Bound: A Merged Fairy Tale of Beauty and the Beast & Sleeping Beauty (The Enchanted Rose Trilogy: Book 2)

by R. M. ArceJaeger

  Mercer chewed his lip. He had a choice: he could turn back the way he had come and try to find another path, or press on and hope to rejoin the trail up ahead. Turning back would mean spending the night in the forest, and no one in their right mind did that if they could help it—just because no one had seen a griffin or a sphinx since his grandfather’s day did not mean they were not there. Men still went missing in the woods too often to be coincidence.

  On, then. The trail had vanished before and his horse had always found it again. He would just have to trust the mare’s instincts to lead the way.

  “Go, girl,” he said, patting her neck. “Take us home.”

  One ear flicked back, then forward again, and the horse resumed her ambling gait. Afternoon faded into twilight, and twilight into darkness, and still the mare walked on. Mercer knew by now he had made a mistake—either he had been further from the Darvell border than he had thought, or else they were going completely off course. Yet what choice did he have but to press on?

  Every sound now made him flinch. Was that cracking in the distance a deer stepping on a twig. . . or a bear snapping its jaws? The shrill hum of insects set Mercer’s teeth on edge, but a pause in their incessant noise filled him with alarm—did the silence signal a predator on the approach? His horse sensed his nerves and grew more and more restless, tossing her head often and snorting loudly.

  Mercer strained to see through the shadows, but the darkness was complete. They had to stop. They could not stop. His horse might step in a hole and lame her leg. Worse might befall them if they paused. Frightened and exhausted, Mercer prayed for deliverance. Just when he had decided they dared travel no further, the trees began to thin and they emerged into a clearing.

  No—not a clearing. An estate. “Thank you, God,” Mercer breathed, urging his horse toward the safety of human shelter. A pond shimmered in the starlight, and a manicured garden lay silhouetted to one side. A grand lodge rose up just beyond that—a black contour against the night.

  A lord’s hunting lodge, no doubt, Mercer thought, guiding his horse around the side of the building toward the front. Only a lord would be mad enough to build in the Great Forest.

  No light gleamed from any of the windows he passed, and Mercer began to fear that the place was abandoned. Still, the night was not terribly cold, and even being in the presence of a dwelling gave him comfort. Within its shadow, he might well find sleep. Better yet, a lodge like this would surely have a stable for horses, and such places were not usually locked. He could stay there.

  As he rounded the front of the lodge, however, Mercer espied the faint glow of a fire gleaming through a downstairs window. Immediately, his heart lightened. It seemed there was someone here after all! Perhaps a caretaker to maintain the place in the off season. Yes, lords always had people to do things like that. Why had he not thought of that before?

  Mercer eagerly dismounted from his horse and tied its reins around a post near the door. With deep relief, he climbed the stone steps and rapped sharply on the ornately carved door. “Good evening!” he called loudly when there was no answer. “Is anyone there?”

  He waited another minute, then climbed back down the stairs and walked over to the gleaming window. Peering in, he saw that the light was coming from a fireplace against the far wall. Blankets were mounded on the floor in front of the hearth, but the room was bare of much else.

  A dull squeaking sound drew his attention back to the door, and he saw it swing open in admittance.

  “Thank you,” he exclaimed, hastening over to the steps. “I had feared I would have to spend the night in these woods, and I—” Mercer broke off, staring into the corridor.

  No one was there.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ari bounded upstairs just in time, trying to quiet his breathless pants. A visitor! He had not seen another soul for nearly four years—not since the last time Liliath had dropped by.

  Barely able to contain his excitement, he had ordered the front door thrown open, then commanded the room where he slept to change into a magnificent hall for his guest. There had scarcely been enough time left for him to hide himself upstairs before the stranger had appeared in the doorway. The last thing Ari wanted to do was scare the man away, so he slunk back into the shadows, allowing his black fur to blend in completely with the darkness.

  The stranger stepped into the entrance corridor, and Ari drank in the sight of his face. It was bearded, deeply tanned, and framed by dark brown hair; Ari thought it looked kind, but who was he to judge human expressions anymore?

  “I say, is anyone there?” the man repeated, looking around. Ari saw him peer into the room he had just transformed, then draw back. “What is this? I could have sworn—” The man turned to step back outside, and Ari almost leapt after him—afraid he would leave, unable to bear his only company departing so soon—but managed to restrain himself. After a moment, the man returned, shaking his head.

  “I could have sworn the room I saw was bare save for some blankets—yet now in its place I find a spectacular hall. I must be more tired than I thought. Where is the caretaker?”

  He glanced up, and Ari held himself very still, scarcely daring to breathe. Hearing human speech again—real speech, not a replica from the mirror room—was a joy so exquisite, it was almost painful.

  “I am going to go stable my horse,” the man announced to the seemingly empty house. “If anyone takes issue with that, please tell me now.” He waited a few seconds. “Very well,” he muttered, shaking his head again. “If my daughters could see me, they would think me mad, talking to myself. Yet someone must be here, for who else could have laid the fire? Unless I am going mad in truth.”

  He left, and Ari let out the breath he had been holding. He considered what to do. He could not stay where he was—the man would need to come upstairs to sleep, and Ari did not want to risk hiding in a room only to be discovered by his visitor if the man decided to explore.

  Tentatively, Ari crept back downstairs and into the hall—the only chamber whose design he could control. He listened hard, but the distant sounds he heard told him the man was leading his horse to the stable. Furrowing his heavy brow in concentration, Ari caused a spiral staircase to temporarily descend from the ceiling to the floor, permitting him access to the rafters that spanned the hall and the entrance corridor. Hidden behind the ceiling slats, he would be able to watch his guest eat without making his presence known.

  “Feed him, bathe him, make him comfortable,” Ari commanded the house as he ascended into the roof, his heart skipping a little with anticipation. “Let him want for nothing. Make him happy. Make him want to stay.”

  * * * * *

  Mercer was pleased to find the stable unlocked and a stall already furnished with sweet-smelling hay. He could see additional bales stored up in the loft, but puzzled over who had prepared the stall, for in addition to fresh grasses, there was a trough full of clear water, a curry comb, and a horse blanket hanging over one side.

  Perhaps the caretaker had gone for a ride and left the stall ready for his horse’s return.

  A ride—in the forest—at night?

  Mercer ignored the skeptical voice in his head, just as he ignored the lack of evidence that there had ever been a previous occupant to the stall.

  “Perhaps he heard me say that I wished to stable you and prepared this place for us. We did take a few minutes riding around the lodge again. There were no lights in the other windows, so the caretaker must have been near the front. But why then did he not speak when I called out?” Mercer mused aloud to the mare. “’Tis a riddle, that is for certain.”

  Once he was confident his horse was comfortable, Mercer returned to the lodge. The entrance corridor—formerly dark—was now blazing with light cast off by brackets of rushlights along the walls. Mercer saw that the corridor ended in a large stone staircase, which led up to the second floor. The doors preceding the staircase were all closed except for the one on the right, which he knew belonged to the ro
om he had looked in first—the one he had thought was a plain, little chamber when he had peered through the window, but which had somehow transfigured itself into a marvelous hall.

  He looked inside and drew back, startled—the room had changed yet again! True, a long table still ran through the middle of the chamber, but now it was laden with dishes full of delectable food. Along one wall, a fire still roared, but now hundreds of rushlights also shone brightly from every wall.

  “Impossible!” the man exclaimed. “How could one caretaker prepare my horse’s stall, set the table, and still light all those wicks in the time it took me to stable my mare? Even ten men could not have done it. I tell you, this is impossible!”

  But there was no denying the rich scent of savory stew and . . . was that roast duck he smelled? Mercer’s mouth began to water and his stomach rumbled with remembered hunger. When was the last time he had eaten? He had not had coin to buy new food for several days now, and he had run out of bread and cheese sometime during that time.

  “Is this for me?” he asked loudly, uncertain whom he was talking to, but knowing there must be someone nearby. “May I—shall I partake?”

  There came no reply. Surely if the house was full of servants, they would make some sort of noise? And why would they refuse to show themselves?

  “Very well, then,” Mercer declared, hoping he was making the right choice. “I assume your silence implies consent. You have my gratitude.”

  He walked over to the table, which was covered in a white linen cloth so skillfully pressed that he could see no wrinkles. A mahogany chair stood alone at the table’s head, pulled back just enough so that he could slip in. There was only one place set, and he reverently touched the fine ceramic plate, enthralled by its skillful border of painted gold. Even when he had been a merchant and had coffers full of coin, he had never owned a piece such as this!

  Suddenly nervous that he was usurping a mighty lord’s place, he started to stand and almost knocked over a washbowl and cloth that had appeared on a small table beside his chair. Mercer cast his gaze around frantically, but there was no one in sight. How could he have missed seeing and hearing the one who had put them there?

  A feeling of deep unease washed through Mercer. Something was not right here. He was nearly tempted to take his horse and head back into the forest, but he reminded himself that he had seen no sign that he was in any sort of danger—something he could not guarantee if he ventured back into those dark woods!

  If my host left me a bowl to wash my hands in, then he—they?—must want me to eat, Mercer reasoned. Surely if they meant me harm, they would not have laid before me such extravagance. He sat back down.

  He was soon glad he did, for the fare was beyond delicious, and the wine he drank was fruity and rich. Mercer wished he could have eaten enough to do the meal justice, but when the piece of duck he had been holding slipped from his slumbering fingers and fell to the floor, he realized he had drifted off. Pushing himself away from the table, Mercer placed the piece back onto the plate and wiped the grease off the floor with his sleeve.

  Rising to his feet, he turned to the open door and asked, “Is there a place where I may rest?”

  There was no answer—Mercer found he had not really expected one. He walked to the corridor and saw that most of the rushlights had gone out, except for a few near the top of the stairs. Feeling as though he were in a dream, Mercer climbed the steps.

  The stairs stopped at a small platform near the rear of the house, with two corridors curving away on either side toward the front. They met again below a small window at the front of the house through which moonlight streamed, illuminating the ledge connecting the two corridors together and the floor down beneath.

  The first room to Mercer’s left was open and light glowed gently from within. Mercer approached it cautiously and found inside a splendid bedroom. Blue drapes hung halfway down from the bedposts, and a thick blue coverlet lay folded back, as though beckoning him to slumber. A fire crackled in the hearth, its flame low and muted, as though it, too, were ready to sleep. Before it stood a large basin full of water, steam lightly curling up from its surface.

  Mercer gaped at the hot bath, and had to stifle back a sudden sob. Such lordly luxury was too much, especially now that he was doomed to never be anything more than a poor farmer. Had his girls ever had a hot bath? No, never.

  My dear children, how I wish you were here in my place. This is the life you should have had—a life that now, in my confirmed misfortune, I will never be able to give you.

  Wracked with guilt, Mercer was nonetheless too sensible a man to ignore such a gift when offered. Pausing only to shut the door, he doffed his clothes and sunk deeply into the warm water. A sigh escaped him, and he leaned his head back against the padded edge and closed his eyes.

  When he awoke, the water was cold and his neck was stiff. Mercer stood up and was only a little surprised to find a towel neatly folded on a small table, along with a fresh set of clothes. His old ones—discarded on the floor—were gone.

  Mercer dried himself off and slipped into the fresh garments. They were the softest clothes he had ever worn, flowing cool and smooth against his skin. Though they were a little shorter and a little stouter than he would have preferred, he hardly cared to complain.

  Stumbling wearily over to the bed, Mercer climbed onto a mattress that was clearly made of the finest down—no hay-wrapped blankets here!—and into sheets that were even silkier than the clothes. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and did not stir even when the door creaked open and the basin, towel, and table quietly exited the room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mercer awoke feeling more refreshed than he had in years. For several minutes, he simply lay still, relishing in the delicious comfort of his bed. At last, he forced himself to push aside the covers and get to his feet. His body moved quickly, with a limber invigoration he had not experienced since he was a young man.

  The fire in the hearth had gone out, and the room was lit instead by a blaze of sunlight streaming in through a tall window. Mercer searched around for his boots but could not find them. Instead, he found a new pair waiting by the door. Like the clothes, these boots proved to be just a little too small for him, but they were made of soft calfskin that would soon stretch to accommodate his feet.

  Alert and nearly bursting with curiosity, Mercer stepped out into the passageway. A series of closed doors stretched off to the left, and he was sorely tempted to explore the rooms they hid, but he hesitated to invade his host’s privacy.

  Will he show himself today? Mercer wondered, heading down the stairs.

  There was nobody in the entrance corridor, but the hall he had supped in stood open. Mercer saw with relief that the room looked the same as it had been the night before, though the dinner had been replaced by a fresh breakfast.

  Once again, only one place was set.

  Mercer sighed, but the aroma wafting from the food quickly dispelled his disappointment. A steaming loaf of bread and a plate of fresh fish sat ready and waiting, and a glass of wine had already been poured. Mercer took a large sip as he sat down—it was an even better vintage than the one he had been served the previous night.

  “Thank you,” Mercer called to his hidden host, hoping the caretaker was near enough to hear. “Will you not join me at table?”

  He received no response.

  Perhaps he is deaf, Mercer considered as he ate. That would explain why he does not answer. But why refuse to show himself? He has gone to such lengths to make me comfortable, and I have nothing to offer him in return—not even, it seems, my thanks.

  This puzzle perplexed Mercer, but it did not stop him from enjoying his food. At last, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed one hand over his distended belly. What a meal! Tess was a fine enough cook, but the fare he had just eaten—simple though it may have been—had been prepared so well that it would not have been out of place on the table of a king. Such a cook was wasted maintaining a for
saken forest lodge.

  Reluctantly, Mercer rose to his feet. He wished he could linger for a few days and learn more about the place and its mysterious caretaker, but he had been away from home too long already. Besides, it would be rude to further impose on his host without a clear invitation to stay.

  “I appreciate your hospitality,” he stated loudly, beginning to feel absurd. “Such generosity toward a stranger is truly noble. I am in your debt.”

  Again, there was no reply. With a last look around the hall, Mercer left to go fetch his horse.

  “Well, girl, this has been quite the queer adventure,” he told her. “My family will not believe me when I tell of it. Tess will likely think I fell off riding you and hit my head.”

  The mare flicked back an ear and snorted as though offended by the very notion.

  Mercer smiled and rubbed her nose. “I quite agree.”

  He saddled the horse—all the tack had been oiled and cleaned in his absence—and placing one foot in the gleaming stirrup, he propelled himself onto the mare’s back.

  “Time to go.”

  The sun told him which way was home, and Mercer obediently guided his horse toward the rear of the lodge—he had indeed been traveling the wrong way last night. Now that it was day, he saw that the building was even grander than he had thought, and Mercer lamented the waste of such beauty and space. How his family would love to live in a place like this! Instead, only the invisible caretaker was able to enjoy its splendor, for its owner—if indeed, he deigned to visit it at all—would do so only to hunt and soon depart again.

  As if to emphasize the estate’s misspent glory, a shimmering pond with a large willow tree on one bank came into view as Mercer rounded the corner. Next to the pond was the garden he had seen silhouetted in the dark. Now that it was light, he could see the sharp, spindly stems that belonged to only one species—roses. Turning lush with green leaves and growing buds, they were nonetheless still bare of blooms. If only he had passed this way a week or two later—then he would have been able to fulfill his youngest daughter’s desire at least! Mercer’s heart sank, and the despair he had forgotten during his remarkable stay returned full fold as he realized that he had failed to achieve even that simple request.