Donna Fletcher.

Magical Moments.

To two very special friends, Johnnie and Tracy, who understand and practice the true meaning of magic.

One.

"She is a disgrace, sir."

Dagon listened with his eyes closed and his head resting back against the plush gray velvet seat of the old Rolls-Royce. Alastair, his steadfast chauffeur and a spry, wiry man for his one hundred years, started complaining as soon as Dagon had asked how things were at the castle.

A question he now wished he could rescind. He was tired from his long flight from the States to Scotland. And presently he wanted nothing more than to take a shower and slip into bed for several hours of much needed sleep.

He should have used his powers to transport himself across continents, thus saving himself the affects of jet lag. After all, he was a witch. A three-hundred-year-old witch with tremendous powers at his disposal. But a last-minute business venture forced him to take a normal flight with the mortal businessman he was presently in negotiations with. And now, like a mortal, he required sleep.

He could recharge his energy in other ways. The blond stewardess had made her interest clear, and a pa.s.sionate romp in bed would have more than restored his depleted energy.

He had given her blatant invitation considerable thought and reluctantly declined her offer while graciously accepting her phone number. He had personal business at his ancestral castle that required his immediate attention, and he could put it off no longer. The matter had already suffered enough unexpected delays, an urgent business deal in Athens and an important wedding in the United States to be precise.

Now, however, after listening to Alastair's continuous complaints, he wished he had accepted the shapely mortal's l.u.s.ty offer and lost himself in a night of pa.s.sion.

"She barely has any powers and she attempts to tackle her ch.o.r.es as a mortal would," Alastair said with disdain. "It takes her forever-that is, if she doesn't break something first or injure herself."

"Injure? How can she injure herself? She's a witch," Dagon said, confused. His whole household staff consisted of witches to one degree or another. All witches were not equal in power and skills, even though most mortals erroneously believed them to be. Some witches possessed great powers, others only one or two particular skills, and some a mere sprinkle of power, but even the least skilled witch was able to complete a task much faster than any mortal.

"It's a shame, a disgrace," Alastair lamented, shaking his head. "She goes and cuts herself while dusting in the dining room, and she can't even stop the bleeding." He shook his head harder. "She attempts to stop the blood with her ap.r.o.n and makes more of a mess."

"What could she possibly have cut herself on in the dining room?"

Alastair cringed, his narrow shoulders hunching up. "The broken James V vase."

"What?" Dagon said, bolting up straight.

Alastair hurried to explain. "She accidentally dropped the antique while cleaning."

"Why didn't she prevent it from hitting the ground?"

"She doesn't seem to have sufficient powers."

"Which means she didn't have the skills to return the vase to its original condition," Dagon said and

dropped back against the seat, releasing a hefty sigh. "Well, at least Bernard will see to its repair." Bernard had been his butler for the last two hundred years. He was a tall, dignified man with startling white hair and a penchant for fine clothes. He took his duties seriously and ran Rasmus Castle with the precision and skill of an accomplished general. He and his wife Margaret, the housekeeper, had served Dagon well, and he didn't know what he would do without them. His various business dealings often took him away for months at a time and he was grateful he had the efficient couple to depend on.

"Now, there's the strange part," Alastair said and reluctantly continued. "It seems no one can right her wrongs. If she breaks something, it stays broken." This time Dagon sat up slowly. "Are you telling me that the vase presented to my father by James V is beyond repair?" Alastair delivered the bad news in a single word. " Shattered." Dagon growled beneath his breath and once again sank back against the velvet seat. "What is this incompetent witch's name?" "Sarina." That brought a chilling laugh from Dagon. "Well, she certainly doesn't live up to her name-peaceful and serene." "That, sir, I can certainly attest to. Why-" "No more," Dagon ordered. "I will take care of the matter when we arrive." Alastair nodded along with a "Yes, sir." Dagon glanced out the window. It was autumn in Scotland and the heather was in full bloom, spreading across the countryside wherever one looked. He had left on a business trip in the spring when the rhododendrons had burst into full glorious shades of pink, red, and violet. He had hoped to return in the summer when the fuchsias were spilling their exceptional colors from the bushes that grew abundantly in the country gardens.

He had to smile, recalling the reason for fuchsias being so prevalent in the countryside. In days of old the bush was believed to ward off witches, another misconception by humans but one that at least produced a beautiful result.

And then there was the gloaming, a stunning sight to behold during summer. After the sun set, hours of twilight remained and the sight of the land in such ethereal splendor simply stilled one's heart.

This was the Scotland he loved and carried with him always. This was where his roots were firmly planted and where he would one day raise his own family. Another reason he had returned home. It was time to settle down, find one of his own kind to commit to and mate with.

He supposed it was his recent visit with Alisande that made him think so strongly on marriage. Ali was like a sister to him. They grew up together, she spending time here in Scotland and he spending time at her family's estate just outside of Washington, D.C., in Virginia.

He had gotten her out of many a difficult situation through the years, and this most recent one had given him pause to think. Ali had fallen in love with a mortal male and wished to mate with him for life. He couldn't understand her choice, but after meeting Sebastian Wainwright, he discovered he liked the courageous mortal. And he envied the deep love the pair shared. It had taken some wise maneuvering to bring the two together, especially since his hands had been tied as far as his powers were concerned. But he had managed to use his wit just before he had left the States and it had worked. He recently had the honor of being the best man at their wedding.

The wedding had started him thinking more seriously about a lifemate.

While he never lacked female companionship, he recently felt the need for a more solid, binding relationship. One bound by a strong commitment of respect, admiration, and equal powers.

Mortal females were out of the question as were witches with limited abilities. He desired a witch as powerful or even more powerful than himself. Two strong powers uniting would create strong baby witches, and he wanted a slew of them.

He had his sights set on one particular witch. She was called the Ancient One; legends said she was born with the dawn of time and that her powers were limitless. There were few witches who knew her. She kept to herself and chose those she would teach or befriend. It was also believed that she had loved but once, and since losing that great love she refused to love again.

Dagon intended to change her mind, and he had no doubt that he could. He was far from conceited where his looks and abilities were concerned, though he wouldn't deny he possessed an air of arrogance. He simply understood himself and his unique capabilities.

It would be foolish of him to deny that women found him attractive. He couldn't walk into a room without females turning their heads in interest or men shaking theirs in envy.

He walked with pride and confidence and an intimidating arrogance that appeared to rankle mortals. Of course, he was well aware that his looks commanded attention. His long shiny black hair fell past his broad shoulders, his welldefined body remained in top shape because he worked to keep it that way, and his face?

He smiled to himself. He was grateful to his parents for his handsome features. They had chosen wisely when they mated and their physical beauties blended well when they conceived him. Women forever commented on his good looks.

Therefore, he was certain he possessed all the attributes a witch of this old one's caliber would be searching for in a mate. He also knew a witch who was once her student. Ali's aunt Sydney, and he intended for Aunt Sydney to introduce them.

He yawned, his weary eyes drifting closed. First, he would see to this dilemma at the castle. This Sarina had come highly recommended by old friends, the MacDougals. Unfortunately, the couple were presently on an extended vacation, and he wasn't able to question them in regards to her background.

It didn't matter, though. If the woman was as incompetent as Alastair claimed, he would simply release her from her contract and be done with it. Dagon was drifting off into a peaceful slumber when the Rolls turned up the long driveway and came to a stop at the castle's front door.

Alastair barely had the car door open when a thunderous crash was heard followed by female screams.

Alastair shook his head. "She's at it again."

Dagon raced up the stone steps and flung open the heavy wooden door.

Chaos reigned in the large foyer. A tall wooden ladder lay toppled on its side on the white marble tile

floor. Two screeching maids pointed trembling fingers toward the ceiling. Bernard was yelling, his head

tilted back and his wide eyes fixed where fingers pointed. Dagon stared up in utter confusion and surprise at the woman who dangled overhead from his centuries-old chandelier. Her hands gripped the bra.s.s bars while hundreds of crystal teardrops harshly chimed against one another. Her shapely legs swung back and forth as she obviously attempted to gain control of her precarious situation, and she was minus one black shoe.

Her slim black skirt had managed to inch its way up her slim thighs from her constant wiggling, and Dagon caught an unexpected glimpse of black lace panties. He couldn't quite catch sight of her face, but her dark brown hair was falling loose from the pins that held it, leaving several strands falling past her shoulders.

The shouts and screeches continued, no one having noticed his entrance over the chaos.

He delivered his order sharply and loudly. "Enough!"

Silence immediately followed.

"Sir-"Bernard began only to be cut off by Dagon's raised hand. The butler obeyed his silent

command without hesitation.

Dagon walked to stand directly beneath the dangling woman. "Sarina, I presume."

"Yes, sir," came the much too soft reply.

"Sarina, if you would be so kind as to float down here."

Gasps sounded in the foyer, and Dagon saw Bernard shake his head in weary disgust.

"I can't do that, sir."

Her gentle voice quivered and Dagon sensed her fear. "You don't possess the energy?"

"No, sir," she answered on a gasp. "And I don't think I can hold on much longer."

Dagon didn't hesitate. She obviously was in immediate danger. Her apprehension a.s.saulted him full force, and sensing her urgent alarm only irritated him all the more. He released a low, annoyed mumble and with no difficulty floated up to her swaying body.

When he was directly beside her, he reached out and slipped his arm securely around her slim waist. She instantly anch.o.r.ed her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. Her slender body trembled, and he moved his other arm protectively around her back to hug her to him and calm her nervous tremors.

"You're all right now. I have you," he a.s.sured her softly.

He slowly drifted down to the ground, and when their feet touched the tiles, he felt her body sag against him in relief. He kept a firm hold on her, though his one hand sought her chin to draw her face away from his shoulder so he could speak with her.

"Are you-"

He stopped, his breath stolen from him as he looked into her eyes, their color a nondescriptive pale blue, but within their depths shined an age-old wisdom so profound it momentarily stunned him speechless. In the next second it was completely gone, and he suddenly wondered if he had simply imagined it.

Dagon kept a firm arm around her waist. "Are you all right?"

Sarina barely confirmed his query with a nod, though her body continued to tremble against his.

"I think tea and brandy would serve you well right now." He then turned to Bernard and ordered, "See that this mess is cleaned up and bring tea to my study. I will speak with you later."

Bernard nodded respectfully and immediately began issuing orders to the servants.

Dagon lent a steady support to the quivering woman until he was finally able to sit her on the beige silk striped settee by the large hearth in his study. He quickly saw to getting her a brandy from the cherry wood cabinet that housed his personal stock of liquor.

Bernard entered the large room that housed an impressive collection of books, several being first editions, as Dagon handed the crystal gla.s.s to Sarina.

She reached for it with shaking hands and Bernard cringed.

She cast the intimidating butler a nervous glance then she grasped the Waterford crystal in both hands and carefully brought the trembling gla.s.s to her lips. Dagon watched the exchange and grew annoyed. "Leave the tray."

Bernard attempted to protest. "She is not capable of serving tea."

"I will not repeat myself," Dagon said authoritatively.

Bernard did as directed, arranging the silver tray that held delicate china cups and saucers, a silver

teapot, a creamer and sugar bowl with small elegant silver tongs for the tiny cubes, on the small table in

front of the settee and then he quietly left. Dagon returned to the cherry wood cabinet to pour himself a gla.s.s of brandy and allow Sarina time to calm her nervous tremors. The brief time also allowed him to study her, and his findings surprised him.

Though he could not term her beautiful, she possessed a face that captured attention. Her features were strong, high cheekbones leading to bold, large eyes and full l.u.s.ty lips that tormented a man. Her silky brown hair, half pinned up and half falling down, was a few inches past shoulder length, and she wore it parted in the middle with a wisp of bangs that ended just past her eyebrows and down along the sides of her temples. She had small b.r.e.a.s.t.s that looked as though they would fit quite nicely in the palm of his hands. Her waistline curved over slender hips that molded- He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling her firm and perfectly curved backside. He shook away the enticing memory and downed a good portion of his brandy. Whatever was the matter with him? While he found most females attractive in their own special ways, he would not think of involving himself with an incompetent witch. The absurd notion was simply out of the question, even if she did possess a backside that he itched to touch. "Behave yourself," he whispered to himself in warning and then turned and joined her on the settee. "Feeling better?" he asked. "Much," she answered, her voice soft and much too sensual, to Dagon's annoyance. He took another generous swallow of brandy. Sarina continued to hold tightly, though with one hand, to her brandy gla.s.s. "Thank you so much for rescuing me." Dagon wished to question her about her spell-casting problem but thought better of it. She seemed to no longer tremble, and he did not wish to further upset her. "Would you like some tea?" he asked. Sarina looked at the elegant tea service with trepidation. Dagon instantly relieved her fears. "I shall do the honors." Her face brightened. "Thank you. I would love a cup of tea." Dagon poured two cups from the silver teapot and turned a questioning glance to Sarina. "Just one lump of sugar, please."

He dropped a tiny cube in her teacup, placed a silver teaspoon along the saucer, and handed the cup to her. Her fingers looked steady as she reached out to take it, and when he was certain she had a firm hold on it, he let go to turn and reach for his own cup.

Sarina moved forward to place her brandy gla.s.s on the tray, and as she moved back in her seat her hand holding the teacup collided with Dagon's, and both cups went toppling over, spilling the hot contents all over the both of them.

Sarina yelped, Dagon gasped, and she immediately reached down to retrieve the fallen cups and saucers. Her hands fumbled over him in the most intimate place, and he silently cursed her inept hands. She made matters worse when after placing the china on the tray, she reached for a white linen napkin and attempted to pat him dry.

She apologized profusely while pressing the napkin along the zipper of his black wool trousers.

His annoyance wasn't the only thing growing, and he hastily reached for her wrist and drew her hand away from him. "Clean it up the proper way."

While he attempted to keep the irritation out of his voice, her wide, apprehensive eyes and her full, quivering lips cautioned he had not succeeded.

"I cannot," she admitted, her trembling voice warning she was on the verge of tears.

Two.