Cover art (c) Eliza Black 2006
ISBN 1-58608-802-5
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Myths, legends, or terrifying curses? Relics- four mysterious and powerful remnants of history that impact four lives and take love to the outer limits of the imagination.

Merlin's Eye by Ellen Ashe: Unscrupulous book dealer, Roger Brinckworthe has made a fortune buying and selling antiquated medieval manuscripts. Following a lead on an ancient Druid Book of Verses, he travels to England's famed witch country to find that the mysterious heiress, Victoria Elwell, has her own agenda, and that Devon's witchcraft is not confined to the pages of history.

Sixth Day of the Moon by Celia Ashley: Trial by fire is not just an expression for Moira Delaney. Struck by lightning while on an archeological dig, Moira is transported thirteen hundred years into Ireland's past. Forced to seek the protection of a young warrior prince from the violent impulses of his brother, she discovers the price of guardianship is a night of pleasure, while the outcome of treachery is a soul destined to search for another through time.

Lord of the Night by Annalee Blysse: Camille didn't believe her grandfather's claim that the relic she found proved there was life on other planets. Yet, she believed that she was falling for a shape shifting jaguar. But could she trust her heart when Merrick admitted his brother claimed her first? She'd never been successful with men, so what on Earth would she do with two jaguars?

Curse of the Cat's Paw by Tracy L. Ranson: Some myths are real, others legendary.... Sinister legends and deadly forces shroud Jamie, keeper of the mysterious mummified cat's paw, on her journey to the misty moors of Scotland. Once there, she hopes to right the wrongs of the past, counting on everything to go smoothly. What she doesn't count on is the sexy as hell Scotsman, Ian Munro. Can she return what is rightfully his without sacrificing her heart?

Rating: Contains explicit sex, graphic language, violence, and adult content.

By

Ellen Ashe

Celia Ashley

Annalee Blysse

Tracy L. Ranson

Merlin’s Eye © copyright January 2006, Ellen Ashe

Sixth Day of the Moon © copyright January 2006, Celia Ashley

Lord of the Night © copyright January 2006, Annalee Blysse

Curse of the Cat’s Paw © copyright January 2006, Tracy L. Ranson

Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright January 2006

ISBN 1-58608-808-4

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

MERLIN’S EYE

By

Ellen Ashe

Chapter One

“Is the purpose of your visit to the UK business or pleasure?”

Roger’s initial impulse was to flirt; the sight of a lovely woman did that to him. He had learned over the years of traveling, however, that female customs’ officers took their jobs very seriously, as though they had to prove the toughness displayed by male counterparts. This officer was eye-catching with her peaches and cream complexion, streaked blonde hair and rose-bud mouth. Yet she sat there with an aura of severity--no make-up, no jewelry and a pair of black framed glasses propped on the bridge of her nose. Still, he couldn’t resist flashing her a smile. “Business.”

She glanced from the document and then over the rim of the glasses to his face without smiling. “And what is your business, Mr. Brinckworthe?”

To seek out and negotiate prices for ancient medieval manuscripts, either legally or illicitly. “I buy and sell antiques.”

She scribbled something on a form. “How long will you visiting us?”

His smile broadened. Her tone was so abrupt. Young, attractive, and that pristine uniform. It was a combination he had always found intriguing, and more than titillating. “Two weeks.”

His passport was stamped. “Welcome to London.”

“Thank ya, darlin’.” She shifted her eyes to the next in the line as he took his paperwork and briefcase. Professional. He liked that in a woman regardless of her occupation.

And he breezed through customs without a hitch.

What was waiting for him threw cold water on his lingering fantasy. A tall, gaunt, pasty complexioned man in a chauffeur’s uniform stood in front of the mulling crowd holding a handwritten sign that read: “R. Brinckworthe.”

“Oh great,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s sent a driver.” Without expecting it, he suddenly found himself in the clutches of a wealthy woman.

On previous trips to England, Roger had always stayed in a hotel, rented a car, sought out antiquarian booksellers on his own terms, usually as a necessity because certain sellers were operating within the shadows. Being a guest had made him slightly uncomfortable but Victoria Elwell insisted. He concurred, only because her late father had an infamous collection of occult manuscripts and documents, and she was disposing of the whole lot. So enticed at the prospect of owning pieces of the coveted collection, Roger not only made an exception for dealing with a woman but being a house guest.

“I’m Roger Brinckworthe,” he said.

The chauffeur reached out to take the handle of the suitcase. “Follow me, please.”

Something akin to claustrophobia penetrated Roger’s skin. He prided his sixth-sense when it came to identifying authentic rare books. Fakes were cleverly presented and although he hadn’t come up against many, he had to be extremely wary of some sellers, especially when so many of his transactions were clandestine. This feeling was different though, almost eerie, like being lost in dank fog. He had to fight the urge to snatch his suitcase and bolt back into the airport.

“How long will this take?” Roger asked, as the door to the Rolls Royce was opened for him.

“Depends on the traffic, sir. Three, maybe four hours, sir.”

Roger sighed. Traveling had become a necessary evil.

Traffic in and around the airport was heavy. He flipped open his briefcase, reviewing his scant notes on Victoria Elizabeth Elwell.

An heiress at twenty-four she was the only child of Edward Elwell IV. Educated at Oxford she had procured a degree in Classical Literature and was proficient in both Latin and Greek. As far as he could discover she had never traveled out of England, which struck him as odd. Considering her academic interests he thought she would be at least traveled. Elwell was a name deeply rooted in Devon’s history, lords and earls, iron fists and stained swords. And unsubstantiated rumors of clandestine rituals and practicing witchcraft....

To each his own.

Reading between the lines he suspected that Victoria could care less about continuing the lineage. She was, not only unmarried, but selling off family heirlooms. She had contacted him, via e-mail, with an invitation to view the home’s antiquated library. The prospect of its valuable contents had gotten him rather excited. How she got his name, however, and particularly Brinckworthe, which was the alias he used the least, was a curiosity he’d question later.

All correspondence he printed, studying each sentence so often he had some messages completely memorized. He thumbed through the papers, rereading one at random. “Dear Mr. Brinckworthe: It has come to my attention that you are an impassioned collector of ancient manuscripts. Please accept my invitation to personally view my complete collection, ranging from Medieval to Renaissance, subjects inclusive of medical, philosophy, religion, including the occult and Druidism …”

Druidism. This was what truly grabbed his interest. In fifteen years of buying and selling rare pieces of literature not once had he come across anything documented by this mysterious religion. He had written back to ask her for specifics but she had evaded an answer, “an extensive collection touching on various aspects of religion and philosophy....”

Mingled with the letters was an article he had discovered--a Roman perspective of Druidism--Caesar documenting that druids from Gaul would attend the British schools and sanctuaries. Obviously a religion with a high reputation, Roger mused, to attract the attention of an Emperor. And the distrust. Resistance to an aggressive empire would do that. History was open for interpretation. The Romans painted the Celtic Druids in a bad light and they, in turn, wrote nothing to defend themselves or their Gods.

Or, so he believed.

Roger closed the briefcase and stared numbly at the scenery, unable to concentrate about anything. Once they hit the motorway the steady pace was lulling him more and more into lethargy. A weighty sensation soon overtook him and he leaned back, succumbing to fatigue.

“Is the purpose of your visit business or pleasure?”

They were the only two people in the airport. A hazy white light obscured a limitless void that had been passport control. His gaze dropped to her exposed cleavage and the outer edges of a black laced bra. She was smiling, hinting shamelessness, waiting for his answer. Her arms slowly lifted as she reached behind her head, unfastening a mass of hair from a tight bun. She shook her head. The cascading locks tumbled over the front of her starched uniform.

“Pleasure.”

She pursed her lips. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Slowly she stood up.

His breath caught. A short tight fitting skirt barely covered her thighs. Black stockings, held firmly in place by straps of a garter belt, stiletto heeled shoes, she turned, glancing back at him, crooking her finger. “Follow me,” she purred.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“Yes,” she gushed, rolling the tip of her tongue under her top lip. “You lied to me and naughty men need to be severely disciplined.”

The flush of arousal washed through his body. He swallowed a dry lump in his throat, and followed her swaying hips, for what seemed an endless journey through nothing but white light. One door--she stopped in front of it, quickly glancing over her shoulder again to see if he was following. Her fingers wrapped around the handle and she stroked it with her thumb. “Ready to be taught a lesson?”

“Oh, yeah,” he answered, his tone drenched to the excitement that coursed through his groin.

She worked the handle with seductive glee. “Good boy,” she whispered. With a sharp wrench the door flew open.

Across one wall was an immense bookcase, housing antique leather-bound manuscripts. The scent of old leather filled his nostrils. He sucked in air. Fresh air. The library had no walls. There was grass beneath his feet, and sunlight streaming from a sunless sky.

She wiggled provocatively as he slid towards her, unconscious of motion, drinking in the curves of her body, aching to lift the short skirt, to take the pleasures that waited beneath. Her eyes flared. There was a snap, like a stinging spark. The next thing he knew he was bound by the wrists, arms extended above his head, shoulders against the trunk of one massive oak tree, and he was naked.

“Yes,” he hissed, shivering to anticipation. The how or why of the lapse of time was insignificant compared to the lusts he wanted to be sated.

She reached her hand between his legs, stroking him as she had done the door handle. Her mouth inches away from his she sighed. “Tell me, Mr. Brinckworthe, what would give you more pleasure? Me, or my books?” Her grip tightened.

He sucked in a gasp, the quick slice of pain rippling through his groin.

“You,” he garbled. “I want you more.”

Instantly she grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled. “You lie, hunter.” A riding crop was thrust under his chin. “You’re a thief and a scoundrel, aren’t you, Mr. Brinckworthe?” Slow motion she trailed the leather tip down his chest.

He whimpered. “Yes. Yes, I am.” So abrupt with her authority. He loved professionals and she was definitely a professional. Over his stomach, farther down it went, and he shuffled slightly, spreading his legs.

“Tut-tut,” she said, denying him the sensation of the leather against his flesh.

He wrenched, the leather straps around his wrists tightened.

“You can’t have my books,” she scowled, teeth clenched behind snarled lips. “But you can have me.” She moved directly in front of him, her breath hot against his neck. “Is that acceptable, Mr. Brinckworthe?”

He thrust forward. But he was at her mercy. It was her decision whether or not he could get inside. She had pitilessly worked him into a frenzy. “Yes, that’s acceptable.” He was begging. Whatever it took. He’d do anything now. “Witch.”

She threw the crop to one side. It fell to the floor without making a sound. She clasped the hem of her skirt and rotated her hips as she slowly hoisted the material. He could barely control himself. A tingling was about to erupt. He felt dizzy.

The heat from her palm encased his erection. She inched closer to him, stroking, squeezing. “Yes,” he droned, tipping his head back into the rough bark of the oak tree. He sensed wet. Silken heat. The walls of a tight crevice swallowing his erection.

“Welcome to London.”

Roger’s eyes snapped open. His forehead and neck were bathed in sweat. Frenziedly, as the dream had taken him too far, he winced with the uncontrollable wave of bliss, and flushed with embarrassment. The driver, thankfully, was paying attention to the road, not him. Roger blinked several times, darting glances out the window over the rolling countryside.

He swore internally, shocked at the vividness of the dream. A wet dream, an event that wasn’t supposed to happen to a man of his age, and certainly not during a nap in the back of a car! Painfully aware of the discomfort in his trousers, he crossed his legs. Flipping open the console under his elbow he was relieved to discover several small bottles of Scotch. Shaken, he poured the contents into a crystal glass, and swallowed it in one mouthful. It burned down his gullet but at least it had the desired effect. He calmed even though the confusion remained.

“Where the hell did that come from?” he muttered under his breath.

The driver glanced at him through the rear view mirror. “Everything all right, sir?” he asked without any intonation what-so-ever.

“Yeah,” Roger snapped in return. “How much longer?” He was unscrewing the cap of another bottle.

The man’s waxen complexion pulled to a ghoulish smile. “Almost there now, sir.”

* * * *

Victoria Elwell tapped her fingernail on the smooth surface of her altar. The image of her approaching guest dissolved under the ripples of water in the oak bowl. One by one she blew out the candles, breathing deeply of the thin lines of smoke the swirled from each extinguished wick.

The water had soiled, turned muddy and unusable. Carefully she reached into the bowl to pull out her amulet, place it beside her bended knee, within the circle. Dipping her fingers into the water she sprinkled a few drops on her naked breast and disposed of the rest by tipping it around her on the floor. “Water Goddess,” she whispered. “Renewal. Cleansing. Blessed be.”

The green opal softly glowed. Saturated air caressed her, like a lover’s devout attention. Her arousal was torturous, yet she relished the growing static of sexual energy. Stifling her physical desires she closed her eyes, pressing her palms together to relieve the temptation to touch herself, concentrating on accumulation. He would be a willing participant. His lusts were deliciously primeval.

Victoria stood, the amulet dangling on its thin chain, swinging as a pendulum, one that would turn back time.

Her most trusted confidant rose from the chair in the shadows. “Let me help you with that,” she said, fastening the clasp behind Victoria’s neck. “You have chosen well, Priestess?”

“Yes, Leena. Our guest has many interesting susceptibilities. He is going to be a very valuable asset.”

The relic nestled between her breasts, a warming force against her flesh. Victoria turned. The two women smiled knowingly to each other.

“I shall prepare then,” Leena said.

“Yes.” Victoria leaned, fluttering a feathery kiss on her servant’s lips. Energy surged, eddying out from the amulet into her limbs.

“Do we have time to--?”

“No. I must focus all our energy on our quest. Wait for my word. I’ll call when I need you.”

“Of course.” Leena bowed. “May the gods bless you and keep you, my Priestess.”

“And you, my faithful one. Blessed be.”