil stepped inside. Startled, she dropped the texts. Before she could retrieve them, Ian picked them up.

“This one is from this library. I gave it to them.” He indicated the volume by lifting the
Black Book of Carmarthen
. The scroll in his hand vibrated slightly in his gentle grasp. “This one, however, belongs to my family. How did you get it?”

Her outrage exploded from her like a sledgehammer, sending him reeling back a couple of steps. He shook his head and retook his ground.

“I don’t steal and I don’t lie.” She turned to Cemil, her nostrils flaring. “This is your magical island. Why the hell can I hear his thoughts?”

Cemil’s eyebrow lifted as he glanced from Becca to Ian. “You share a connection.”

“Really?” Sarcasm dripped from the two syllables. “I don’t need to be psychic to know that.”

Is she talking about the attraction between us?

Her head swiveled to gaze at Ian. “You’re attracted to me?”

The corner of Cemil’s mouth quirked up. Ian inhaled slowly to calm his racing thoughts.
The angrier she gets, the sexier.
Shit. Not again
.

Before he could utter any intelligible words, she sputtered, “Oh, stop thinking of me that way, you idiot.”

Cemil took Becca’s hand and spoke softly to her. “Come with me. We’ll see Sage to get you some soothing herbs. Ian, we’ll talk later. Perhaps you should rest for a bit?” He closed the door behind him, leaving Ian alone.