Breath of Magic Read online

  Breath of Magic

  By

  Teresa Medeiros

  * * *

  AN EXQUISITE ENCHANTRESS LOST IN TIME

  Arian Whitewood hadn't quite gotten the hang of the powerful amulet she'd inherited from her mother, but she never expected it to whisk her more than three hundred years into the future. Flying unsteadily on her broomstick, she suddenly finds herself among towers of glass and metal, then tumbling from the sky to land at the feet of a man with frost-gray eyes and a seemingly flint-hard heart.

  A SKEPTICAL TYCOON OUT OF HIS ELEMENT

  Reclusive billionaire Tristan Lennox didn't believe in magic, but he had his own reasons for offering one million dollars to anyone who could prove it existed. Now he finds himself besieged by fakes, frauds, and an old nemesis ready to leap on this opportunity to destroy him. But the smoky-voiced beauty who appeared to fall from the clouds into his climate-controlled existence is something else entirely – a woman able to enchant his lonely heart with wonder, but who can't possibly be what she seems….

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1996 by Teresa Medeiros.

  Cover art copyright © 1996 by Alan Ayers.

  Cover insert copyright © 1996 by Pino Dangelico.

  ISBN 0-553-56.334-3 Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10.036.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  * * *

  To Nita Taublib for giving me the wings to soar

  To Tommy and Jacque Pigage and

  Brian and Vonda Gates.

  God knew I was going to have

  a tough year, so he gave me you for friends,

  proving his infinite wisdom once again

  And for Michael, who makes me believe in magic every day we're together

  * * *

  acknowledgments

  To the memory of elizabeth montgomery,

  whose wit, beauty, grace, and intelligence made every little girl of my generation long to be a witch.

  * * *

  Prologue

  The media hadn't dubbed the four-thousand-square-foot penthouse perched at the apex of Lennox Tower the Fortress for nothing, Michael Copperfield thought, as he changed elevators for the third time, keyed his security code into the lighted pad, and jabbed the button for the ninety-fifth floor.

  The elevator doors slid open with a sibilant hiss. Resisting the temptation to gawk at the dazzling night view of the Manhattan skyline, Copperfield strode across a meadow of neutral beige carpet and shoved open the door at the far end of the suite.

  "Do come in," said a dry voice. "Don't bother to knock."

  Copperfield slapped that morning's edition of the Times on the chrome desk and stabbed a finger at the headline. "I just got back from Chicago. What in the hell is the meaning of this?"

  A pair of frosty gray eyes flicked from the blinking cursor on the computer screen to the crumpled newspaper. "I should think it requires no explanation. You can't have been my PR advisor for all these years without learning how to read."

  Copperfield glared at the man he had called friend for twenty-five years and employer for seven. "Oh, I can read quite well. Even between the lines." To prove his point, he snatched up the paper and read," 'Tristan Lennox – founder, CEO, and primary stockholder of Lennox Enterprises – offers one million dollars to anyone who can prove that magic exists outside the boundaries of science. Public competition to be held tomorrow morning in the courtyard of Lennox Tower. Eccentric boy billionaire seeks only serious applicants.'" Copperfield twisted the paper as if to throttle his employer in effigy. "Serious applicants? Why, you'll have every psychic hotline operator, swindler, and Geraldo-reject on your doorstep by dawn!"

  "Geraldo already called. I gave him your home number."

  "How can you be so glib when I've faxed my fingers to the bone trying to establish a respectable reputation for you?"

  Droll amusement glittered in Tristan's hooded eyes. "I'll give you a ten-thousand-dollar bonus if you can get them to stop calling me the 'Boy Billionaire.' It makes me feel like Bruce Wayne without the Batmobile. And I did just turn thirty-two. I hardly qualify as a 'Boy' anything."

  His fickle attention shifted to his fax machine. The display's artificial light carved hollows beneath his cheekbones and cast an eerie glow over his implacable features. As his deft finger tapped a button that would send a fax authorizing a corporate takeover of a multimillion-dollar software conglomerate, Copperfield wanted to tug his own sleek ponytail in frustration.

  "How long are you going to keep indulging these ridiculous whims of yours? Until you've completely destroyed your credibility? Until everyone in New York is laughing behind your back?"

  "Until I find what I'm looking for."

  "What? Or who?"

  Ignoring Copperfield's pointed question as he had for the past ten years, Tristan flipped off fax and computer with a single switch and rose from the swivel chair.

  As he approached the north wall, an invisible seam widened to reveal a walk-in closet twice the size of Copperfield's loft apartment. Recessed track lighting illuminated each of his steps into the cavernous vault. Fearing that shouting across such a distance might actually produce an echo, Copperfield had no choice but to tag after him.

  As Tristan activated an automated tie rack, Copperfield said, "Sometimes I think you flaunt convention deliberately. To keep everyone at arm's length where they can't hurt you." He drew in a steadying breath. "To keep the old scandal alive."

  For a tense moment, the only sound was the mechanical swish of the ties circling their narrow track.

  Tristan's shoulders lifted in a dispassionate shrug as he chose a burgundy striped silk to match his Armani suit. "Discrediting charlatans is a hobby. No different from playing the stock market or collecting Picassos." He knotted the tie with expert efficiency, shooting Copperfield a mocking glance. "Or romancing bulimic supermodels with Godiva chocolates."

  Copperfield folded his arms over his chest. "Have you had my apartment under surveillance again or did you conjure up that sordid image in your crystal ball? At least I give chocolates. As I recall, the last model I introduced you to didn't get so much as a 'thank you, ma'am'! after her 'wham-bam.'"

  Tristan's expression flickered with something that might have been shame in a less guarded man. "I meant to have my assistant send some flowers." He chose a pair of platinum cuff links from a mahogany tray. "If it's the million dollars you're worried about, Cop, don't waste your energy. I'm the last man who expects to forfeit that prize."

  "Well, you know what they say. Within the chest of every cynic beats the heart of a disillusioned optimist."

  Tristan brushed past him, fixing both his cuff links and his mask of aloof indifference firmly in place. "You should know better than anyone that I stopped believing in magic a long time ago."

  "So you say, my friend," Copperfield murmured to himself. "So you say."

  He studied the tie rack with a practiced squint before choosing a modest Brooks Brothers that would complement his eyes. He shoved it into his suit pocket, then pivoted only to discover that Tristan's exit had prompted the closet doors to glide soundlessly shut.

  Copperfield rushed forward and began to bang on the seamless expanse with both fists. "Hey! Somebody let me out of here! Damn you, Tristan! You arrogant son of a – " A disbelieving bark of laughter escaped him as he braced his shoulder against the door. "Well, I'll be d
amned. What else can go wrong today?"

  He found out an instant later when the mellow lighting programmed to respond solely to his employer's entrances and exits flickered, then went out.

  The girl plopped down on the broomstick. Her skirts bunched up around her knees, baring a pair of slender calves shrouded in black stockings. A stray gust of wind rattled the dying leaves and ruffled her hair, forcing her to swipe a dark curl from her eyes. Gooseflesh prickled along her arms.

  Shaking off the foreboding pall of the sky, she gripped the broomstick with both hands and screwed her eyes shut. As she attempted the freshly memorized words, a cramp shot down her thigh, shattering her concentration. She tried shouting the spell, but the broomstick did not deign to grant even a bored shudder in response.

  Her voice faded to a defeated whisper. Disappointment swelled in her throat, constricting the tender membranes until tears stung her eyes. Perhaps she'd been deluding herself. Perhaps she was just as wretched a witch as she'd always feared.

  She loosened the taut laces of her homespun bodice to toy with the emerald amulet suspended from a delicate filigree chain. Although she kept it well hidden from prying eyes and ignored its presence except in moments of dire vexation, she still felt compelled to wear it over her heart like a badge of shame.

  "Sacre bleu, I only wanted to fly," she muttered.

  The broomstick lurched forward, then jerked to a halt. The amulet lay cool and indifferent over her galloping heart.

  Afraid to heed her own fickle senses, she slowly drew the gold chain over her head and squeezed the amulet. Leaning over the weatherbeaten stick, she whispered, "I only wanted to fly."

  Nothing.

  She straightened, shaking her head at her own folly.

  The willow broom sailed into the air and stopped, leaving her dangling by one leg. The stick quivered beneath her, the intensity of its power making the tiny hairs at her nape bristle with excitement.

  "Fly!" she commanded with feeling.

  The broom hung poised in midair for a shuddering eternity, then aimed itself toward the crowns of the towering oaks. It darted to a dizzying height, then swooped down, dragging her backside along the ground for several feet before shooting into another wild ascent.

  She whooped in delight, refusing to consider the perils of soaring around a small clearing on a splintery hearth broom. The harder she laughed, the faster the broom traveled until she feared it would surely bolt the clearing and shoot for the distant moon hanging in the afternoon sky.

  With a tremendous effort, she heaved herself astride the broom. She perched in relative comfort for a full heartbeat before the curious conveyance rocketed upward on a path parallel with the tallest oak, then dove downward with equal haste. The ground reached up to slam into her startled face.

  She wheezed like a beached cod, praying the air would show mercy and fill her straining lungs. When she could finally breathe again, she lifted her throbbing head to find the broom lying a few feet away.

  She spat out a mouthful of crumbled leaves and glared at the lifeless stick.

  But her disgust was forgotten as she became aware of the gentle warmth suffusing her palm. She unfolded her trembling fingers to find the amulet bathed in a lambent glow. Her mouth fell open in wonder as the emerald winked twice as if to confirm their secret, then faded to darkness.

  She was too captivated by her discovery to see the gaunt figure who unfolded himself from the shadows of the forest. A grim smile of triumph twisted his lips as he turned toward the village, the half-light of the rising moon caressing the elegant threads of silver at his temples.

  * * *

  PART I

  Thy sweet magic brings together What stern Custom spreads afar;

  All men become brothers Where thy happy wing-beats are.

  – Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller

  Enter these enchanted woods, You who dare.

  – George Meredith

  1

  If anyone had dared to inform Miss Arian Whitewood that it might prove hazardous to practice witchcraft in the colony of Massachusetts in 1689, she would have scoffed in their face with all the saucy immortality of any twenty-year-old. Anyone, however, did not include her stepfather, for whom she harbored a great deal of respect and a somewhat stilted affection. So she sat in the ladder-backed chair facing the stone hearth, her hands folded demurely in her lap, and listened wide-eyed to his diatribe against Satan's servants and black magic.

  His rehearsed speech seemed to embarrass him more than it did her. He clutched a slim prayerbook in one hand and fidgeted with his iron-gray hair with the other. His gaze persisted in straying to a spot just over her head.

  Arian's buckled shoes tapped out a merry rhythm on the freshly sanded floor as her stepfather raved on about some irksome cow that refused to give anything but curdled milk for Goody Hubbins. As she glanced at the willow broom leaning innocently against the hearth, her lips twitched with remembered amusement.

  "Arian!" Marcus Whitewood bellowed, his faded blue eyes capturing her gaze. "Have you not heard a word I have said? Do you not realize your soul is in grave danger, child?"

  She swallowed a sigh. "Forgive me, Father Marcus. My thoughts wandered. Pray do continue."

  Her bored resignation sent Marcus's hand shooting through his hair again. "Only yesterday Goodwife Burke claimed her Charity was reading her catechisms when you did pass by the window and the girl went into fits."

  "Fits of boredom most likely," Arian muttered beneath her breath. She didn't dare tell Marcus that the horse-faced Charity had come pounding at their door only two nights ago, begging Arian to cast her future in a cup of moldy tea leaves.

  "I accuse you of nothing, daughter. But I thought you safer warned of the talk in the village. "It's not only your soul I am troubled for."

  Arian groaned. "I shall never be a Puritan and they know it. I only attend their interminable meeting to make life easier for you. They've hated me from the moment I set foot in Gloucester."

  Marcus's frown softened. He remembered that moment vividly although it had occurred over ten years ago. He had stood on the dock, wringing his hat in his hands until it was past all repair. A silent prayer had risen unbidden to his lips when a tiny vision in a scarlet cape had come sauntering down the ship's ramp, clutching a valise with the bored assurance of a practiced traveler.

  His rehearsed words of welcome had died in his throat as the jaded pygmy surveyed him from heels to head and demanded in a voice two octaves too deep for its owner's petite stature, "Where is my mama? Has she run off again?"

  His stepdaughter had grown a few scant inches since then, but her husky voice and snapping dark eyes could still make a man swallow his words.

  She folded her arms over her chest in a gesture of rebellion Marcus had come to know only too well. " 'Twas my fluency in French and my ruffled petticoats they did not care for. My grandmama believed a traveling child should be well dressed."

  "Your grandmama also believed in witchcraft, young lady." He shook a forefinger at her. "She was a fanciful old Frenchwoman who poisoned your innocent mind with her black arts."

  "White arts," Arian bit off. "Grandmama was a Christian. It broke her heart to send me away. She lived less than a year after my departure."

  Arian blinked back a hot rush of tears. Her dear, pudgy grandmama had not known she was sending Arian to a stern stepfather she had never met and a mother who would be dead before she arrived.

  Marcus tilted her chin up with one finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I promised your mother I would offer you both a home and a name. Even when Lillian was too weak to speak without coughing up blood, her thoughts were of you. She had great hopes of building a life here for the three of us."

  His wistful smile gave Arian a glimpse of the adoration that had drawn her frivolous mama to this plain, stoic man. She looked away, knowing herself an intruder on his lost passion for a woman Arian had hardly known and never liked.

  Marcus gruffly cle
ared his throat. "You are an innocent, Arian. An easy mark for the devil. He could prey upon your childish potions and playacting. I know you intend no harm, but the villagers do not. They see a willful girl who is different from them and it makes them afraid."

  "But I haven't concocted a single potion since you burned my powdered mice feet and poured out my bat's blood," she assured him earnestly.

  He shuddered and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Allow me to pray for your soul, daughter. Let us kneel and ask the Almighty Lord to purge you of the seeds of black magic your grandmother planted in your heart."

  Even as she slipped obediently to her knees, Arian's heart cried, White magic!

  Knowing protest was futile, she arranged her skirts to cushion her knees for an ordeal that could last for hours. Marcus eased into a steady drone, repeating prayer after prayer from the slender book. A trickle of sweat crawled down Arian's side beneath the scratchy linsey-woolsey of her dress.

  She opened one eye to find Marcus's head bowed and his eyes closed. Eager to test her newfound talents, she narrowed her eyes, focusing all of her attention on a pewter candlestick that rested on the mantel. The candlestick just sat there – a mocking blob of inanimate metal. Desperate to prove her powers were her own, but loath to admit defeat, Arian drew her folded hands inward to grasp the emerald amulet. Her fingers began to tingle.

  A gap slowly widened between the gleaming base of the candlestick and the wooden shelf. A mischievous smile curved Arian's lips. She swung her head from side to side, sending the candlestick into a sprightly jig.

  "Arian!"

  Marcus's roar splintered her concentration. The massive candlestick crashed to the hearth only inches from his kneeling form.