Magic Touch Read online

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright © 2022 A.S. Fenichel

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Penny Barber

  Cover by LoveTheCover.com

  Images from Depositphotos, Design Cuts

  First Electronic Book Publication April 2022

  First Print Book Publication April 2022

  Contents

  Magic Touch

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Also by A.S. Fenichel

  About the Author

  Magic Touch

  ESME

  I never dreamed my small curatives shop in Windsor, England would attract the attention of war hero Sir William Meriwether. My feminine heart is aflutter when he enters. But I'm a witch and a healer, and he's a man in pain, so I heal him. Desperate to do him a good service, I stretch my powers to the limit—or perhaps beyond. Somehow, in curing his ailing leg, I unleash powers inside William. At a loss to stop what's begun, I'm forced to seek assistance from the coven I've sworn never to join. I dread the encounter, but for William's sake, I put my family's hatred aside. Getting to spend more time with William is an added enticement.

  WILLIAM

  I'm mesmerized by Esme O'Dwyer from the moment I lay eyes on her. Despite our different stations in society, I want something more personal than any restorative tea she might offer. As a gentleman, I contain those baser needs and accept her assistance to ease the pain in my leg. When the alluring witch's touch bestows me with magic of my own, I want no part of it. But the coven's leaders insist magic never makes mistakes, and for this to have happened, I must be needed. I've never been one to shy away from duty, and being secluded for training with Esme is magical in more ways than one.

  ESME

  Trouble is coming to Windsor. The signs are all there. The race is on to train William as a witch before his power is needed, but our growing attraction is as undeniable as the battle that lies ahead.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to my writerly friends who constantly encourage and stand by me, even when my story ideas are unusual. Maybe that’s what you love best about them. I love you all so much. Thank you to Gemma and Juliette for helping me get this book started with a fabulous writing retreat. Thanks to my dearest friend, Karla Doyle. Your support all these years has meant everything. xoxo

  This book is dedicated to the real Simon. He came to us starving and alone on a cold January day. We had plans to find him a good home, but he won our hearts in a few days. We loved him and babied him as best we could, but he wasn’t long for this world. As wonderful and full of life as he was, he was only two when we lost him. In such a short time, he filled our lives with love and joy. We miss our sweet boy every day.

  And, to Dave, who brought magic back to my life when I believed it had left me forever.

  Chapter

  One

  WILLIAM

  I never should have told my driver Samuel that I would walk the last five blocks, but the carriage was delayed by an overturned cart, and the afternoon is waning into evening. Foolish as it might be, I hope the healer will be able to give me some relief. The idea of waiting another day depresses me.

  Shooting pain screams up my leg. If the healer says she needs to cut the damned thing off, I won't argue. I exaggerate, of course. The surgeon in France wanted to do just that, and I threatened to gouge out his eyes, even as my blood-soaked the table.

  I check the address on the parchment again. Mr. Preston, the apothecary I visited yesterday, said Miss O'Dwyer, a healer, had a shop on this street, but he didn't know the name of the establishment.

  A grocer, a book shop, and a door with no marking at all line the street, but nothing says “healer.” Of course, Mr. Preston had hesitated before calling her a healer, and I swear he’d muttered witch under his breath.

  My disappointment turns to anger as I turn back up the street. The awkward movement shoots a bolt of pain through my thigh as if a hot poker were stabbing the bone. Biting my cheek prevents me from crying out and drawing the attention of people going about their day.

  As the wave passes, I take a deep breath.

  From the door with no sign, a bell tinkles.

  A woman of middle years with blonde hair poking out from her cap creeps from the door. Eyes wide, she looks down the street in both directions before she hurries off.

  Perhaps the healer doesn't need a sign in this part of town. I go to the door and step inside, causing the bell to tinkle once again.

  "Did you forget something, Mrs. Cauly?" a woman calls.

  Lavender and frankincense fill the air. As my vision adjusts to the dimness, I find myself surrounded by shelf after shelf of bottles, jars, and packets.

  At the far end of the narrow shop, a counter stands with bowls of herbs and earthy scented powders.

  At eye level to my right, a soft-pink skirt moves. Perched on a ladder, a woman with moss-green eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes stares down at me.

  "I beg your pardon, sir. I thought my last customer had returned." She scurries down the ladder and faces me with a kind smile. Her dark hair is swept up in a loose bun, and soft curls frame her face. Lips meant to be kissed long and hard distract me utterly.

  In fact, I can't seem to remember anything. I'm sure if anyone asks my name at this moment, I will stumble for the answer.

  Her curved brows rise, and she cocks her head. "Are you lost, sir?"

  Perhaps I am, but that isn't the right response. Shaking off my fascination with her unmatched beauty, I say, "That depends, madam. Are you Esme O'Dwyer?"

  A wider smile pulls at those maddening lips, and my brain fogs over again. "I am she. How can I help?"

  It takes me several long moments, while I likely look like a dimwit, before I can put a sentence together. Damn those lips. "Mr. Preston, the apothecary, said you might have something for pain. I've exhausted all my options, and laudanum muddles the brain too much. It's not to my liking. I was hoping you might have a tea." I prattle on while she stares with those pouty lips and sympathetic eyes. "I've tried peppermint and clove, but they didn't help enough. You see, it's been some time since I've had a night's sleep, and what my physician gives me is effective but makes waking rather difficult."

  I order myself to stop talking. Why did I tell her all of that? I need a tea for pain would have been sufficient. Lord, I'd die happy if I could kiss her. What? No. I've clearly lost my mind.

  Her cheeks flush briefly. She strides behind the counter. "I will try to help. What kind of pain do you suffer from, sir?"

  "It's my leg. You see, I was wounded in France." Unsure what else to say, I force myself to remain quiet.

  She nods as if she'd expected as much, but instead of gathering items for tea, she stares at me a long while, her gaze so intense it makes me feel as if I'm under scrutiny for more than a painful gait.

  Unable to decide if I should leave,
stay, speak, or grab her and kiss every thought from her beautiful head, all I can do is wait. As if frozen in place, I stare back while heat climbs up my neck and blood rushes to my manhood at an alarming rate. When she finally speaks, I have to clear my head to make it out.

  "If you will trust me, Sir William, I think I can help you far more than any tea. Though, a good curative tea is not without merit. If you had a recurring headache, I would make you a tea. This, however, may need more than herbs."

  Moving to the counter, I bite back against the searing pain. I've almost gotten used to living with the reminder of my time at war. Almost. Between the leg and my growing arousal, I stumble slightly and have to catch myself against the wood. I regain my balance and look at her, my face entirely too close. "I apologize, madam, I don't know what you mean, nor did I realize you knew me."

  Color infuses her creamy cheeks again. "Pardon me. I read about you in The Herald last year. A few months ago, I saw a portrait hanging in the Royal Museum. It seemed rude to mention it when you first walked in. Perhaps it's still rude."

  "Not at all, Miss O'Dwyer. It's easier to be honest in my experience." I loathe that damned painting the king requested. I can hardly stroll down the street without some stranger calling out or wanting to hear about my time at war. Annoying and invasive, it is as much a part of my life now as the pain. However, Esme O’Dwyer’s recognition doesn't offend me at all. That's something to examine later.

  "Indeed." She pauses, looking down at her hands, which are fidgeting on the counter. "Would you like me to try to remove your pain?"

  This stunning woman could certainly make me forget my leg for a while, but I'm sure that isn't what she's offering. "I'm afraid I still don't understand."

  Her lips pull up in the most alluring smile. "Did Mr. Preston not tell you what I am?"

  "A healer."

  Searching my face, she cocks her head. "I'm a witch, Sir William."

  "I don't believe in such things," I remark automatically even though part of me feels bewitched by her already.

  Her low laugh shoots lust directly to my groin. "Your belief in a thing does not discount its existence. I am here. I am real. And I am most certainly a witch. However, I'm happy to brew you a nice tea that should ease your pain for a time. I can also mix a sleeping draught if you like."

  Yes, that's exactly what I'm here for, but I don't want the encounter to end so quickly. "What other treatment did you have in mind?"

  "I might be able to heal you."

  "Heal me?" I can't wrap my head around what she's telling me. I've been to dozens of surgeons and doctors, and none would even attempt going back into my leg. Managing my pain is all anyone offers.

  Hands on her hips, she laughs again. "I would put my hands on your leg and try to draw the injury out and heal whatever damage was done."

  Her hands on me? The idea is so wickedly appealing that it takes all my wits to process the rest of what she's saying. "You wish to touch me?"

  Shaking her head, she rounds the counter, marches to the door, and throws the bolt. She returns to me. "Follow me, please."

  What else can I do, but as I'm told? We leave behind the shelves and remedies with their earthy scents and follow into a brightly lit kitchen with a large window and yellow roses in a vase on a wooden table.

  It's small but bright and cheerful as opposed to the mysterious darkness of her shop. I find myself nonsensically afraid to touch anything and hold my hat in both hands in front of me.

  "Please sit, Sir William." She points to one of two wooden chairs by the table.

  I admire the roses and do as instructed while she stokes the fire smoldering in the cooking hearth and heats a teakettle. At the wooden counter, she takes bits of this and that from different canisters and puts them in two teacups. The water boils, and she pours the tea and brings me a cup.

  "You said tea would not help me." I stare into the cup as the water turns darker.

  Sitting in front of me, she sighs. "Sometimes a cup of tea is simply a cup of tea. I thought it might put you at ease."

  "Oh." I'm a fool. "Thank you." I sip the tea, and it's quite nice. Far better than I would have expected from someone who lives in this part of town. As an apothecary of sorts, I suppose she has more opportunity to buy finer leaves.

  Her grin is like a reward for good behavior. "Is it your right leg?"

  "How did you know that?" My heart thrums wildly. What have I gotten myself into? Yet, being near this beautiful woman is like a drug and far better than the laudanum on my bed stand. If she wishes to touch me, I cannot deny it, and perhaps I can still leave with a curative that may help me sleep.

  Eyebrows high, she says, "It is the leg you favor when you walk."

  Closing my eyes, I take a long breath. "I'm not usually this much of an idiot." It shouldn't matter if she thinks I’m a fool, but it does.

  "May I touch your leg, sir?" Her moss-green gaze bores into mine.

  "It's unseemly." My words can't do justice to my thoughts. I want her to touch me. I want all of her touching me, and that is not at all gentlemanly. In fact, such base thoughts about a woman I’ve just met are completely out of character.

  She nods. "May I do it anyway? I promise I shall do no harm. It is our most sacred rule."

  "Witches?" It may be nonsense, but I can’t help the rush of curiosity. My heart beats a bit faster and my skin tingles pleasantly.

  "Yes."

  While I'm sitting, my pain dulls to only an ache. I stretch my leg out in front of me to provide her better access, and the pain sharpens.

  With graceful fingers, she opens the four buttons at my knee. A small silver ring around her pinky glints in the sunlight as she unties my garter and rolls down my stocking. After exposing my calf, she places her soft hand on my outer thigh.

  Her touch isn't much different from that of my physician, but hers sets my body on fire. I should tell her to desist, but it's the last thing I want. Soon the evidence of my arousal will be obvious, but I can do nothing about that, short of storming out. And I long to be near her.

  She stops at the scar a third of the way up my thigh. Strange heat and tingling encase the old wound. Her hands glow a shimmering sky blue. My instinct is to pull away.

  "Wait, William. Do not move yet." Her voice is like a balm, soft yet commanding. Masses would follow this woman to their death if she asked it of them. Of this, I am certain as I remain in her kitchen with her capable and delicate hands on my bare skin.

  The tingling intensifies. Pain follows, but it's muffled. Something moves inside my leg. It must be my imagination. Then I feel it again, and my knee jerks of its own accord.

  My pulse thunders, and my leg heats as if on fire, but still the pain is tolerable. She has no knife or sharp object in her hand, but it's as if my skin is coming apart. There should be more pain. I know it on the deepest level, but everything I see and feel is strange and impossible.

  Her full lips pull into a thin line, and her eyes meet mine and glow like stars on a clear night. Sweat beads on her forehead and upper lip, and her cheeks have gone pale. "I've nearly got it, William, just a bit more."

  "Are you injuring yourself, Esme?" I have no right to use her given name, but she has her hand inside my breeches, and it seems some liberties should be allowed.

  A slow smile pulls at her lips, which look rosier with her color drained from her face. "I thank you for your concern, but I will be fine."

  She’s lying, and I tug my leg back, but her grip is firm, and her eyes glow brighter. A low mutter stills me as she sings, "Goddess sure and true, of this I ask, strength of will and power now to heal a hero good and proud. Let his pains be lifted. Let this need be gifted. Pledging willing vessel me, as I will so mote it be."

  Light fills the kitchen, obscuring my vision. Fire swallows my leg from the inside, as if branding me with a hot iron.

  The room returns to normal light, and I blink to adjust my sight. Warmth fills me.

  Esme's hand remains on my leg. Th
en she draws a long breath and pulls away. She puts a bullet fragment on the table and leans back in her chair. Her skin is so pale she looks near death, and red rims her eyes. "It seems—" she draws a breath, "your surgeon—" another breath, "missed part of the bullet."

  Staring at the bit of metal, I have no words for what I just saw. Magic is a thing of fantasies and children's stories. Yet it's hard to deny the evidence before me.

  I look from the shrapnel to her sickly face. I have seen that same pasty look on the faces of dying soldiers on the battlefield. "Esme, what have you done?"

  "I will recover." There is no confidence in her assurance, and as she attempts to stand, her legs collapse, landing her back in the chair.

  Rising, I lift her from the chair. Even my worry can't completely shadow how soft and warm she is in my arms. "Where are your rooms?"

  Eyes wide, she swallows hard. "The door there leads to stairs. I live above."

  I follow her gaze to the dark wood door in the corner, then carry her up to a neat set of rooms with a sofa and two chairs. Another door ahead probably leads to her bedroom.

  "Shall I put you in bed?" My heart pounds at the idea of being in her bedroom, but she is in need, and I want to help.

  "Here in the sitting room will be fine." She points to the sofa.

  Placing her on the cushion as if she might break in two, I'm filled with sorrow when I release her. "Can I get anyone for you?"

  She shakes her head. "There is no one. If you would be kind enough to pour me some of that wine, I will be fine."