Magic by Moonlight Page 2

  The hand in his jerked away fast. “Who the hell are you?” the fair lady demanded. “Wha-what are you doing here?”

  He straightened, smoothed the luxurious plume, and then replaced his hat. “So it is English you prefer,” he said. “ ‘Tis well I speak it fluently. I am Alexandre, one of the king’s finest Musketeers, my lady.”

  “Get real,” she said. “You are not.”

  “But I am.” He took a step closer. She backed up, and it surprised him. “Do not fear me, pretty one. I am... a bit disoriented, but believe me, I have only come to help you.”

  “He-help me?”

  “Oui, ma petite. I heard you calling out for help—a protector, a hero I believe you cried for.” He rubbed his perfectly pointed beard with his fingers. “It is a bit of a blur, but I do recall that much.”

  She shook her head back and forth slowly, taking another step away from him. “This is crazy. This is nuts. You can’t be here; this can’t be happening.”

  He shrugged, smiling to himself, quite familiar with the power of his presence on females. “Many a lady has been overwhelmed by my charm, little one. Do not be concerned. It is not a dream, ma belle. I truly am here. At your disposal.” He let his gaze stray lower, to her lips, which looked full and tempting, and added, “Anything you need, pretty one, I assure you, I can provide.” As he said it he moved closer.

  The lady whipped a tiny weapon, which vaguely resembled a black powder pistol, from somewhere beneath the clothing she wore, and pointed it at him. “Don’t you come one step closer, mister.”

  Amused, he reached out to snatch the toy from her hands. “What is this silly thing?” He gazed down the barrel, fingers grazing the trigger. The lady lunged forward, knocking the rounded end upward, away from his nose, just as the small device exploded in his hands. He felt his chapeau sail from his head and heard the looking glass behind him shatter. Alexandre dropped the weapon to the floor. “Mon Dieu!”

  “You nearly shot yourself, you idiot!” she shouted. “Or did you?” Gripping his shoulders, she scanned his face, hands running up and down his arms in a most familiar fashion.

  His fear faded quickly, and his notorious smile returned. “Ah, do not fear for me, lady. I am unharmed. But...eh...you may examine me further, if it would reassure you.” He took advantage of her closeness to clasp her waist and pull her tight to him.

  She drew back and punched him in the jaw so hard that Alexandre staggered backward and wound up landing on his derriere. But he never stopped smiling at her. “So,” he said, rubbing his jaw, “you are shy, non?” He retrieved his hat from the floor, frowning at the neat round hole in the front of it.

  “I’m the farthest thing from shy, Al. Touch me again, and you’ll wish I were.”

  He was quite confused by her reluctance. Never had any lady sought to withhold her favors from him. They tended to swoon at a mere glance. But he’d already noticed this one’s strangeness. Perhaps her mind was unbalanced. Pity. She was truly magnificent. He shook his head, sighing in disappointment but resigned to defeat. His first. Perhaps she’d come around yet, but for the moment he sensed it might be best to stop trying. “Very well, ma chérie. I will not touch you again. Until you request it, at least.” He got suavely to his feet, smoothing one hand over the long, wavy locks he wore and brushing at his breeches.

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Nonetheless, never let it be said that Alexandre failed to come to the aid of a lady in need.”

  “What I need is to know who does your hair. Captain Hook?”

  “Why were you calling for help?” he asked, ignoring her puzzling question.

  She looked at the floor, shook her head. “This is unreal.”

  “I can see you are greatly distressed. Has some rogue insulted your honor, then? Shall I call him out, teach him a lesson he will not soon forget?”

  She closed her eyes and he noticed how thick and dark her lashes were, resting upon her fair cheeks. “You’re the one who’s gonna be distressed. I think I—I think I messed up.”

  “It is understandable, chérie. You are only a woman, after all.”

  Her head came up, eyes narrow. “Watch it, Al.”

  “I am only saying that whatever is wrong, I can make it right. So, tell me now, what has befallen you?”

  “It’s what’s befallen you we have to worry about,” she said.

  He frowned at her. “I do not understand.”

  “Do they have witches where you come from, Al?”

  He lifted his brows. “Oui, but they are not a problem. If they get out of hand, we simply hang them.” Then he frowned. “You are not a witch, are you, lady?”

  “No. Not...exactly. But...well, maybe you’d better sit down.”

  “If you wish it.” He tucked his damaged hat under his arm and walked to the settee, but he didn’t sit until she did. “Now,” he said, “tell Alexandre what troubles you...but first, ma chérie, tell me your name.”

  She blinked. “Oh. It’s Mary Catherine Hammersmith. But I go by M. C. Hammer. It’s...sort of a joke.”

  “My lady Hammer,” he repeated, lowering his head respectfully. “Now, why are you so troubled, eh?”

  She looked decidedly sheepish. “I got into trouble. I needed help. And I found this...old book...with a...an incantation...”

  “A witch’s spell?”

  She nodded. “Right...a spell for protection. And I said the words out loud...and I must have messed it up, because the next thing I knew, you were here.”

  He smiled slowly, and lifted a hand to gently pat her head. “Poor Lady Hammer...you truly believe that you have brought me here by witchery?”

  “Oh. I’m pretty sure of it.”

  “What makes you so sure, little one? Perhaps I simply heard your lovely voice asking for protection, and followed the sound to find you here.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t have been possible, Al. See, you...you sort of...traveled...through time.”

  He studied her face. Poor, disturbed beauty. Surely he could find a way to pull her from her delusions! He must. She was entirely too beautiful to be a lunatic.

  “You don’t believe me, do you? This is the future, Al. The year is 2012.”

  “Oh, sweet Lady Hammer. Sssh.” He ran his hand through her hair. “You will be all right. I will find help for you, I vow it.”

  She closed her eyes, poor little thing. “I can prove it,” she said.

  “Oh?” He so wanted to help her get well. He wasn’t certain, but he didn’t think it would be quite chivalrous to seduce a lunatic. So until he cured her...

  “See that little box over there?” she asked, pointing.

  He followed her gaze and nodded. She picked up a smaller item, thumbed a button, and the box came to life all on its own. “Sacre bleu!” he shouted, leaping to his feet as tiny Musketeers, his own comrades, battled their enemies, all the while held captive inside the box! He drew his sword and lashed out at the thing, but its face was impenetrable.

  *

  The poor S.O.B. was still swinging his sword at the television set when the front door burst open and Aunt Kate appeared. Mary Catherine sank a little deeper into the sofa cushions at the glare her aunt sent her. She just stood there, looking from Al to M. C. and back again. Then, hands going to her hips, she shouted, “Mary Catherine Hammersmith, what did you do?”

  Chapter Three

  Poor Al. He’d just sat there looking stunned as Aunt Kate explained what happened to him. He hadn’t believed it at first, of course. But by the time they’d shown him the electric lights, the microwave, and Aunt Kate’s smoke-belching Buick, he’d pretty much accepted the truth.

  Now, Kate paced while Mary Catherine sat beside Al on the settee. She felt like a kid called into the principal’s office. “You should have listened to me,” Kate muttered. She went to the book, glancing down at it. “Is this the spell you used?”

  Getting up, Mary Catherine went closer and peered over her aunt’s shoulder at the book. �
��Yeah, that’s it.”

  “This spell specifically calls for the moon’s first quarter. I can’t believe you’d use it during a full moon! And on All Hallows eve, of all nights!”

  M. C. shrugged. “I didn’t exactly expect it to work.”

  “Work? You quadrupled its potency!” She glared. M. C. looked at the floor. “And what about the white candle? I don’t see one here.” Kate looked at the candles on the table. “Red and pink? You used these, didn’t you?”

  M. C. nodded. “Is that bad?”

  Kate eyed Al, then M. C. again. “Red is for passion. Pink brings true love. Honestly, Mary Catherine, what were you thinking?”

  Again M. C. shrugged. “Mostly about The Three Musketeers” she muttered. “It was on TV.”

  Kate frowned. “Well, that explains it. You wanted protection. You got yourself a protector—in exactly the form you were envisioning.” She rolled her eyes, shook her head. “Goddess preserve us from neophyte witches.”

  “I am not a witch,” M. C. said flatly.

  “I think Alexandre would disagree with you there.”

  Al looked up at the mention of his name. He’d been sitting, pretty much ignoring them. But now he seemed to straighten his spine as he got to his feet and came forward. “Can this...this spell be reversed?”

  Aunt Kate looked at the book again, drumming her painted fingernails on the page. “I think so. It will take some research, but...”

  “Well, that’s just great,” M. C. muttered. “Meanwhile, I’m right back where I started, with the biggest criminal in seven states out to do me in.”

  Kate blinked. Al gaped at her. M. C. realized she hadn’t told either of them just how much trouble she was in. Nor had she intended to. She wasn’t a whiner, and she certainly didn’t want to drag either of them into this mess. “Forget I said that. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Go on, Aunt Kate. Figure a way to send Al back where he belongs.”

  Kate tilted her head. “I can’t do that, M. C. The only one who can reverse your spell is you. I can help, but—”

  “Non!”

  At his declaration, Kate and M. C. both turned toward Al in surprise. “Whaddya mean, no? You have to go back,” M. C. said.

  He stared straight into her eyes, and his were very dark, very deep. If it weren’t for the long, crimp-curled hair, pointy beard, and stupid hat, she thought, the guy might actually be attractive.

  “I am a Musketeer,” he said, still holding her with his penetrating stare. “You brought me here to help you, Lady Hammer, and help you I shall.”

  Lowering her eyes, she shook her head. “It’s not like there’s much you could do, Al.”

  When she looked up again, he wore a knowing smile. “You know very little about what I can do, pretty one. Besides, no Musketeer would leave a lady in this situation. This criminal...he means to murder you, non?” She shrugged, and Al shook his head. “I will stay,” he said firmly. “And when I’ve dispatched the villain, only then will I allow you to send me back...if you can.”

  Sighing heavily, M. C. lifted her chin. “What do you plan to do, Al? Challenge him to a sword fight? Look, I know you think you’re some kind of superman, and maybe you are, in your own time. But you wouldn’t stand a chance against this guy. He has weapons you haven’t even imagined. Machine guns, and a dozen goons to do his bidding. You couldn’t begin to—”

  “Enough!” Al spun around, putting his back to her, arms crossed at his chest.

  “Now you’ve gone and insulted him.” Aunt Kate scolded. “I swear, M. C, didn’t your mother teach you a thing about tact?”

  M. C. threw her hands in the air. “I’m just trying to keep him alive, for crying out loud!” He didn’t face her. He tapped his foot on the floor, waiting, she figured. She cleared her throat, moved closer, put her hand on his shoulder. “I apologize, Al. I didn’t mean to insult you or question your...abilities. I just...well, hell, I dragged you here by mistake, and I feel bad enough about that already. If you go and get killed, I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

  “And if I return, leaving you behind, never to know whether this…goon person succeeds in taking your life… I would not be able to live with myself, chérie.”

  She nodded. “I guess I can understand that.”

  Slowly he turned to face her again. “It is a question of honor, Lady. I cannot leave you to face a killer alone. It is that simple.”

  M. C. tore her gaze from his and sought assistance in Aunt Kate. Kate sighed, shaking her head. “You won’t be very successful in sending him back if he doesn’t want to go. Besides, there are consequences to working magic on people against their will, Mary Catherine. It just isn’t done.”

  Lowering her head in defeat, M. C. surrendered. “Okay. You can stay. But”–she looked him over again, head to toe–“but we’re going to have to give you a makeover. I mean, the boots are cool, but the rest of this getup…” Kate elbowed her, and she realized she was on the verge of insulting him yet again. She cleared her throat. “It would be better if we dressed you in clothing more typical of what people wear in this day and age.”

  He rubbed his pointed beard thoughtfully. “I see. Yes, it is obvious people dress…quite differently today.” This with a disapproving glance at her jeans and T-shirt.

  M. C. looked at him with raised eyebrows. Then she reached up and removed his hat, eyeing the elegant, wavy locks underneath. “We’ll have to start by chopping off this hair.”

  “His smile was slow and almost…sexy. “No need.” He reached up and removed the offending hair. “Frankly, my lady, I find the wig as offensive as you obviously do. I wear it only when I must.”

  “Sort of like me with panty hose,” she said, grinning. Underneath, his own hair was dark, pulled behind his head and tied their with a thong. She wondered how long it was, and impulsively reached around his head to tug the thong away. Then, without thinking, she ran her fingers through his hair to shake it loose. But her hands froze in mid-motion as his eyes, darkening, met hers.

  “Maybe we should still cut it,” Aunt Kate suggested.

  Unable to look away, M. C. shook her head. “No. No, I think it’s…fine/” Why was her voice all hoarse?

  “At last, something about me you like,” he said softly.

  Remembering herself, she drew her hands away from his hair. “You…um…you should shave.”

  His dark brows drew closer. “Men of this time do not wear beards?”

  She averted her eyes. “Some do.”

  She didn’t look up, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “But you would prefer to see me without mine?”

  “I really don’t care one way or the other. It was just a suggestion.” She peered up to see him studying her. He was entirely too convinced of his own appeal.

  “Come, Alexandre,” Aunt Kate said. “I’ll show you to the bathroom and explain how everything works. M. C., while we’re up there, you run next door and ask Mrs. Johnson to loan us something for our guest to wear. He looks to b e about Mr. Johnson’s size.”

  Al started up the stairs. M. C. headed for the door. But before she left, she saw her aunt gazing worriedly at the red and pink candles on the table, a perplexed frown between her brows. She shook herself, though, and hurried p the stairs.

  M. C. got the clothes, along with a curious glance from Mr. Johnson, delivered them to her aunt, and then waited. She spent her time checking the cable listings, thinking she might be able to give Al a few lessons on life in the new millennium by letting him watch television tonight and explaining things as they went along. She figured she’d best get him a gun, too, and teach him to use it. She really didn’t see how the man was going to be of any help to her at all. In fact, worse than that, he was an added burden. Now she had to worry about keeping him alive as well as protecting her own skin. Hell, things had gone from bad to worse, and they showed no signs of improving soon.

  Aunt Kate cleared her throat, and M. C. turned, then jumped off the couch as if someone had goose
d her.

  Al stood at the foot of the stairs. The faded jeans fit him like a surgical glove, and the T-shirt strained to contain him. The guy was built like Stallone. Broad chest. Big shoulders. Biceps to die for.

  Even when she could finally drag her eyes away from his body, she still couldn’t catch her breath. His hair gleamed, neatly pulled back again. The beard was gone, and underneath it he looked like...like...he belonged on the big screen. A leading man to make the actresses’ pulse rates go up.

  He smiled then, and M. C.’s stomach convulsed. The man was absolutely, drop dead gorgeous.

  “Oh, dear,” Aunt Kate murmured.

  He sent her a puzzled glance, but focused on M. C. again, moving forward. “Will I blend in now, do you think?”

  “Not in this lifetime,” she muttered, suddenly conscious of the fact that she hadn’t run a comb through her tangles in hours. He looked worried. She bit her lip. “You look great, Al. You really do.” He looked better than great. He looked like a Grade A hunk with a French accent. He looked like a Playgirl cover in search of a home. Her throat went dry.

  His smile got bigger. “Good. It feels strange...but comfortable. Far more so than the dress of my day. Although I see nowhere to fasten my sword.”

  She looked across the room to where he’d left his weapon standing upright in a corner. The ornate hand-guard glittered and she wondered if it was real gold. “Men don’t carry swords these days. I thought I’d teach you to use a gun.”

  He frowned. “If you’re referring to that volatile toy you pointed at me earlier, I think not. A sword and my own wit are all I need.”

  “But the men we’re up against will have guns, Al. And—”

  “You can carry all the...guns...you need, my lady Hammer. For me, my rapier will be sufficient.”

  She clenched her jaw. “You’re very stubborn, you know that?”

  He only smiled.

  “It’s autumn,” Aunt Kate commented. “We’ll get him a longish coat to wear, and no one will notice the sword at all. It’s not a big deal.”