"Milady!" Michel quipped. "I did think you more reserved than that."
Rachael bit lightly on her bottom lip. Her cheeks heated. "I meant, before you catch a chill. There's an old bathrobe upstairs that should fit you. You can wear it until your clothes are dry. And please, call me Rachael."
Michel bowed, his unwavering gaze locking with hers. "Enchantee Rachele."
"Not Rashelle," Rachael corrected at the soft sh sound. "Rachael. Ch, like in church."
Michel frowned. Again he tried. "Rachele" 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. Passing through the open doorframe, she flipped the light on, illuminating the room.
"Dieu!"
A loud crash sounded. Startled, Rachael spun around to see Michel pressed against the wall, several broken cups scattered at his feet. "Michel?" she queried. She took a hesitant step toward him then froze at his wild and wary gaze.
"Hold sorciere!" Michel called out, fumbling with the cork of his flask. As he released the cork, a visible courage rose in him. Stepping boldly forward, he prompted Rachael to stumble back.
"What's wrong?" Rachael stepped back farther still, placing the kitchen table between them.
"Play not the innocent with me, sorciere. I am well armed against the likes of you."
"What are you talking about?" Pressed against the counter, Rachael reached blindly behind her and drew open the silverware drawer. By touch, she searched its contents until her fingers wrapped about a smooth wooden handle. Drawing a 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 and ice, and before she could react, he slid his hands about the bloated body of his flask and squeezed.
Dropping the knife, Rachael 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?"
"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?"
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