The Swan Maiden

by Susan King

  Earlier, he had laughed with her, and had tasted her mouth more than once. The memory of that sweetness drew him to her now like a bee to a flower. He wanted her fiercely, his body aching with an astonishing need, strong and vibrant and immediate.

  Perhaps he struggled only against the common exaggeration of dreams and sensations in the darkness. Perhaps it was merely the natural urge that came upon a man at night. In the morning, he told himself, he would forget this. He would scarcely remember how much he wanted her, how he throbbed for her. This would seem like a dream.

  But he could not convince himself of that. He sucked in a breath and shifted his arm, feeling the tug on the silk.

  Honor alone kept him from pulling her into his arms and kissing her, caressing her as he yearned. Honor kept him still, and weighed upon him as heavily as desire.

  She turned on her side, facing him, and sighed long and low. He sensed, in the utter quiet, that she was awake. On his foot, through the covers, he felt the tiny pricks of the kitten’s claws as it flexed its toes in sleep.

  “Must we have the cat in our bed?” he asked irritably.

  “Aye,” she said, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Why so? She will hardly protect you against me, if ’tis what you think. I fear I will smash the little beastie, all unknowing, in my sleep.”

  “If you canna be husband to me,” she murmured, “which you canna, for ’twould be ill-done to take me in my body as England wishes to take Scotland …” Her pause signaled that she expected his reply on that point.

  “Aye, ill-done. We have agreed on that. Go on.”

  “Then I will have the kitten in the bed at night. I want some comfort. I am a prisoner, after all.”

  “I hope I suffer so, if I ever fall into prison again,” he muttered, reshaping his pillow.

  “You will, if you dinna tame me.”

  “Thank you for the reminder,” he growled.

  After a moment, she turned her head. He saw the silvery gleam of her hair and the oval curve of her face in the darkness. “In prison again? What did you mean?”

  “I spent two months in the king’s dungeon in the Tower of London. I was released but six weeks ago. ’Tis why my mother still thinks me too thin,” he added.

  “What was your crime?”

  “The crown called it transgression,” he answered. He did not want to offer more, not then, for there was far too much else to explain regarding that incident. But Juliana leaned closer in the dark, her curiosity clearly raised.

  “Transgression? But you are the perfect courteous English knight. Surely there was something serious to warrant prison.”

  “There was.” He lay unmoving, silent, considering. His hand was beside hers, the band of silk gentle between them.

  “What was it?” she prompted.

  “Betrayal,” he said quietly, and turned his head away, presenting his shoulder to her.

  Caught in a dream, yet riding the edge of wakefulness, she summoned back the vanishing images and thoughts, drawing them over her like a cloak woven of stars and darkness. That world seemed more real now than reality, a place of safety and love and joy. A sparkling strand of murmurings and laughter and a beloved face streamed past, and she went toward it. She did not want to rise up into the light of dawn, and another day of captivity.

  Snuggling down, keeping her eyes closed, she felt lush and warm and relaxed as she sought and found her dream world again. Caresses, whispers, someone whom she adored, who loved her—

  There he was—just there. She smiled and slipped into his arms when he appeared. They floated together somewhere, in a meadow, in an ocean, in a bed, in heaven—she did not know. Neither did she know his name. But she knew him nonetheless, understood him deeply, as if he were the twin half of her soul.

  His slow, gentle fingers skimmed her back, her arm, her hip. She lay against him, breast to chest, her knee drawn over his firm thigh, his breath easing over her hair.

  So peaceful, so warm. A wondrous feeling, unlike anything she had ever known before. She could not tell where she ended and he began. She only knew how much she loved him.

  Smiling, sinking into his comfort and strength, she slid her hand over the smooth contour of his chest, feeling the circlet of his nipple harden. She explored him, sighing as he sought her as well, his hand gliding over the roundness of her breast, his thumb flicking over the nipple, creating a burst of starlight in her body, in her heart.

  Breath soft in her hair, lips warm and gentle on her brow, he seemed to meld with her. She tilted toward him, and his mouth captured hers, her lips opening to him. If only she could float here forever, loved and loving, cherishing, a part of his flesh and spirit, as he seemed part of hers. Only joy existed between them, only the urge to touch, the desire to please.

  His hand left her breast, making her yearn for more, stirring her heartbeat. Fingers gentle against her throat, thumb tipping her head back, finger pads tracing the arch of her neck. She tilted her head and opened her mouth, seeking within his mouth as he delved into hers.

  Now his head tipped down and his hair, like midnight silk, slipped soft over her skin. His mouth was hot and exquisite on her breast, seeking, finding, and she sighed and arched into him. The dream went on, and she flowed within it.

  She furrowed her hands through the heavy satin of his hair, found the rasp of his beard, played with his ear, until he sucked in a breath and came up to meet her mouth again, taking her there with such extraordinary gentleness that the rest of her melted like drizzled honey.

  Moaning, she heard his deep, breathy echo. Her hand progressed along his arm, over the carved plane of his chest and abdomen, over the velvet-textured hair lower down. She wanted to know, wanted to touch, wanted to be touched. Her fingers found the waist of his garment. He was heated and solid there, rising against her hand. He took her mouth again, firmly this time, and lifted his mouth away. He whispered her name, kissed her ear.

  Gasping, she lost the edge of the dream and opened her eyes.

  Gawain. Not some nameless dream lover. His brown eyes stared into hers, blinked, his lashes and brows black as coal. A cool silvery light spilled over his body, over hers. She lay half on top of him, their silk-bound hands beneath them. She stilled, and he was silent. The same nurturing warmth as in the dream enveloped them. But her heart pounded through her chest, and his heart thumped against her.

  His hand drifted away from her breast. Her hand was still cupped over his hardness, linen separating her skin from his, and she slid free. Her body felt lonely, cool.

  Slowly, he turned his head and closed his eyes. His hand lingered on her arm, utterly tranquil.

  Perhaps this was yet the dream. He was achingly beautiful in the dawn light, perfectly made, tender and strong. She felt love and passion lingering, palpable as light and fire.

  A dream, she thought, closing her eyes. An extraordinary dream. She was too weary to distinguish time from timeless.

  Resting her palm over his heart, she felt its rhythm, and slept before she could think, drawn back into the web of comfort that still held her.

  When she awoke in the full light of morning, she was alone in the bed. The silken veil, still tied around her wrist, floated free at the other end.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At midmorning he had still not seen Juliana, and neither had his sisters nor his mother. He worried that she had escaped, despite her promise. A groom in the courtyard finally told him that Robin had taken her fishing. He walked briskly through the open castle gates and over the drawbridge to see for himself.

  His stepbrother and two pages sat on the bank of the moat, a favorite spot for fishing, but Juliana was not with them. They waved toward him, and pointed down the meadow toward the river.

  He hurried there, crushing wildflowers underfoot, scarcely noticing the spring air or the white clouds and perfect sky overhead. Juliana was all he saw, standing in plain sight beside the calm river.

  She wore the mulberry gown and the white veil.
In the sun-warmed air, she had no cloak. When he approached, she glanced over her shoulder, her face lovely and innocent. Yet he saw a light that was alert and knowing, and wonderfully sensual, in her deep blue eyes. He was glad to see no flash of anger there, for he knew he deserved it.

  Slowing his step, he felt himself flush as he recalled what had happened at dawn. He had awoken with Juliana deep in his arms, his lips upon hers, his hands—and hers as well—finding joy with each other’s bodies.

  He could hardly apologize, for he was not certain she had been awake. He knew he had been caught in the blissful throes of a dream that had merged with reality. Now, the thought of those lush moments with her threatened to arouse him again.

  Forget this, he told himself sternly, though it remained agonizingly clear in his mind.

  “You have swans here,” she said, turning back to look at the river. “But they are nae tame.”

  “Aye. Wild swans have often nested on that far bend in the river. I hear that some of the Avenels who lived here long ago tamed the creatures, but none of us have that knack.” He stood beside her, hands folded behind him, watching the river. Far down along a bend, a pair of swans dipped their beaks into the water. “They are wild and distant and do not come close often. My mother enjoys watching them when they are here.”

  “You do know how to tame a swan,” she said quietly.

  He glanced at her. “I doubt that.”

  “You brought bread to the swan cob that was with me in the king’s court,” she said. “You fed him, and showed him patience and gave him food. It takes little more than that.”

  “He was already tamed,” he said.

  “He was a good cob, Artan,” she said faintly. She folded her arms around herself, and sighed, then sighed again.

  “Juliana,” he said. “Artan is free.”

  She glanced at him quickly. “The king ordered him prepared for the next day’s supper.”

  “Ah, well.” Gawain shrugged. “A good coin invites a favor. I would guess the king ate peacock or pheasant that next night.”

  She stared at him. “Artan was released?”

  He was glad to surprise her, pleased by the brightening in her face. “If my gold and my suggestion had any influence, he is swimming on the Tyne even now, or searching for a new home. I bribed a guard to free the bird.”

  “Ah, Gabhan,” she said, uttering his name in soft Gaelic. “How very kind of you.”

  By God, he thought, closing his eyes briefly and turning away. He loved the sound of his name in Gaelic, like some secret pleasure. “ ’Twas no matter,” he said casually.

  “Is it just a bonny tale to ease my mind?”

  “Ah.” He cocked a brow. “I see you have noticed the family tradition. ’Tis the truth, I swear it.” He held up his palm. “Shall we go inside? My mother would like to visit with you, and the girls asked if you would shoot arrows with them later. Robin has lately begun to teach them some archery skills.”

  She smiled. “I would love that.”

  “And tomorrow morn we leave for Scotland.”

  She looked up at the sky. “Mayhap Artan will be back on Loch nan Eala by the time we reach Inchfillan.”

  “I thought he would find a new home in England.”

  “He would seek his own home or burst his heart doing so, that cob. His family is there. And ’tis Scotland. He would never be content on an English river.”

  He watched her. “Nor would you.”

  “ ’Tis peaceful here, but I must go home. I must.” She looked at him, her eyes burning blue. “It torments me to be gone so long. I feel as if I could grow ill if I dinna go back. I—I canna explain it.”

  “I will take you back,” he said quietly. “I said I would.”

  She said nothing in reply, and watched the swans on the river for a few moments. “You could tame those swans, you know.”

  He laughed. “I cannot imagine any member of my family doing that. It needs far too much patience.”

  “Love and patience will tame any creature.”

  “Even a Swan Maiden?” He smiled.

  She shrugged and walked away, and he went with her. Shielding her eyes, she peered toward the swans. “They are building a nest, see. The cob is pulling reeds and grasses out of the water and the edge of the bank. And the pen is taking them from him, and tucking them in place. She is making a circle for herself. But whether she will accept the cob when the nest is made … time will tell. Sometimes the cob will pull materials for three or four different nests before the pen is satisfied, and lays her eggs.”

  “Poor fellow! So making this nest is no guarantee?”

  “None at all. She may yet fly away.”

  “I thought they mated for life.”

  “Usually,” she answered, moving a few steps ahead. “But it can take a long while for them to decide upon a mate. Even then, they dinna always have cygnets every season. And,” she added, “if he tires of her, or she of him, they will separate. I have seen it, rarely, among the swans on Loch nan Eala.”

  “You know swans well, it seems.”

  “I do,” she said. “If you bring food—bread and grains—to these swans every day, at the same time, they will learn to come to you and learn to expect you. They will tame a bit.”

  “Tell my sisters,” he answered. “They would enjoy that. But the creatures are said to be ill-tempered. ’Tis partly why we leave them alone and watch them from afar.”

  “They only attack when their safety is threatened, or their families and territory are invaded. Treat them with respect and they are good companions for life.”

  “Ah, is that the secret. We Avenels do not know much about swans, I fear,” he said wryly.

  “Swans take care of themselves. Just make certain that this part of the river is safe from their enemies—dogs, foxes, and otters—and see that they have plenty of food available to them and good places to nest. Protect them, and they will repay you with beauty and loyalty.”

  “Aye.” He did not mean swans. He wondered if she did.

  Her glance flickered away. “They would be content here. And once they are tamed, they will march over the drawbridge and through the gate and pester everyone in the courtyard if they think to find food from familiar hands there.”

  He laughed. “My mother and my sisters would enjoy that.”

  “Ah, there they go,” Juliana said, watching as the swans took a running start and lifted up out of the water into flight.

  Gawain craned his head back to watch them, too.

  “They willna fly much longer,” Juliana said then. “Soon their feathers will molt for the summer, and for weeks they will be earthbound.”

  “Easily caught,” he said softly, watching her.

  “Aye.” She glanced at him, then past his shoulder. “Ach, I think you should kiss me now.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Here come your sisters,” she answered. “Kiss me and be done with it. This morn they were determined that so soon as they saw us together, they would demand kisses between us.”

  “Well, then.” He drew her toward him. She lifted her face and he touched his mouth to hers. She tasted sweet, warm, infinitely giving. He felt her curve into him. The powerful dream returned, pulled him under, and he was lost in the current.

  His heart drummed hard as he lifted his head and looked up to see the approaching twins. Juliana turned with him.

  “ ‘Lovelonging has caught me!’ —so says Bevis’s true love,” Catherine said. “And true love has found our Sir Gawain. We did not even have to remind him about the forfeit he owes us!”

  “Sir Gawain, whom no damsel would have,” Eleanor added.

  “But the Swan Maiden wants him.” Catherine smiled.

  “Hush,” Gawain said sternly.

  “Were there maidens who did not want him?” Juliana asked.

  “Oh, aye, so many we lost count,” Catherine said. “None of them had the lovelonging.” Eleanor giggled. Gawain scowled while Catherine gestu
red toward the castle.

  “Our lady mother looks down from her window, see there?”

  “Aye.” He waved, and the twins called out, waving. Lady Clarice lifted a hand and smiled, framed in the arched window.

  “She is glad you wed Juliana,” Catherine said. “She seems happier, even heartier, this morning than she has been in a long while. You are her first child, and your happiness is very important to her. She worries more about you than about us.”

  “She worried that you might never wed,” Eleanor said.

  “This,” Juliana said, “I must hear about.” She sent him a teasing smile. The twins laughed.

  “Gawain offered for the hands of several heiresses and even a widow … and each one turned him down,” Eleanor explained.

  “Why?” Juliana asked. Her eyes were bright with curiosity as she looked from one girl to the next.

  “My poor behavior,” Gawain said hastily. “ ’Twas long ago.”

  “I find that hard to believe—a fine knight like yourself.”

  “Believe it,” he said. “Five refusals. I am no prize.”

  The twins nodded. “He could not attract a bride because of his transgressions. At least ’tis what Father said.”

  “I want to hear more about this transgression,” Juliana said, looking at Gawain.

  “The first or the second?” Catherine asked brightly.

  Juliana watched him somberly. Gawain shrugged. “I overstepped my bounds in Scotland,” he answered. He had not planned to tell her yet, comfortable with his habit of keeping matters to himself. And it was hardly the time with the twins here—he wondered if he would ever find a good time for it. “I begged king’s peace. Twice. ’Tis done.” He half turned away.

  “What did you do?” Juliana narrowed her eyes curiously.

  “The first time,” he said, clearing his throat, “I abetted the escape of rebels in Scotland.”

  “At Elladoune?” Her glance was keen.

  “Aye.” He looked away.

  “You were seen the night we met?” she asked quietly. “And punished for it?” He nodded, and she frowned. “I never knew.”