Rachael sighed. The stranger in her living room was drenched from head to toe. Wet clothing, semi-transparent by the rain, hugged him like a second skin, revealing a strong and muscled body. His hair, soaked and flat against his head and neck, appeared to be black, but it could have been dark brown. Except for the shiver she caught him desperately trying to hide, he seemed comfortable and unbothered by his circumstance.
Again he shivered.
Rachel worried her lip. Her brows rose. There was only one thing for him to do if he wanted to avoid falling ill. She eyed him warily, fighting indecision. "You need to get out of those wet clothes." The words spilled out before she could stop them.
"Milady!" Michel quipped. "I did think you more reserved than that."
Rachael felt her cheeks flush. "I meant, before you catch a chill. A hot shower will warm you up. There's an old bathrobe upstairs that should fit you. You can wear it until your clothes dry." She tightened her sash. "And please, call me Rachael."
Michel bowed, his gaze unwavering. "Enchantée, Rachèle."
"Not Rashelle," Rachael corrected at the soft sh sound. "Rachael. Ch, like in church."
Michel frowned. Again he tried. "Rachèle," he repeated without success.
Rachael smiled. "Would you like a cup of tea before showering? You can take it with you."
"Tea?"
"Yes, tea. Would you like some to drink?"
"'Tis a warm drink?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then, aye. I would."
"Okay. I'll be right back." Rachael headed for the kitchen. The stranger in her living room unsettled yet intrigued her, and she was glad to have a moment alone to ponder her circumstance. Passing through the open doorframe, she flipped the light switch on, illuminating the room.
"Dieu!"
A loud crash echoed off the walls. Startled, Rachael spun to see Michel pressed against the counter--several broken cups scattered at his feet.
"Michel?" she queried. She took a hesitant step toward him then froze, his wide and wary stare piercing her through.
"Hold, sorcière!" Michel called out. Grabbing the flask at his side, he fumbled with the cork. When it released, a visible courage rose in him. Michel stepped boldly forward, prompting Rachael to stumble back.
"What's wrong?" Rachael backed up farther still, placing the kitchen table between them. Her heart pounded.
"Play not the innocent with me, sorcière. I am well armed against the likes of you."
"What are you talking about?" Pressed against the counter, Rachael reached behind her and opened the silverware drawer. Searching blindly through its contents, her fingers found a smooth wooden handle. Drawing the bread knife from the drawer, she held it before her. "Stay back," she warned. "Stay back or I swear I'll..." Words failed her and she edged along the counter, then the wall, skimming the table to slowly make her way around him to the living room.
Michel approached Rachael in slow cautious steps, his flask held out before him like a talisman. His every facial line spoke determination. His brows were tightly drawn, his lips taut. An ominous air surrounded him. This was not the gentle man she had opened her door to. This was a man with a mission. Again she stepped back. "Don't come any closer," she warned as she inched away. Suddenly the table flew aside and her doorway to escape filled with Michel's formidable frame. Trapped, she watched his expression change from wary to victor, watched him finger the flask as if in deep questioning thought. Her stomach lurched.
Then his eyes flared fire then ice, and before she could react, he slid his hands about the bloated body of his flask and squeezed.
Rachael dropped the knife and lifted her arms to protect her face. Fear turned to rage when she ran her tongue over drenched lips. "Water! You shot me with water?" She grabbed a dishtowel from the counter and wiped her face dry. "What's wrong with you?"
The murderous gleam in Michel's eyes softened. His shoulders and stance relaxed as he dropped the flask to his side, staring at her as though she were an enigma.
"What?" she asked, uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.
"Why do you not writhe in pain?" he asked after a long pondering silence.
"What?" Rachael threw the towel on the sink. "You squirted me with water," she spat incredulously.
"Aye. Holy water. A true witch--"
"Witch?" Her eyes grew wide. Her mouth gaped. "You think I'm a witch?" She laughed hysterically as she flung back a dripping strand of hair. "A witch!"
"What other than a witch could summon light at command, save a warlock?" Michel ran an assessing gaze over her curvy form. "And 'tis obvious you are not one of those."
Rachael pulled her robe tighter about herself. Her voice shook. "Well, I'm not a witch either." She leaned against the marble counter top.
Michel kept a safe distance from her. "Well, if you be not a witch, what are you?"
"I'm a normal person who was trying to make you a nice hot cup of tea."
"How then did you summon light?" he asked. He scanned the ceiling and walls in search of an answer.
"I didn't summon light. I just turned on the light switch."
"Light switch?" Skepticism etched his face.
"Yes, light switch." Rachel pointed to a tiny lever on the wall. "You know. A switch that turns on the light."
"I know naught about such things." Michel eyed the switch warily. "How works it?"
Rachael cast him an incredulous look. Where was this man from? "It works on electricity. When you push it up, the light goes on. When you push it down, it goes off."
Michel straightened. "Aye. For a witch!"
"For anyone." Rachael motioned for Michel to try the switch. "Be my guest."
"Guest?"
"Try it."
Michel stepped forward. Curious but guarded, he approached the switch as he would a leper.
"Go on, push it down."
Michel reached forward. Touching the edge of the switch with the tip of a finger, he flipped it down. Quickly, he jerked back as the room fell into darkness. "Saints!" he swore.
Rachael chuckled softly. "Don't tell me you've never seen a light switch before?"
"Then I shall not tell you," Michel replied. "But truly I have not."
She heard the shuffle of boots and suddenly the room filled with light. "Never?" she repeated.
"Aye, never." In silent awe, Michel stood at the switch, his eyes bright in amazement. Again he flicked it down, casting them into darkness, then up, filling the room with light. Dark ... light ... dark ... light.
"Where are you from?" Rachael asked, stilling his hand.
)
Michel of Banesford loses all that he knows when he stalks a ruthless killer into the future, but its not until he meets Rachael and her young son that he understands the true potential for loss.
