Scowling, Morgana snatched up Nash's glass. "He walked out of here on two legs, didn't he?" She sipped, and realized instantly it was a mistake. He'd left too much of himself in the wine.
A powerful man, she thought as she set the goblet down again. Despite the easy smile and the relaxed manner, a very powerful man.
She wished she'd thought to charm the flowers she'd given him, but she dismissed the idea immediately. Perhaps something was pushing them together, but she would deal with it. And she would deal with it, and with Nash Kirkland, without magic.
Chapter 2
Morgana enjoyed the peace of Sunday afternoons. It was her day to indulge herself—and from her first breath, Morgana had appreciated indulgences. Not that she avoided work. She had put a great deal of time and effort into seeing that her shop ran smoothly and turned a profit—without using her special skills to smooth her path. Still, she firmly believed that the proper reward for any effort was relaxation.
Unlike some business owners, Morgana didn't agonize over books and inventory and overhead. She simply did what she felt needed to be done, making sure she did it well. Then when she walked away from it—if only for an hour at a time—she forgot business completely.
It amazed Morgana that there were people who would spend a beautiful day inside, biting their nails over ledgers. She hired an accountant to do that.
She hadn't hired a housekeeper, but only because she didn't care for the idea of someone poking through her personal things. She, and only she, was their caretaker. Though her gardens were extensive—and she'd long ago accepted that she would never have the way with growing things that her cousin Anastasia had—she tended the blooms herself. She found the cycle—planting, watering, weeding, harvesting—rewarding.
She knelt now, in a strong stream of sunlight, at the extensive rockery where her herbs and spring bulbs thrived. There was the scent of rosemary, of hyacinth, the delicacy of jasmine, the richness of anise. Music drifted through the windows, the penny whistles and flutes of a traditional Irish folk tune, clashing cheerfully with the surge and thrust of water spewing up from the rocks a few hundred yards behind her.
It was one of those precious and perfect days, with the sky spread overhead like clear blue glass and the wind, light and playful, carrying the scents of water and wildflowers. From beyond the low wall and sheltering trees at the front of her property, she could hear the occasional swish of a car as tourists or natives took in the scenery.
Luna was sprawled nearby in a patch of sunlight, her eyes slitted, nearly closed, her tail switching occasionally as she watched birds. If Morgana weren't there, she might have tried for a snack—for all her bulk, she could move like lightning. But her mistress was very firm about such habits.
When the dog padded over to drop his head into Morgana's lap, Luna gave a mutter of disgust and went to sleep. Dogs had no pride.
Content, Morgana sat back on her heels, ruffling the dog's fur with one hand as she surveyed her rockery. Perhaps she would pluck a few sprigs—she was running low on angelica balm and hyssop powder. Tonight, she decided. If there was a moon. Such things were best done by moonlight.
For now, she would enjoy the sun, lifting her face to it, letting its warmth and life pour over her skin. She could never sit here without feeling the beauty of this spot, this place where she had been born. Though she had traveled to many other lands, seen many magic places, it was here she belonged.
For it was here, she had learned long ago, that she would find love, share love, and bear her children. With a sigh, Morgana closed her eyes. Those days could wait, she mused. She was content with her life precisely as it was. When the time came for it to change, she intended to remain fully in charge.
When the dog sprang to his feet, a warning growl humming in his throat, Morgana didn't bother to look around. She'd known he'd come. She hadn't needed the crystal or the black mirror to tell her. Nor could she claim it was clairvoyance—that was more her cousin Sebastian's territory. She'd needed only to be a woman to know.
She sat, smiling, while the dog sent out a series of rapid, unfriendly barks. She would see just how Nash Kirkland handled the situation.
How was a man supposed to react when the woman he'd come to see was being guarded by a… he was sure it couldn't really be a wolf, but it sure as hell looked like one. He was doubly sure that if she gave the word the sleek silver beast would take one long leap and go for his throat.
Nash cleared that throat, then jolted when something brushed his leg. Glancing down, he noted that Luna, at least, had decided to be friendly. "Nice dog you got there," he said cautiously. "Nice, big dog."