“Why won’t you give him his staff back?”

“Because it’s better for all of us if he doesn’t ever get his hands on it. His power is only as good as his staff, and as long as Daar has only that thin cane, we are safe.”

“Safe? Michael, what are you talking about? What are you afraid of?”

He said nothing, only stared at her with deep, unreadable gray eyes. Libby hugged herself tighter, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. Michael stepped forward, and Libby stepped back. But he reached out and pulled her into his arms, held her tightly against him, and rested his chin on her head.

“I’ll make a deal with ya, lass. When ya’re ready to tell me what happened to that woman and boy back in California, I’ll tell ya why Daar must never get back his power.”

“That’s blackmail,” she muttered into his chest.

“Nay,” he said with a sigh, nearly crushing her. “That’s just how things are. Secrets have no place between us, Libby. As long as they exist, they have the power to hurt us.”

“I can’t… I have to think about it, Michael.”

His arms tightened around her. “Shhh. It’s okay, lass. I can be patient.” He pulled back and smiled down at her.

“But can you?”

“Maybe I won’t wait for you to tell me your secrets,” she said sassily, trying to lighten the mood. “I intend to find out who made my bed, and then I’m going to find out what you and Greylen MacKeage are hiding. I’m a surgeon, remember? We’re very good at putting puzzles together.”

“Then make sure ya put one more piece into your puzzle,” he told her softly, tapping the end of her nose.

“Why would Mary bring the staff to you instead of to me or Greylen?”

And with those cryptic words, Michael kissed her soundly on the mouth, grabbed his jacket off the peg, and headed out the door—closing it softly behind him.

Libby stared at the curtain floating back into place and wondered if their date was still on for tonight. She looked up with a sigh and sighed again when she saw all the stars.

They did go on their date, and over the next two weeks, they spent quite a bit of time together. Libby and Michael and Robbie and John quietly slipped into the comfortable routine of having dinner together every night. Sometimes they ate at Libby’s house, and sometimes Libby went to theirs and cooked.

And every night after dinner, Michael would either stay and help her do the dishes and make love to her, or he’d walk her back to her house and make love to her.

Libby had discovered two things about the man; he really was romantic, and he could keep a secret better than the Pentagon.

It was Thanksgiving morning, and she was no closer to finding out who’d made her bed and even more stymied by whatever else it was that Michael was hiding.

And as much as she hated to admit it, Daar was right. Secrets took energy, both to keep and to uncover. Libby had been going nuts for the last two weeks. The only time she hadn’t been dwelling on what Michael was keeping from her was when they were both naked, in bed, making love.

But, as nice as that was, it wasn’t enough.

And therein lay her dilemma. Michael had the patience of Job. He hadn’t asked her again what had happened in California, and it was confounding to Libby how he seemed to be able to set the problem aside and get on with the business of life.

She’d hunted everywhere for that blasted cherrywood staff and worried that Michael might have destroyed it already. She even caught herself walking into the woods and calling Mary’s name, crazily thinking she actually could talk to the bird. But Mary was keeping to herself lately; only Robbie mentioned seeing her, and even then only on rare occasions.

When she wasn’t trying to uncover Michael’s secret, Libby was dwelling on her own. He might know about staffs and wizards and magical powers—which was mind-boggling in itself—but how would he react if he learned that the woman he’d been messing up the sheets with was a freak?

Fear came to mind. Would Michael fear her? He didn’t seem to be afraid of Daar. But then, he knew Daar was somewhat powerless at the moment and was making damn sure the old priest stayed that way.

Daar hadn’t been back since the morning he’d stormed out in anger. That was fine with Libby; she was a little mad at him herself.

“I hope these taste better than they look,” Kate said, carrying a tray of doughnuts into the Christmas shop. “Their holes closed up, and the glaze soaked right into them.”

“I think we were supposed to let them cool before we dipped them,” Libby said, taking the tray and setting it on the counter.

Her mom had arrived home yesterday. Ian had driven to Bangor to pick up Kate and had joined them for dinner last night at Libby’s. The Scot had “taken a shine” to Kate, according to her mother, who also had admitted to Libby that the feeling was mutual.

Now, there was a match that proved opposites attract.

“Wasn’t it nice of Michael to let you sell your jewelry in his shop?” Kate said, fussing with the necklaces on the bare branch Robbie had cut for them. “And after Christmas, we can see about finally getting your studio opened.”

Libby snorted. “Michael is getting twenty-percent commission and free counter help at the same time.”

“And you’re getting your product seen,” Kate returned warmly. “People are going to grab these up for Christmas presents.” She fingered one of the birds, a bright red cardinal male. “This would be nice with a green velvet blouse. Will you make me one to wear at our Christmas party?”

“We’re having a party?”

Kate turned and frowned. “Of course we are. We’ll invite all the MacKeages, the Dolans, Michael, Robbie, John, and Father Daar.” Excitement lighting her eyes, she walked around the counter, found a pen and paper, and started writing. “Let’s plan the menu. It should be simple and tasteful. Do you think we can get lobster this time of year?” she asked, looking up at Libby. “And when should we have it? Christmas Eve or a few days before?”

“Mom, we’re going to be too busy to have a party. This is Michael’s working season. We

’re going to be in this shop from daylight until after dark every day, including Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Kate said, waving that away. “I can plan a party with my eyes closed.

Now, we’ll need to find a florist.” She stopped suddenly, biting the end of her pencil and thinking. “Would sending invitations in the mail be too uppity? They are our friends. Maybe just asking them would be more personal.”

Libby had learned a long time ago that it was much easier just to go along with her mother when Kate got a bee up her skirt about something. And parties, for Kate, were the thing of friendships.

“Asking them in person would probably be better,” Libby agreed as she returned to decorating the ten-foot Douglas fir Michael had set up in the center of his shop.

It was absolutely beautiful—one of his prize trees, Libby was guessing. One she’d managed to miss with her car. It hadn’t been rigidly trimmed this past summer, and the ends of the branches were soft and curving slightly downward, giving it a natural look.

Libby had never thought much about where Christmas trees came from; she’d just gone to the local sales lot and picked out whichever one caught her fancy. She now knew that it took plenty of work and planning and a good deal of artistry to grow them. And patience—which Michael seemed to have in spades. He’d told her this tree was twelve years old, a long time to wait for a return on an investment. Yes, growing Christmas trees took time, care, worry, and skill, as well as a nurturing instinct.

Michael had plenty of that, too.

God save her, she really was falling in love with him. And just as Grace MacKeage had predicted, he was driving her crazy. But it was such a nice, warm, and fuzzy kind of crazy Libby was all but bursting with joy.