Read Online Powerful Magic by Karen Whiddon - Free Book Online Page A

older brother's, had he lived."
               Megan felt a twinge, wondering what it would feel like if those capable, long fingered hands touched her skin that way.
               "Does it have a name?"   She was hesitant to ask, but felt relatively certain that she remembered this much from books.   Or maybe only Kings and Princes named their swords.
               Kenric did not seem to find her question ridiculous however.   Sheathing the sword, he carried it back to its place against the wall before answering.  
               "It does."   Turning, he considered her, his eyes molten with reflected firelight, yet dark with his own memories.   He looked like some Pagan warrior, capable of slaying dragons and carrying distressed maidens off to safety.   Capable too, of breaking that same maiden's heart.  
               She would do well to remember that, even if this was only a dream.
               "I cannot tell you the name."   He gave a huge sigh, coming back to the fire and taking a seat alongside of her.   "For you to know the name gives you power over it.   I keep forgetting you have injured your head, or you would know this.   I will not tell you the name, but it means thunder."
               Thunder.
               Now it was she who felt restless, she who felt compelled to move from the warmth of the fire and pace the confines of the cave.   Kenric sat too close, and though he could not know it, the temptation to touch him ran hot in her blood.
               "The name suits you,"   she ventured.
               He frowned, obviously not liking the comparison.
               "And the sword, of course."   She tacked on hastily, at his grimace.
               There was a wry twist to his sensual mouth.   "Though I am but a bastard, great care was taken in naming me."
               A bastard.   In times like these that title carried so much more painful baggage than it did in her time.
               Times like these .   Did she really believe that?   Unless she was the recipient of some bizarre, mind-altering drug, she had no choice.  
               "One more thing,"   he said casually, flexing his long-fingered, calloused hands before him, "I am done with fighting.   I would not like to kill again, even for you."
               Kill ?   Conscious that her mouth had fallen open, Megan closed it.   Great.   One thing she did remember from her admittedly scattered reading about medieval times was that the men, both bandits and knights alike, were bloodthirsty.   And she was stuck with a man who wouldn't defend her.   Or, she amended, wouldn't kill for her.
               Hey, this was good.   Really.   This was a sign of maturity, of civilization.   Summoning a smile, she nodded at the big man who watched her silently, waiting.
               "That's okay with me."   On impulse, she grabbed one of his outstretched hands and squeezed it, noticing how different the hard, calloused fingers were from Roger's smooth, manicured hand.   "I wouldn't kill for you either."
               Startled, he yanked his hand away.   Fire flared in his eyes, the heat quite different from that of the flames that
    warmed them. "Do you mock me?"  
               So, the male ego had not changed at all in nine hundred years.  
               "Of course not."   She soothed, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. "I made a joke, er a jest."
               He seemed to accept this, stalking once again to his saddle bag and withdrawing their dinner.
               They broke bread, again partaking of the odd tasting, dried meat. He had some wine, sour and sweet at the same time, the taste of it metallic on her tongue.   Drinking it helped ease some of her nervousness at the approaching night.   Would he hold her again?  
               She