Moonstone Magic

by Jill Gregory

  Now he was facing the woman he’d calculatingly chosen for his bride. She was gaping at him, her hair tumbled loose from its careful braiding, spilling in pale, milky waves about a delightfully expressive little face. The feisty courage Princess Brianne had exhibited thus far under such difficult circumstances impressed him. She was slender, intelligent, and quite comely, he thought, his gaze lingering over her full lower lip, her cheeks dusted with snow. Perhaps marriage would not be so tedious after all...

  Her next act blotted that thought from his mind. Brianne drew back her arm and slapped him across the face with all her strength.

  “You carried me off as a war strategy, didn’t you?” she gasped, enraged, as understanding took hold. “You want Eadric to follow you so that you can lead him into a trap!”

  Ralf ignored the sting of her blow, appearing not to have felt it at all. “He is already following me,” he informed her with satisfaction. “But he will soon realize that he is venturing too close to Kerric without the strength of his full army behind him, and he will turn back to gather them. Then the news of our nuptials will reach him, and he will go wild with anger.”

  Ralf’s eyes had grown colder than the snow that had begun to drift down upon Brianne’s frozen cheeks. She felt afraid as that icy gaze touched her.

  Then his attention shifted away. Looking beyond her, he carefully scanned the darkened forest from which they had come.

  Fighting. That is all this man knows or cares for. Fighting and bloodshed and the frenzied clamor of battle. There is no gentleness or beauty in him. Only a love of killing, a thirst for others’ deaths.

  “Eadric will return to attack me at Kerric, Lady Brianne, with his full army.” His deep voice broke into her thoughts. “My guess is he will set siege to my castle.”

  “A pleasant fate—to be besieged,” she remarked acidly.

  He grinned at her then, a cool, hard grin. “Ah, but Eadric will be walking into a trap, my lady. I have a tidy plan which will ensnare him once and for all, and if the battle goes according to my plan, Eadric will be either dead or my prisoner within a fortnight.”

  A fortnight. The same amount of time as she had to rescue Emma, Feour, and their child. But how would she get to Eadric, to the moonstone now?

  If I have to kill this giant Ralf of Kerric to do it, I will, she thought, and, suddenly, as if he could read her thoughts, Ralf reached out a massive arm and yanked her close.

  “You cannot escape your fate,” he said softly. His tone was even and unyielding. So great was his strength that Brianne realized he could easily snap her in two. “You are my prisoner now, and you will be my bride. Make no mistake about that. But you will not be harmed,” he added curtly. “Have no fear. I won’t hurt you, Brianne of Morksbury.”

  “You already have,” she whispered harshly. She ducked her head so that he wouldn’t see the tears glimmering in her eyes.

  Ralf was silent a moment, then he cupped her chin in his hand and forced her to look into his eyes.

  “You will adjust soon enough,” he said, almost as if trying to convince himself. “There is no cause for tears. As my queen, you will be treated with honor, which is more than you would have gotten from Eadric, believe me.”

  “Your plan is as foolish as you are,” she cried, twisting away. “I hope Eadric kills you for your insolence.”

  Amused, he reached out to brush an escaping tear from her cheek. “And if so, will you not even shed one such sweet tear for me?” he inquired in an injured tone.

  “Not a one.”

  “You wound me, my lady, far more than any sword.”

  “If words were swords, I would bloody you truly.” Brianne gulped. “But since they are not, I will save my breath. It is cold here. And I am hungry. Is it your intention to starve me, Ralf of Kerric, or are we to partake of supper before the midnight hour?”

  Ralf stepped back and gave her a mock bow, gracefully, elegantly done, for all his huge size. In the darkness, his eyes glowed like obsidians. “If my lady desires supper, she shall have it,” he said coolly.

  He led her back to the camp without another word.

  That night, Brianne slept in a tent guarded by Ralf’s men. She tossed and turned upon her pallet, unable to get warm, unable to stop thinking about her mother. Tears fell, silent tears—she would die before she let those men outside report to their leader that the Princess of Morksbury had wept.

  She must appear strong.

  I must be strong, she told herself fiercely, and wished, as she had so many times, that she had even the faintest trace of her natural powers to rely upon. But she had only her wits and her courage to draw on, and at last she forced herself to sleep, for she knew that on the morrow she would face Ralf again, and she must somehow—sooner, rather than later—find the means to elude him.

  Remembering his strength, the shrewd intelligence in those dark, piercing eyes, the determination that flowed from him, she knew it would not be easy to get the better of Ralf of Kerric.

  She tried to block his image from her mind, tried to think of her mother, of Bobwen, of Emma, even of the children in the village she’d left behind, anything but him. Yet somehow, after she had drifted off to sleep—she knew not how long after—she saw Ralf’s image in her mind, and he was bending over her as she lay naked upon a great soft bed. His body was warm, sinewy with muscle. His eyes gleamed. Brianne felt heat rushing through her.

  Suddenly, a chill pierced her. She screamed soundlessly. It was no longer Ralf who loomed over her, but a wild wolf, snarling and baring its teeth. She was gripped by a sensation of deathly cold. She watched, helpless, immobile, as the wolf sprang forward with its bloody jaws wide—lunging for her throat—and at that moment she heard a distant scream.

  She was floating. Floating in white space, white mist. And hearing that same scream echoing over and over again.

  Emma. That is Emma’s scream.

  The white mist vanished.

  There was silence.

  She bolted upright on her pallet. Gasping, she hugged her clammy arms about herself, shaking with terror, and wondered at the ominous meaning of this dream.

  She slept no more that night, and at dawn, Ralf and his soldiers broke camp, bundling her off with them as they rode out at a gallop across the frozen and desolate moors.

  Chapter Three

  At noon on the third day of riding, they reached the castle.

  It loomed up through the misty snowfall like a ghostly apparition glowing star-white against the dense grayness of the winter sky. Huddled in her cloak, Brianne studied the great seventy-foot main tower rising high above the smaller round stone towers circling the curtain wall.

  My new home, she thought bleakly. My prison.

  The moat, battlements, and baileys looked discouragingly massive and well-fortified. They appeared in excellent repair, and strong enough to ward off any but the most fearsome and prolonged attack—perhaps even that.

  How could Eadric rescue her? How could she escape?

  Ralf’s men quickened the pace as the castle came into view. Ralf, too, seemed eager now that the journey was over at last, spurring his great black horse forward past thatched cottages of wattle and daub.

  She tensed as they clattered over the drawbridge and through the portcullis. In the courtyard, Ralf helped her down from the saddle and studied her pale face.

  “You are weary. The women will take you straight to your chamber to rest. They’ll bring you food and wine. If you’re wise, Brianne, you’ll use the next hours to sleep. It’s early yet. Our marriage ceremony will take place after supper.”

  “Tonight?” She couldn’t hide her dismay. If she’d had some time to think how to do it, she might have found a way to escape her room when it grew dark, to elude the serving women while everyone slept, and somehow slip out of the castle before this damned marriage took place. But if they were to be wed so soon, it would be nearly impossible. Ralf would share the bedchamber with her—and the bed itself—and she could scarcel
y sneak away from her wedding bower without drawing her husband’s notice.

  Wedding bower. The thought filled her with a strange sensation—part dread, part something else she didn’t understand.

  Ralf noted her look of stunned dismay with a little twist of disappointment. Well, he reasoned gruffly, what else could he expect? He had stolen the wench from her home, and even from her duly intended bridegroom, and he was forcing her to marry him in a lonely castle far from her own people. Of course she was distraught. This was hardly a love match on either part. Yet he had hoped somehow that during the course of the past three days, she might have had time to grow accustomed to her fate, to accept it.

  He had. In fact, the more he saw of the slender angel-haired Princess Brianne, the more intrigued he was by her.

  She hadn’t complained, no matter how long and arduously they rode. She possessed dignity, spirit, and the rare ability to display grace under difficult circumstances—and she was hauntingly beautiful. Ralf found that her heart-shaped face, delicately expressive features, and brilliant green eyes reminded him of the fairy folk he’d come upon once in his youth. Mortals scarcely ever encountered them, yet one day, wandering through the forest alone, he had stumbled upon a party of them.

  They had vanished in a twinkling, but he’d never forgotten that captivating glimpse. Princess Brianne had the look of them. He wondered if she also had powers to match her mystical looks. She’d threatened him with sorcery that first day, and he knew the reputation of the women in her family, but she had done no conjuring that he knew of on the journey to impede him.

  And once they were wed, it would be in her best interest to work with him, he knew, not against him in any way.

  Yes, Ralf thought, studying with reluctant fascination the lovely planes of her upturned face, perhaps the marriage might prove a good thing on all accounts, not merely as a means of manipulating Eadric.

  Perhaps, one day, even Brianne herself would see the good in it.

  “Ralf,” she ventured, breaking into his thoughts. She peeped up at him with feigned meekness from beneath thick lashes. “Could we not wait a day or two... no more...”

  “No.”

  Her eyes narrowed angrily at his hard tone. All pretense of humility vanished from her face, replaced by a stony, haughty expression that was, indeed, worthy of a princess.

  Ralf laughed aloud. “We’ll be wed tonight,” he reaffirmed, and there was no doubt of his complete determination in the matter. “I am most eager to take you for my bride, Brianne of Morksbury.’

  And a moment later he was leading her firmly toward the castle.

  Brianne feIt a blush burning her cheeks at his words and their unspoken implications.

  The blush deepened as he glanced down at her.

  “I will claim you for my own, forever, before one more night has passed,” he added, noting the deep telltale rosiness that glowed ever more intensely in her face.

  Brianne’s heart raced with confusion. Everything since that fateful morning of her mother’s death had happened much too quickly for her. She’d thought then that she would be shortly wed, but to Eadric—not to this dark-eyed, dangerous giant who had carried her off as a strategy of war.

  “Surely you can wait at least until the morrow,” she argued one last time, without much hope.

  Ralf shook his head.

  Suddenly, a thought burst into her mind with the swiftness of a shooting star blazing across the sky. “You think Eadric could attack at any time!” she gasped. “Even as early as tomorrow. Isn’t that so?”

  Searching his face, she read the truth in his eyes.

  “You want to be certain we are wed before his attack—the better to enrage him, and perhaps blind him to caution in his battle plans.”

  “Sorceress,” he said softly. “How is it that you read my mind?”

  She felt a small hot-cold tingle go through her. So she had guessed his true purpose. Was it only political shrewdness, learned from so many years at her father’s knee, or had she truly read his thoughts?

  Prism colors danced once more in her head. She felt somewhat light-headed and dizzy again. What was wrong with her?

  Ralf caught her against him as she swayed on her feet.

  “Come inside, sorceress. You’re weary beyond your endurance. You must rest before our wedding rites.” He swept her up easily in his arms and carried her across the yard, then up the stairway leading to the great tower.

  Even though her head had stopped spinning, and the strange color bursts had receded, Brianne knew better than to try to argue with him.

  Servants came running, stopped and stared and dropped to their knees as their king strode through the porter’s lodge into the great hall, bearing in his powerful arms the fragile-looking young woman with the pale flowing hair.

  Through the great hall they went, past wooden benches and trestle tables and raised dais, past the great stone fireplace and the staring steward and the gaping baker’s helper, and past the young squire, a sturdy boy of about fourteen, who dropped to his knees at the sight of his master.

  Ralf took her to his own private chamber and set her on her feet upon the rush-strewn floor. Brianne noted magnificent tapestries warming the thick beamed walls, a wide stone hearth and wooden window embrasures, and an enormous featherbed hung with heavy scarlet curtains made of velvet.

  A serving woman, obviously expecting them, appeared at once from inside a vestibule.

  “Myla, my lady requires food and wine,” Ralf told her. She curtsied once and scurried off without more than a brief, flickering glance at her new mistress.

  Ralf drew Brianne toward the bed.

  “Rest,” he commanded.

  But she wouldn’t sit down. She stood and faced him, stolid as a soldier, though the top of her head scarcely reached his chin.

  “I suppose there is no way to persuade you out of this plan,” she stated quietly.

  “None.”

  Frustration seethed inside her. She, who should have been so powerful, couldn’t even see beyond what this single day would hold, much less send a warning across the great seas to her sister.

  She gritted her teeth. “You must let me go!”

  “I am proceeding with everything as planned,” Ralf added quietly, reaching out to twirl a strand of her silky hair between his long, callused fingers. “Especially now that I have seen you, and spoken with you, and have come to know you a little.”

  There. He’d said it. He, who feared no man, knew a moment’s trepidation as he faced this ravishing woman. How would she respond?

  Ralf couldn’t read the stunned expression on her face. If only he understood a little more of women! But he’d paid scant attention to the tavern wenches and camp followers who’d warmed his bed on countless nights, other than to explore the promise of their bodies. He didn’t have the faintest notion how to judge a woman’s thoughts. He found himself forced to rely on instinct, following the strategy he would if he were waging a battle for territory.

  Be bold. Fearless. Approach, set sights, invade.

  Stepping closer, he swept his arm around her waist. He caught her chin with his other hand and gently forced her head up so that she had no choice but to stare into his eyes.

  “Do not be afraid.” But his tone held a ruthless intent that stabbed through her like a dagger. “I will not harm you, Brianne. But I will have you.”

  “I know nothing of you—other than that you are a ferocious warrior,” Brianne whispered. “Ralf of Kerric, if you were in my place, wouldn’t you feel fear? Answer me truthfully!”

  He had to smile. “I suppose I would. Particularly if I were a lone and lovely woman like you.” He studied her elegant white neck, the dainty waist he could span with his fingers, the vulnerable curve of her cheek. He loosed his hold on her pale hair and touched the pulse beating at her throat.

  Then, without warning, he lowered his head and kissed her.

  The warmth of his mouth seemed to set fire to her lips. Strength met
softness. Magic sparked.

  She could not pull back. And, mysteriously, she didn’t want to.

  To be held so tightly, so masterfully, kissed so long and deeply and thoroughly—it was wondrous, strange, exciting.

  Brianne had imagined kisses before, but never once had she experienced one. This kiss, her first, filled her with surprise, delight, and a sweet, melting languor.

  His mouth moved over hers, hungry, warm, exploring. Then his arms tightened, drawing her even closer against him.

  If only this would go on forever, she thought dizzily, pressing against him. Ralf’s mouth tasted rough, yet sweet. He smelled of leather and spice.

  Colors more vivid than any she had ever envisioned burst in her head, vibrant sensations whirled through her, the world danced...

  Forever, she wished. Forever...

  And then, suddenly, the kiss ended. After hours, or perhaps instants, Ralf drew back with a reluctant groan.

  Opening her eyes, Brianne gazed dazedly up at him. His eyes gleamed darkly into hers with an intensity that made her catch her breath.

  “Is this a bewitchment?” he asked softly. “Enchanting woman, my steward awaits me. There will be time for pleasure tonight. Let me go.”

  “Let you go? Oh... you abominable...”

  “Don’t deny you enjoyed it.” He grinned.

  That grin so infuriated her that she tried to strike him, but he caught her wrist with a laugh.

  “Admit it. You thought it was... quite pleasant,” he finished triumphantly. He was beginning to understand women after all. At least, this woman.

  ‘Pleasant?” Brianne repeated incredulously. “Pleasant? I assure you it is not pleasant to be stolen from one’s home! Nor is it pleasant to be compelled to marry a warlike brute who uses a woman to achieve his ends! Or to be forced to leave one’s home on the very morning that...”

  But then, to her humiliation, her voice broke, and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.

  No, she would not appear weak!

  With an effort, she took command of her voice. “It is not pleasant to be forced from one’s home on the very morning that I watched my mother die.”