“Wait a minute,” Caldwell protested. “What areyougoing to do with her?”
“I’m going to make sure she’s okay,” Lucas answered. “The keys. Now.”
Reluctantly Caldwell pulled them out of his pocket and brushed his thumb against one of them, flicking off a bit of clay-colored debris. “Here. Don’t rape her.”
Lucas’ eyes glowed pure gold and Caldwell instinctively stepped back.
“I’ve never forced myself on a woman. Have you?”
Caldwell’s cell phone rang. With a look of relief, he answered it. The look was quickly replaced with a frown.
“No, sir. I wasn’t able to get what you asked.” There was a pause and Caldwell turned pale. “Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” He disconnected and took a deep breath. “I’ve got to go.” Opening the door, he turned back. “Later, Highlander. We’re not through yet.”
****
Sara curled up on her sofa, wrapped in a blanket and holding her aching head, while Nim twittered nervously in the air. It wasn’t enough that she’d gotten rip-roaring drunk in the middle of the afternoon for no reason, but to have to ask Lucas to stop the car so she could be sick was the ultimate humility. She didn’t even want to face him.
“Here, lass. Drink this.” Lucas sat down on the couch beside her and held out a steaming mug of tea. “Black cohash. Good for stomach upset.”
Trembling, she reached out and he placed the cup in her hand and wrapped his over hers. His hands were warm and strong and Sara felt energy effusing through them, sweeping over her like a gentle breeze. Her nerves steadied and she took a sip of tea.
“How did you know about cohash?” she asked.
“It’s an old medieval remedy, isn’t it? Something that maybe Nimue would have used in King Arthur’s days?”
Beside her shoulder, the faerie stilled and stared at him. Sara didn’t notice, for Lucas still embraced her hands and the warm, fuzzy feeling was quickly turning into something more like flaming heat. Heat that pricked at her nipples and seared through her belly and kindled a throbbing between her legs. Maybe something in her face gave away her lecherous thoughts, for Lucas suddenly dropped his hands.
“You’ve got quite a collection of unusual herbs,” he said.
What to tell him? She could just about imagine his reaction if she told him she was a practicing witch. There were few people who understood white witches followed the Goddess way and didn’t go around casting spells or curses.
“I’m into holistic healing,” she said. “I prefer natural remedies to drugs.” He lifted an eyebrow, but remained silent and Sara prayed that he hadn’t found the baneful packets. They were only used for protection and, sometimes, for clairvoyance, although that wasn’t really her thing. The vision in the cup two nights ago had been enough.
“Interesting décor, too,” he said as he got up and moved across the room to study a painting over the fireplace. The setting was a lush, grassy hill dotted with grazing sheep and resting dogs. A dove sat in the single hawthorn tree that stood atthe base of the hill, almost lost in the snowy flowers. A circle of standing stones crowned the summit. Inside that circle a woman stood, clad in a simple, sleeveless gown of white, a small golden sickle hanging from a silver belt. Her bright red hair cascaded down her back and her arms were raised in supplication.
Lucas turned to Sara questioningly. “Brighid,” she said. “Goddess of Eire.”
He turned back to the painting. “Aye. It looks verra like her.”
“Pardon me?”
He seemed to give himself a little shake and then he crossed the room to sit in a chair close to the sofa. “One of my ancestors had a likeness of her,” he said. “She is the Goddess of the Highlands, too.”
“Is” not “was.” Interesting.“The Christians even adopted her as St. Brigit, the midwife to the Virgin,” Sara said and watched for a reaction. “When they couldn’t eradicate pagan beliefs, they simply converted them into Christian practices, like they did with Samhain and All Saints Day or Eostre and Easter.”
Lucas glanced again at the picture. “The important thing is that she’s remembered, don’t you think?”
All Goddesses are One. Sara took another sip of tea. “I suppose so.”
He looked around the room and Sara suddenly wondered if he’d recognized any of the symbology spread about. None of her Three Losers had. On the side wall, encased in a silver frame, were three pictures of the moon in its waxing, full, and waning cycles against a night sky. Maiden, mother, crone. Behind her and above the sofa was an intricate wooden carving of vines and roses, signifying the blending of the masculine and feminine elements of the Blood Royal. A figurine of Venus, holding the five-pointed morning and evening star in her hand, stood on the coffee table. And, on the fourth wall, a painting of gypsies gathered around a night fire, the wagons behind them, while agirl with long black hair danced for them, her skirts swirling above bare feet.
Lucas pointed at the picture and smiled. “That looks like you. St. Sara is the patron saint of the gypsies. Are you named for her?”
She stared at him, wondering if he really did understand what he saw. The darker-skinned Sara that Mary Magdalene brought with her to the south of France had been her daughter and the Rom were indeed descendants. And they were her ancestors.
“Actually, I was.” She noticed a fleeting look of surprise in his golden eyes and wondered what he’d think if he saw the Black Madonna that was in her bedroom. Thoughts of him actuallybeingin her bedroom—and naked in her bed, with maybe just a tiny bit of sheet covering him—caused all the butterflies to start fluttering again, not to mention an anticipatory tingle she was beginning to identify as sheer lust when it came to thinking about the man. Better stay focused. Think about Madonna—not the current Material Girl—although the statute in her room didn’t have anything to do with the Virgin Mary but spoke of an entirely different bloodline.My bloodline. But how much can I tell him? Be safe. Keep it casual.
“My mother always admired the gypsies. Their freedom to roam and their closeness of family.”
