The Silver Rose (5 page)

Caught in a vise of despair, she acknowledged defeat. Never before had her magic failed her. Never before had she seen such turmoil or tempest when casting a spell. She stood there, shaking and sick to her stomach, afraid to pick up her precious scrying bowl for several long agonizing minutes as she stomached the realization her magic truly was growing volatile and uncontrollable.

She had broken witch law, and her punishment was clear. Garnering courage from who knew where, she tentatively picked up the bowl. Her back door slammed back against the wall as a sudden gust of wind swirled through the yard and into the kitchen. The hairs at the back of Rosa's neck prickled. Her precious bowl slipped from nerveless fingers to the floor. Unable to prevent its fall, Rosa watched helplessly as it crashed onto the boards at her feet and smashed into smithereens.

Rosa's heart wept for her loss. Tears cascaded down her cheeks. The scrying bowl represented far more than magic to her. Gifted by her parents at her first official initiation into Witchery at ten years of age, it represented her childhood and her link with her parents. Leonardo, one of the greatest warlocks to walk the Earth, had imbued the bowl with magical elements each year of Rosa's early life until she came of age. From the time she was officially eligible to be taught the mysteries of magic from her parents and then through the Kowhai Coven, the ruling Coven of New Zealand, the bowl had become the most precious magical item she owned.

It was an extension of who she was. There was no one else to blame for its demise. There was no honor in what she had attempted. No amount of magic would restore the bowl to its former glory. Now all that remained were the broken jagged pieces of pottery lying at her feet.

Witches' Ruin!

Rosa's skin prickled with warning. She swiped at the moisture on her cheeks with the back of her hand and spun round on the spot, her agitation increasing. Someone was in her garden. Yanked from her misery by the knowledge her bespelled gate had whispered a warning, she shot to the doorway and froze.

Aden was walking through her garden, not down the garden path as most would do, but on the grass. His feet were bare. Who visited anyone with bare feet unless they were at the beach?

An almighty tide of disquiet swept over her. The gate had issued the warning message, but what about all the wards surrounding her property? They were designed specifically to warn her the moment someone, anyone, stepped on her property. The wards would announce who it was. They should have announced a stranger's arrival. Had they all scattered to the four winds along with the spells imbued in her scrying bowl?

Who knew what might have occurred if he had arrived only a few minutes earlier to see a wild, uncontrollable lightning bolt scorching her ceiling or the mess in her kitchen.

Immobilized, she stood, knowing Aden would not understand the implications of her loss. No one would except her sisters and perhaps Leonardo himself, since his magic was intrinsically a part of it. Or at least it had been.

“What happened?” Aden asked from the bottom veranda step, a crease of concern marring his perfect brow. “You're bleeding.”

In my soul.
“Nonsense.” Rosa swallowed her sadness and inspected her arms and legs. A steady stream of blood oozed down her shin. She hadn't felt a thing. She lifted her leg upwards to take a closer look. “It's nothing. A simple cut. A little salve and a bandage will fix it.”

But Aden didn't appear to think so. He'd leaped the three steps in one move and swooped her up in his arms before she even realized his intention. “Where do you keep the first aid kit?” he demanded, his minty breath hot on her skin.

It took seconds for her eyes to focus and her mind longer to do the same. “First aid kit?” Maybe her vision was shadowed by her despair. She had not seen him move from A to B, but here she was ensconced in arms that conveyed a sense of the man he was: all heat and fire and strangely tender. A dangerous cocktail of attributes. If her blood had thundered in her ears earlier, now a virtual hurricane swirled her thoughts into a scattered jumble.

“Where is it?” he repeated, the fraction of impatience in his voice not matching the concern in his eyes.

Rosa pressed her lips together. Something foolish or unintelligible was bound to emerge in her current state of mind, so she figured it was better not to say anything for the moment. Foreign emotions thrust their way inside her mind. She felt dizzy and disoriented and didn't know if it was her failed magic or Aden's presence that caused her confusion.

If someone had waved a wand or stirred a cauldron to mix the precise assembly of ingredients to create male perfection, then Aden Dragunis was all that and more. Golden-skinned biceps rippled and bunched into taut bands of steel as he held her high against his chest and she experienced an emotion she had not encountered in years — a moment of tender protection.

Fresh tears pricked her eyes. It was obvious she had been crying because there were still wet tracks on her cheeks. He thought it was because she was injured. Misery mingled with a million other emotions, diluting any objections she might have had. Rendered helpless, Rosa sunk into the maleness of Aden, lost to the unfamiliar sensation of being cosseted, cared for even, until she looked up to find near-black eyes, framed by thick heavy lashes, staring intently at her. They glinted like dangerous glowing coals — inky wells with no beginning or end that spoke of experience, of a life she could only imagine. Within their center Rosa discerned razor-sharp intellect. Forcing her gaze away, she shivered, uncertain whether her reaction came from fear or a feeling of familiarity and wonder at being in his arms.

Knowing she had to put distance between them in order to think clearly, she pushed a palm against his chest. “Put me down. Please.”

With a blink, the fire in his eyes went out. Pffft! As quick as that. She found herself both relieved and irritated he could turn the intensity on and off so easily.

Ignoring her demand, he looked about the room, taking in the shattered pieces of pottery and puddles of water on the table and floor. He made no comment except to say, “You're shivering. It's shock.” He stood, Rosa suspended in his arms. His nostrils flared and he frowned. “It smells like something's burning.”

Don't look up!
Rosa collected her wits and chanted a quick cleaning spell just in case. “I lit a fire last night to ward off the cold. The chimney needs a good cleaning. Something I've neglected to do. I called a tradesman earlier this morning.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. Now where's that first aid kit?”

His impatient tone was enough for her to regain her sanity. “For the love of … !” she exclaimed. “Put me down. It's barely a scratch.”

He simply stared at her with the glimmer of a smile that said there was no way he was going to do as she asked until she complied with his wishes.

“It's in the pantry.” She waved in the general direction of the cupboard doors on the far right of the kitchen. “Over there.”

Aden hooked the rung of an old hand-fashioned kitchen chair with one foot and dragged it out from the table. Fortunately no water or small sharp or jagged pieces had made it onto the seat so he lowered her gently, as if she was precious, and an odd emotion unfurled in her stomach as he tugged out the next chair and, with the surest touch, rested her injured leg upon it.

“Top right-hand shelf,” she said when he looked at her askance. “At the back.”

The shelves were jammed with an inordinate jumble of jars brimming with herbs and tinctures so obscure few had ever heard of them. Woad, wormwood, balsam of Gilead. Her small workroom was full to overflowing. The surplus had ended up in her kitchen; a plethora of jars, all shapes and sizes, containing preserves, spices, herbs, and potions scattered over every available workspace. To the untrained eye it was chaos. To Rosa, it was her chaotic mess, and she knew exactly where everything was.

Making no comment, Aden pulled out items and placed them wherever he found space on the counter until he located the kit. He picked up a cloth and mopped up the bespelled water on the table. Rosa felt herself grow pale. The evidence of her failed magic, her attempt to pry into his world a mockery of puddles in her kitchen.

After tossing the wet cloth into the sink, he lifted her foot, sat down, and rested it on his thigh. Her flimsy skirt rode up her leg, exposing more skin than she cared for, and she planted a hand on the hem to anchor it in place between her legs. Why had she worn such a silly, bitty thing to paint the fence? She should have worn something sensible, like baggy overalls.

Aden's hand skimmed her leg as he searched for further cuts and found another one down by her ankle. Sweet, delicious torture! His fingers were cool, a little calloused, a foil for the agitation consuming her from the inside out. His other hand held her ankle stationary, and when he ran his hand back down her calf, inspecting for further cuts she nearly sprang from the chair as a wave of … of … something she didn't want to label … propelled its way through her veins.

“It will heal quickly,” he said, his head down as he inspected the injury.

“There's salve in the kit.” Rosa silently congratulated herself on sounding normal.
Get on with it,
she intoned to herself. “The label says
Cuts and Bruises
.”

He let go of her calf to dig around in the box of tinctures until he found what he was looking for. An eyebrow arched in question. “One of your herbal remedies?”

Rosa nodded her affirmation. Recalling their earlier conversation about her status as a witch in Raven's Creek, she watched Aden scan the room before unscrewing the cap, a questioning look in his eye.

“Looks like more than a hobby to me.”

“The gallery keeps me busy. You might not think it, but I know where everything is.” All she had to do was cook up a spell and everything would reorganize itself, but he didn't know that, and the skeptical expression made her smile. He didn't believe her for an instant, but he was polite enough not to comment further, which, in her mind made him more human. More reachable.

“I thought you had a date with customs in Auckland this morning?”

Applying the salve to the scratch, Aden paused and looked up, an eyebrow arched. A glimmer of a smile tilted his lips upwards. “Customs have released my work and a courier is bringing the pieces up this afternoon. They should arrive at the cottage around five.”

“So I take it you had time to speak with Alanna?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “First thing this morning. The cottage is mine for the next few weeks.”

“That's great. No more sleepless nights.”
For you, at least!
Beth and Alanna, secure enough in their judgment to allow him entry into their circle, had openly welcomed him. But Rosa felt she was right to be suspicious. She had not imagined the swell of power coming from Lavender Cottage or the uncertainty surrounding the great Pohutukawa not twenty minutes ago.

“The studio is small but comfortable, warm and quiet.” Aden's eyes hinted something dark and secret. “I'm looking forward to getting started on my project.”

“Do you travel with all your tools? I have reservations about you using a torch in a residential building.”

“I've hired a small gas torch and a jewelers workbench. That's being delivered also. The flame is contained and perfectly safe.”

He certainly didn't waste time. It was barely mid-morning, and he'd already made full use of the hours since sunrise.

Rosa reluctantly accepted she needed to get over the fact her space had been invaded. He was a master craftsman. He knew what he was doing, and it was inevitable they would cross paths now that he lived only two hundred or so feet away. Plus it could be to her advantage to know where he was most of the time.

“It sounds as if you're all sorted.”

“All done and dusted.” Aden returned to his ministrations. His hands on her skin were almost too much to bear. She sucked in a breath and he glanced up. “Did that hurt?”

“No. Not really.” She was aware of a dull ache but she ignored it. The pain didn't compare to the loss of her bowl.

He reached out and thumbed telltale traces of moisture from her cheek. “You were crying. It must have hurt.”

Rosa shivered, crossed her arms over her chest, and rubbed her palms along her skin. She could have blamed her reactions on the shock of hearing the bells. Of Aden's early arrival in Raven's Creek, of his enormous potential and all the untriggered wards surrounding her entire property. Only the one at her back gate had worked.

She was spooked.

“I was upset about breaking the bowl. I've had it a long time. It isn't the cut that hurts. I didn't even notice it until you pointed it out.”

“A family heirloom?”

“A significant heirloom,” Rosa admitted. “It's … ” she paused, wondering what she could reveal. “It was irreplaceable. A gift from my parents.”

Aden's tone gentled. “Ahh. I understand,” and somehow she knew he did.

But sympathy wasn't what she wanted. “What brought you here today?” Her fingers twitched. She so wanted to do something with them. Like remove the leather binding holding back his luxurious dark hair and let it spill over his shoulders. She curled her fingers into her palms, wincing when her nails threatened to draw blood.

“You brought me here.” He dressed her wound, his movements measured and precise.

“I did?” Unanswered questions swirled like pollen-laden bumblebees in her head. “Why?”

Aden merely shrugged. “It was you who issued the invitation to show my work in your gallery, was it not?”

Bending her head forward to inspect her leg, she muttered, “The invitation was from all three of us.” Rosa was going to have a word or two in Zelda's ear for initially suggesting Aden in the first place. At first they'd said no. They were a small, sleepy town. Someone as famous as Aden wouldn't be interested. But Zelda had continued to push, and, in the end, the sisters had sent an invitation, never expecting it to be accepted.