I glanced at my father and he smiled, patting my hand, unaware of the sorrow I felt. My groom had yet to appear so that we could begin the procession to the castle chapel where the vicar awaited to perform the sacred ceremony.
Across the castle yard, I heard the muted thunder of horses. Seven dark figures emerged from the mist of the outer ward, shadowed by the night, frozen puffs of breath snorting from their black horses.
The jovial chatter of the crowd subsided and the musicians ceased their playing. All eyes were turned on the lead figure as he drew his horse to a stop and his guards, still mounted, positioned themselves around the perimeter of the crowd. I squeezed my father’s hand.
Benedict dismounted his steed and pushed his way through the crowd. He wore a green velvet surcoat that drew attention to the breadth of his shoulders. He wore his cape with one side draped over his shoulder, to reveal the polished sword hung at his hip. His gait was determined and sure.
His steady gaze held mine as he strode toward us. Many of the guests stared in awe at his entrance and forgot to bow as he passed by. He had them in the palm of his hand with his noble air, just as he had my father. However, I knew his true character and vowed to find a way to reveal his treachery.
He stopped and knelt before my father.
“Welcome, my son. Arise, and meet your bride,” my father spoke.
“My lord,” he said and flashed me his radiant smile.
“You are a vision, milady Sabeline. I am a most fortunate man.”
A cheer went up from the crowd as he knelt and kissed my hand. The musicians began again their music, stirring the villagers to dance and hold their candles high to begin the procession.
An explosion of light burst from the bonfire, causing the fire to rise ever higher into the sky. Cautious whispers tittered through the crowd as the revelers backed away. In the midst of the flame, the image of two lovers appeared. Their features at first obscured by the bright light, I recognized them immediately as the couple I’d seen in the old woman’s cauldron. The rippling image of the couple began to clarify and as it did, my cheeks grew warm with the realization that it was Ranulf and me.
My father turned to me, his face drawn in anger. The shame of my secret affair was now disclosed to the entire kingdom. Why was the old crone allowing this to happen? Benedict now had the right to refuse to marry me, and worse, he could have me stoned to death for my infidelity. I could only stare into the flames, unable to speak.
“Daughter, have you anything to say in your defense?” my father asked, his voice revealing his disappointment.
I could deny it, calling it a form of trickery, or I could admit the truth and join Ranulf in the hereafter. I glanced at Benedict, his sinister gaze awaiting my word. I looked at my father. “It is true. I had one night of passion with a man I thought was my intended. But that one night filled me with more passion and love than I could possibly have in a lifetime with this man.”
Low murmurs sounded from the crowd and my father held up his hand to silence them. I held Benedict’s hard gaze.
“Baron, though it pains me to say it, by authority of the king and by the tradition of your people, I stand as a betrayed groom and accuse your daughter of infidelity, punishable by stoning.”
The crowd’s attention, and too my father’s, turned to me. My eyes welled as I searched the crowd, hoping that the old woman would come forth and make things right.
To my relief, I spotted the old woman as she stepped from the crowd and approached the bonfire, her eyes glistening in the fire’s glow. I held my breath, unsure of what would happen next. The old crone lifted her gnarled hands to the sky.
“Hope reborn, come with the sun
dispel the chill of darkness
bright fire of dawn
reach to our hearts
burn bright of winter’s desire.”
The image in the fire shifted, becoming Ranulf alone, standing straight and tall in his warrior’s garb, his breastplate reflecting the flames. The onlookers gasped quietly and shielded their eyes.
“What trickery is this?” my father bellowed.
I stared at the image, unmoving and yet so lifelike. My curious gaze met the old woman’s toothless grin.
“No trickery, milord,” the woman spoke. “’Tis the truth of the new moon. Its light comes to dispel the darkness of deception.”
“This woman is a witch,” Benedict called out to the crowd as he grabbed my arm and drew me against his side.
“She bears no ill will.” I raised my voice to the crowd. “Her wisdom in this village is well known.”
“You will speak when I tell you, wench, and only then,” Benedict growled, shoving his face to mine and yanking hard on my arm.
He turned from the crowd, dragging me with him. He stopped in his tracks, and I was brought up short.
“What is this?” Fear was etched in Benedict’s voice. “You are but a figment of magic, nothing more.”
I looked around his shoulder and could not believe my eyes.
Ranulf’s fist met Benedict’s face, causing him to spiral backward, releasing me as he fell on his backside.
No ghost could perform such an act. My heart began to pound with hope.
“Guards!” both my father and Benedict shouted, and we were immediately surrounded by a circle of drawn swords.
“Greater deception than infidelity marks this night, Baron Durwain,” Ranulf began. “I was sent away, blackmailed by this man, who accuses your daughter of infidelity. Lord Benedict’s plan to have me killed was thwarted when this old woman found me left for dead in the woods. It was her care that nursed me back to health and here I am, living proof of this man’s treachery. If there is guilt to be slung, then I pledge my undying allegiance to you, Baron, and to my king. But I cannot deny the depth of love I have for your daughter. And it is that love for which I was sent away, that and my knowledge of Benedict’s plan to assassinate you once this marriage was established.”
“You have no proof of such lies. I have no way of knowing how you returned from the dead, but you will now suffer the consequence of your infidelity.” Benedict scrambled to his feet.
“I am a witness to the threat you made upon my father and me,” I spoke, taking my father’s hand. “I beg your forgiveness, milord. But I have never loved this man, not as I do Lord Ranulf. And I wanted to tell you of his plan, but he threatened to kill you if I did. With Ranulf gone, I had no other witnesses.”
“Ah, but you always did, cousin.” Margaret stepped from the crowd and came to my side. “Benedict revealed to me his plan in my chambers.”
“She lies!” Benedict started for his sword. Ranulf stepped forward and stopped him.
“Do you deny telling my father and me of Ranulf’s death?” I asked as Ranulf took the sword from Benedict’s belt. My father’s guards proceeded to disarm Benedict’s men. My body trembled, desiring to step into Ranulf’s embrace.
“This is true, Lord Benedict, you spoke those very words this morning.” My father nodded to one of his guards. “Lock him away until he can be questioned. The king will need to be apprised.”
I hugged my father’s neck.
“You have placed me in a predicament, Sabeline,” he spoke softly against my hair. “I had an alliance with the king.”
The old crone appeared at my side, tugging on my arm.
I looked at Ranulf, unsure of what the future would bring, but overjoyed that he was alive. The woman grabbed my hand and Ranulf’s, drawing them together. She placed her other hand on my stomach.
“As was foretold in the days of old, return him to my breast, burn bright with winter’s desire.” She held her fingers to the heavens, pointing to the full moon. “This is the seed of your people, your inheritance. Born of a man of virtue and blessed by winter’s desire.”
She looked then at my father. “Your line lives through this union, milord. It is fate. The ancients have willed it, so mote it be.”
My father looked from the old w
oman to me. “Is this your desire, my daughter?”
“Milord.” Ranulf knelt before my father. “The king had promised me a castle and land, just to the south, over the border region. We would not be far from Sabeline’s home and I would see that the king accepts this alliance in his name. Under the circumstances, Benedict’s plan will no doubt be viewed as treason. With your permission, I ask in the name of the king, for your daughter’s hand in marriage and swear my oath that I will care for her to the day I die.”
The old woman clapped her hands and smiled as she glanced up at my father.
“Rise, my son,” my father spoke softly and then turned to address the crowd. “Let us proceed then with the wedding celebration,” he called aloud. He took the old crone’s arm, escorting her to the castle entrance.
I looked up at the moon, Ranulf’s hand firmly in mine as we followed and silently thanked the Mother Goddess, believing again in the magic of the season.
In the months that followed, I spent my nights free to enjoy my handsome husband in our new home. My belly had begun to show the first evidence of the child I carried…Ranulf s child.
“You spoil me with such attention, milord.” I sighed, turning my head to offer him my neck. His chuckle sent a ripple of anticipation over my flesh.
“Then I shall spoil you rotten.” He grinned. planting kisses between my swollen breasts as he left a reverent kiss on my small protruding belly. “You are sure it is safe?” He glanced up at me, concern flickering in his eyes.
“The nurse said to be cautious, but it is early yet.” I smoothed my hand over his dark blond hair, silently thanking the ancients for returning him to me.
I abandoned myself to his tongue, able, as always, to perform such magic between my thighs. His beard brushed my sensitive flesh until my body grew tight with need.
He drew me to his lap and I took him deep inside. As I looked into his gentle eyes, so filled with love, I could hear the old woman’s chant echoing in my mind.
“Bring sweet lover’s kiss…”
The fierce winter wind shook the shutters and our sighs blended with its haunting moan. I gripped Ranulf’s shoulders, shoulders that would carry the decisions of a kingdom, as well as his child, one day. The thought of it made me cry out his name as we gave way to a shattering, mutual release.
My husband drew me into his embrace and lay his head against my breast.
“Return his head upon my breast.” The Druid woman’s voice tickled my memory. I hugged Ranulf close, opening my eyes to glance at the sampler, now framed and hanging above the fireplace in our castle chamber. For our children, and the sons and daughters after them, the promise of these words, summoned by the ancients, would always remain.
“So mote it be.”
MIDNIGHT WHISPERS
by
Charlotte Featherstone
1
THE CRACKLING OF WOOD IN THE HEARTH AND the glowing embers that lay scattered on the warm bricks beckoned her, drawing her into their mysterious depths. In the flickering flames she saw figures melding and disappearing, then flaring to life once again. The smell of cinnamon, cardamom and pine needles boiling in the black iron pot over the fire delicately scented the air, soothing her, bringing her back to a time when life seemed less complicated, her path sure and straight, and set.
The rhythmic motion of her fingers kneading the bread on the floured wooden table lulled her further, until she was hypnotized by the twin flames that leaped up from the blackening log. They twined and tangled then parted. Two separate entities, born of the same desire.
A daydream, she told herself as she mindlessly kneaded the soft dough. A dream. Nothing more. A heart’s deepest desire; a woman’s most secret yearning.
In the blue flicker she saw him. Her David. His smile warm, his eyes so blue and clear. He sat atop his white horse wearing his red regimentals, reminding her of a modern-day knight. He was waving to her, just as he had that day, the last time she had seen him.
“I’ll come back to you, my love. I swear it.”
His voice seemed to call out to her from the flames, and shaking her head, she dislodged the image of her dead husband. Flipping the dough over, she dusted the mound with more flour while blowing away an errant strand of hair from her sweating brow as she continued to knead and think. Thoughts she should not entertain. Thoughts, that of late, would not be quieted, but instead had steadfastly grown until they occupied almost every waking and sleeping minute of her lonely existence.
Thoughts that could never be, no matter how much she wished it could be different.
It was warm in the cottage, despite the open window above the porcelain sink. The late-December wind that blew in through the lace curtains should have cooled her, but Sinead felt so very warm, cocooned in the small cottage that sat at the edge of the village and a heavily wooded forest.
The sun was setting, streaking in dark pinks and purples across the sky, the vivid colors disappearing behind the tops of the naked tree branches. Snow fell gently, like cotton fluff, from the heavy gray clouds to cover the earth in a blanket of white—as soft and beckoning as the finest goose down.
Sinead glanced away from the falling snow, and a flash of gold caught her eye as she picked up the dough and set it into a bowl to rise. Her wedding band. Her fingers dusted white with flour, she held her hand up, studying the simple gold ring in the light cast by the fire. It was a reminder of a past, the mark of a new life that had never had a chance to grow, the visual of a commitment and love that defied even the grave.
A haunting reminder. A source of guilt. Always the shame returned when she saw the gold band David had slipped onto her finger when he had spoken his vows to her. Vows that were never intended to be broken. Vows she had clutched steadfastly to her heart. Yet the words with my body, I thee worship had taken on new meaning whenever she heard them in her thoughts.
After dunking her hands in warm water, Sinead wiped them on her apron and turned to the little brick oven where a loaf of bread, golden brown and steaming hot, was waiting to be pulled out with the long-handled paddle.
“Let me get that.”
The deep, resonant drawl skated along her skin, and she glanced once more at the band on her finger, fighting the ripple of awakening that coursed through her body.
She did not turn to greet him. She did not want to see him, did not want to feel his hand brush against hers as he took the paddle from her. She did not want to smell him, the scent of clean male sweat and freshly laundered cambric. She did not want to know the sensation of his broad chest engulfing her back; his hands, beautiful and strong snaking around her middle. She did not want to see that sinful mouth and imagine the kind of pleasure it could bring her.
She had thought too many times of those things, dreamed of them too many times. In her mind she had tasted his mouth, his tongue against hers. She knew what she would taste—man. She knew how his hands would feel on her naked body—strong, weathered, masculine.
With her back to him, she composed herself, willing her body under control, her mind from envisioning him overtop her, dominating her with his strength and a muscled body she knew would sexually master hers.
She had dreamed of that body, tall and thick and so warm. She had fantasized about succumbing to him, allowing him to have her. She craved his strength, his masculinity. She yearned to be a woman with him—his woman, in every sense of the word.
He was the opposite of David, yet no less intriguing. Perhaps, if she were being honest with herself, he was the most captivating and arousing man she had ever met. And every moment spent in his company was a lesson in torture, for she could not allow herself to discover the pleasures of his body loving hers.
The wood that he had just cut fell with a thud to the stone floor. The noise was followed by the tread of his boots across the small space between the hearth and the kitchen. Their fingers touched, brushing skin against skin. His so cold and roughened by the elements; hers warm, soft, slipping supplely between his li
ke his body would slip inside hers, then out, only to slide deep within once again with a powerful thrust that would at once inflame, yet soothe.
Her core clenched in memory, her body trembling with the need to feel passion once again. She hungered for it, this physical intimacy with another human being. The warmth of being touched, held, whispered to. The heavy feel of a man on top of her, her hair wrapped around his hand, her chin tilted to receive the thrust of his tongue as he filled her with his phallus.
She had not been touched by a man in three years. So long…
Sweat trickled down her neck, sneaking beneath the ribbed bodice of her serviceable work gown until she felt it settle between her breasts. He would know her thoughts. He always knew. He would hear her labored breathing, recognize the flush in her cheeks, see her nipples hardened beneath her worn corset and thin cotton gown.
He would read her wicked thoughts, the vision of the two of them naked, mating like animals. He would know because he watched her. He always watched her with those black, mysterious eyes that were fathomless in their depths.
Finally, Sinead allowed her held breath to escape when he did not let his touch linger as he usually did. In the past, even the barest brush of their skin had been cause for him to stop and look at her. Sometimes he would reach out to touch her cheek, but always he would check himself, drawing his hand away and replacing it at his side. Sometimes, she was relieved when he stopped himself. Other times she was left aching, her body crying out for the simple touch of a man’s hand against her skin.
Kieran’s touch. It had been this way for months now, her wanting Kieran—needing him—as more than a protector and helper.
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