Page 7 of Magic Touch
Moving so that his hip is leaning against my counter, he faces me. "When I was on the continent, I had several occasions where I needed to forage for food. I would harvest a rabbit or some other woodland animal, build a fire and cook it. My first few attempts ended rather badly, but I got better with practice."
I drop the carrots in the pot and set to work on the potatoes. "I suppose we all do what we must to survive."
Darkness shadows his eyes and the blue glow dims. "Yes." He spots his hands and his gaze shoots to me. "The effects dimmed. Did you see?"
"I did. What were you thinking about?" As he looks at me, the glow increases again.
He studies his hands. "I was thinking about the war. Nothing specific, just the horror of it all."
Heart in my throat, I don't want him to think of terrible times. Yet his gaze is too much. I focus on the potatoes and add them to the pot, then place the heavy iron on the hook in the hearth. "We've been so occupied that I didn't ask you how your leg feels?"
Gaze distant, he rakes his hand through his hair. "I barely have any pain. It's an echo of what was."
It is a very good sign for the healing process. "Sometimes the magic begins the healing, and then the body takes over the work. What you feel is the final stage of your recovery. I'm pleased I could help at least with that."
Having taken a vow to do no harm, it grates at me that I have somehow broken that oath. I wanted so badly to help him. Maybe my personal feelings took over, but my intentions had been good and pure.
If Mother were alive, she'd know what to do. "I'm sure the coven will give us some directions about this phenomenon." I take out two bowls and spoons, and set them with napkins on the table.
William places them carefully in front of each chair. He even folds the napkins neatly. "I believe you had no ill intentions."
The knot in my gut eases slightly.
When the potatoes are tender, I spoon stew into the bowls, then place the pot on a stone near the hearth, where it will stay warm but not cook any further.
We eat in silence while the idea of asking the Windsor witches for help gnaws at me. It isn't that I have anything against the coven, well, not directly. My mother and the witch who previously headed the coven were adversaries.
"What are you thinking that causes you to scowl so?" William takes the last bite of his stew.
"Do you want more?" I change the subject.
"No, thank you. This was very good. It reminds me of a stew the cook of my youth made long ago." As he gets lost in his memory, the lines around his mouth ease.
"I'm pleased you liked it." Despite the glow of blue magic, he has nice hands, strong and callused, as if he does more than sit in his grand house and laze the days away. "The magic wouldn't come to me, but maybe I can teach you how to focus the light so it's not so obvious."
He takes his bowl and spoon to the sink. "What would I have to do?"
There is something out of place and yet perfectly right about his broad shoulders filling the space near my sink. A small pump brings water from the well outside, and he gives it a few tugs until water fills the basin.
"I will clean the dishes." I jump up and rush to the sink. "If you’ll wait upstairs, I'll only be a few moments cleaning up."
"Afraid I'll chip something?" His smile is infectious.
"A lady does not like to share her kitchen, is all." I motion for him to head up the stairs and wait.
Chapter
Three
WILLIAM
Her rooms are just as they were the night before. I sit on the couch, but then rise and round the room, inspecting trinkets and books as I go. Touching items that are familiar to her feels intimate, and I don't want to stop. With no business snooping, I can't help wanting to know her better. Something about Esme O'Dwyer calls to me at a level I haven't experienced before.
She is attractive. Beautiful, to be honest, but it's more than that. I can't put my finger on the why or how of it, but she is irresistibly magnetic.
I run a finger over an ornate little box sitting on the plain mantel of unadorned wood. The box has gold filigree and a row of tiny rubies along the edge. It seems quite out of place in the simple apartment.
"It was my mother's. She was a fine lady of society, but lowered herself by marrying my poor Irish father. That box is the only item from her past that she kept." Esme stands in the doorway. She isn't angered by my snooping, nor does she seem surprised.
