Moonstone Magic

by Jill Gregory

  He grimaced, and pity flashed in his eyes.

  Dropping his arm from her waist, he took a step back.

  “I am sorry. I didn’t know at the time, Brianne. But even if I did, I doubt that matters could have been arranged differently.” She had told him on the journey of her mother’s long illness and of her passing the morning he had come for her. He was deeply sorry for it. But there was no help for the circumstances. He couldn’t allow them to change things—his plans had been too well thought out and they were already set in motion. And he could not allow sympathy to get in the way of what he must do to destroy Eadric.

  “If you had stayed and had been taken in marriage by Eadric, it would have strengthened him greatly. The sorcery rumored to be so powerful in your family line would have awed many among his people, and doubled their terror of him. It might even have frightened some of mine. Eadric would have become even stronger than he is now. I couldn’t allow that, Brianne.”

  Pacing to the window, Ralf stared out at the falling snow, then he spun back to gaze coolly at her.

  “So, my lovely sorceress, if you are to be wed to any king, it must be to this one. By my side, you are a powerful ally. At Eadric’s side, you would have been a dangerous foe. Eadric’s reign must be destroyed, he must be defeated, and our marriage will lead to his downfall one way or the other.” He shook his head, his face tautening at her stony expression.

  “You are a woman,” he said grimly. “You are young and inexperienced, and I do not expect you to understand.”

  “I understand one thing. As unpleasant as it is to be stolen from one’s home, it is equally repugnant to be used as a tool to achieve another’s end!”

  He studied the blazing face before him—the proud sweep of her jaw, the sparkling eyes, the dainty features stamped with defiance.

  Something tightened inside him. A tool. Yes. That was how it had begun.

  “You, Brianne, are going to be much more to me than a tool,” he said softly. He shook his head. “Don’t ask me how I know that, but I do. I sense it. And you can believe my prophecy.”

  “Why should I believe it?”

  “Because my line possesses its own link with magic, one as enduring as yours,” he said lightly. “My ancestors were druids in the wild hills. It is said that my grandfather was skilled above all others in the art of transformation. So you see, the ancient ways of magic are in my blood just as your womanly sorcery is in yours. Together, we will be invincible.”

  Brianne stared at him. Was Ralf marrying her in part because of her powers? Powers she didn’t possess and never would—certainly not if she failed to find the moonstone? And did he expect her to perform for him and his people like a jester or a court musician?

  Do a trick for us, my queen. Turn this snake into a harp, my queen. Tell my fortune, my queen...

  Perhaps if she confessed the truth to him now, he would not marry her, after all. He would be so furious and scornful that he’d let her go...

  “There is something you should know before we’re wed, my lord,” she began, but the serving woman came in then with cheese and bread and wine, and Ralf ran his hand through his hair in a weary gesture, then shook his head.

  “I must leave you now, Brianne. Urgent matters command my attention. I advise you to sleep while you may. There will be much feasting and celebrating tonight.”

  Then he was gone, striding from the room without a backward glance, and Brianne was alone with the serving woman.

  “My lady, are you weary? Do you prefer to rest before partaking of your food?”

  “No, actually, I’m ravenous.” Brianne smiled wryly at Myla, a stout, apple-cheeked woman with extraordinarily bright dark eyes and fat, seamed hands. “And no one should be wed upon an empty stomach,” she added as she seated herself at the table where the silver tray had been set. “Particularly to a man like Ralf of Kerric,” she muttered.

  Myla dropped her gaze, but not before Brianne saw the flash of laughter in her eyes.

  “Tell me something about your king, Myla. Is he a good man—when he is not kidnapping damsels and carrying them off against their will?”

  Myla’s head bobbed eagerly. “King Ralf is a brilliant soldier, a wise leader of men. He is greatly loved by his people, my lady.” Myla drew closer and gave her mistress a shy smile. She moved lightly, gracefully, despite her stoutness. “You have nothing to fear from him, my lady. When he informed me he was bringing home a stolen bride, he asked me to serve you well. He said, ‘She will be a reluctant bride, and will no doubt be full of tears and wailings. She will need pampering by her women.’ “

  Myla watched as Brianne tore off a chunk of the fresh, good bread and chewed it thoughtfully. “I do not think King Ralf predicted accurately in this case, my lady. I do not see in you a woman full of tears or wailings.”

  “That would hardly serve me, now would it?” Brianne responded, smiling. Impulsively, she stretched out a hand to the woman. “Myla, you remind me a little of my mother’s serving woman, Bobwen. I feel as if I know you already. I have faith you will serve me well.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Myla met her new mistress’s intent eyes with a sudden watchfulness.

  “I am grateful to have a friend in this strange place,” Brianne murmured, and reached casually for the goblet of spiced wine. As she drank, the liquid ran warm and potent down her throat. An idea was forming in her head, and she kept her eyes downcast so that the woman before her could not see that she was plotting. Myla was kind and sympathetic, eager to be of service. Perhaps, Brianne thought with hope, she could hit upon some scheme in which the serving woman could unwittingly help her to escape. If Myla were truly deceived, Ralf would surely not punish her for her error. She would be safe, and Brianne would be free to make her way to Wen.

  “I suppose there is a marriage gown in readiness for me?” she asked, after swallowing the last of the cheese.

  “I will fetch it, and you may see for yourself. King Ralf demanded magnificent raiment for his bride.”

  Indeed, Brianne thought, her eyes widening as she beheld the gown Myla brought a moment later from the alcove within the inner chamber. The gown was breathtaking, made of fine sky-blue silk, with flowers and dainty vines cunningly embroidered on the skirt. There were jewels for her hair, as well, a sapphire brooch for her mantle, and soft, blue-dyed slippers.

  “‘Twill be lovely indeed when you wear it, with your fairy hair and your eyes,” Myla commented approvingly. “You will let me dress your hair for you, won’t you, my lady? Derwyn thinks she has the deftest hand for such things, but I will truly make you look like a queen.”

  And that she did. With magic fingers, she brushed and curled and twisted Brianne’s silky pale locks into a mass of flowing, cascading curls which glinted in the light of the braziers. The sky-blue gown—deftly taken in here, let out there, given a tuck and a stitch as need be by the women until it fit Brianne’s tall, slender figure precisely—floated around her like a light foaming sea. And as she walked toward Ralf later that evening, between flickering torchlight and a throng of noble witnesses, he watched in open admiration.

  He had not expected his stolen bride to be so beautiful, or so enchantingly self-possessed. She might have been weeping, or frigid with wrath, or sour-smelling, or plain, or cowering—or some hideous combination of them all. Instead, she was a composed, radiant, and purposeful young beauty who stared him straight in the eyes as she advanced toward him and her fate, and allowed neither fear, despair, nor unseemly apprehension to show itself before the onlookers.

  Dignity. The girl possesses a wealth of dignity, he told himself with satisfaction. And then the ceremony began, and he concentrated on the pomp and ritual, pushing thoughts of his all-too-appealing young wife from his mind until after the official deed was done.

  It was finished quickly. Before Brianne scarcely realized what was happening, she was wed, she was Ralf’s queen, and she found herself seated upon a raised dais in the great hall, with toasts being offered t
o her health by a packed throng of knights and nobles. Colors whirled before her eyes; noise, laughter, shouts, and music clamored in her ears. She picked at the feast spread before her, now and then swallowing a mouthful of sauced duckling or venison cooked in a stew of seasoned corn, or a bite of quince pie or sweetmeats, all the while in a daze. She sipped spiced wine, watched the commotion, and blinked against the wavering blue-gray smoke of the torches, the raucous delirium of the festivities.

  Married.

  Not to Eadric, as she had braced herself for all these years. But to Ralf of Kerric, the one man who might possibly defeat him.

  And what a strange man he was, Brianne thought later as Myla helped her slip into a simple gown of fine white linen and brushed her hair until it crackled and shone. Ralf was fierce and stern, a hard-eyed warrior, yet... he could be gentle.

  She had been wrong to think him only a war-loving brute. His manner with her had been one of consideration, compassion even, despite the circumstances. And there had been something else in his eyes, she thought, when he had kissed her—and when she had gazed at him as she spoke her vows: not merely triumph over Eadric, and satisfaction at the fulfillment of his plan, but a flicker of some emotion new to Brianne, at which she could only guess.

  Was it desire? she wondered, and blushed at the thought. Could he truly desire her? She was not beautiful in the common sense of the word. She was young, true, but scarcely more than plain. And Ralf, with his rough good looks, his powerfully sculpted body, his kingdom, goods, lands, and position, could no doubt command the favors of any woman he chose.

  Perhaps it was her sorcery he lusted after, she told herself, and felt a small quiver of fear. Would his kindness turn to fury when he discovered she was powerless, that she could not foresee his future, or bend men’s mind to his cause, or alter events to suit his strategies?

  She twisted the folds of her gown between her fingers as Myla carefully wove ribbons through her hair. Two other women turned down the thick fur covers of the bed, and stirred the logs in the fire, then brought spiced wine and cake, which they set down upon the table near the carved chest. And all the while, every nerve in Brianne’s body, every part of her being, was attuned to the sound of a footstep in the hall, the creak of the door handle being turned.

  It came at last. As if they were all fairies, spry creatures of the woods, the women vanished at once from the room, Myla casting Brianne only one brief, encouraging glance before shutting the door of the adjoining chamber, leaving her alone in the candlelight to greet her husband.

  Chapter Four

  The embers of the fire cast long golden shadows across Ralf’s face as he entered the chamber. He paused before closing the door, and studied the young woman seated before the bronze mirror.

  “There is trouble,” he said briefly, meeting her wide-eyed glance in the mirror. “I must leave at dawn.”

  “What is amiss?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing that need affect our bridal night, my wife,” he added with a mischievous smile, noting the alarm that had flooded her face.

  He held out his hand. “Come here, my queen.”

  Brianne hesitated, then rose and went to him with slow steps. She placed her hand in his, but her eyes stayed downcast until he cupped her chin and forced her head up.

  Ralf stared into those hypnotic eyes and felt a knot in his chest. He’d never expected to be experiencing the emotions tumbling through him at this moment. He’d thought to take himself Eadric’s bride, consummate the marriage with dutiful precision and scant emotion, and resume his waging of war. But here he was faced with a delicate young woman of astonishing beauty and sensitivity, a maiden as fresh, innocent, and courageous as any he had ever encountered. At this moment, she didn’t look like some nameless, faceless, token prize of war at all.

  No, she looked...

  “Ravishing,” he muttered.

  Brianne shook her head. “You’re mistaken, my lord...”

  “My husband,” he corrected, one arm snaking around her waist with such swiftness that she gasped.

  “My husband...” she conceded in an unsteady tone. She bit her lip, trying to be firm, to be calm and mature and sensible. “I am not the beauty in my family,” she admitted with strict honesty. “My sister, Emma, who is immensely lovely with hair the color of topaz, has that distinction.”

  Ralf shook his head, wondering at her innocence. She was charming. His fingers traced the outline of her full lips, then trailed down her jaw and along the slender column of her neck to the pulse beating at her throat, then wandered lower still, pausing at the ribbons that held fast the bodice of her gown.

  “Your sister cannot possibly be more lovely than you. Brianne, my little bride, you are enchanting. Don’t you know that?”

  And he turned her so that she saw herself in the mirror, his arm encircling her waist, his other hand upon her shoulder, and Brianne’s eyes widened.

  Who was that radiant girl in the mirror?

  It’s me, she thought in shock, but it is a different me from any I have ever beheld before.

  Always before, while growing up, Brianne had seen herself as an unprepossessing, even-featured girl with nothing arresting or even distinctive about her, save for her unusual eyes, large and intelligent and gleaming within her small face. Her hair was thick and straight and fair, and was often dreadfully tangled when she tried to comb it. Her figure she knew to be slim, and though it was gently rounded in all the proper places, it certainly was no more comely than that of any other maiden. Yet now, peering into the bronze mirror with Ralf behind her, his eyes lit with appreciation as he gazed at her image, she saw not the nondescript girl she knew herself to be, but a slender, doe-eyed young woman graced with beauty.

  Her plaited hair was the color of silvery angel wings, framing a face as delicate as a flower petal, a perfect, heart-shaped face with features that suddenly looked elegant and lovely in the flickering firelight. Her eyes seemed to glow with a depth and passion she had never before glimpsed in them—and her figure, outlined softly by the fine linen gown of purest white that was molded to her curves, looked suddenly feminine and appealing.

  What magic was this?

  “Come to bed, my sweet bride.” Ralf’s voice was husky, deep and firm, sending warm shivers down her spine. “I haven’t many hours to tarry.”

  Despite the worries weighing on her heart, she felt a dawning excitement. She allowed him to draw her toward the high bed set within rich scarlet hangings. Fear trickled through her as she felt the strength in his hands, the warmth of them on her flesh. She must try to stay calm.

  She knew nothing of the act of mating. She had seen livestock coupling, chickens and goats and sheep, but she knew nothing of what the act was like between humans.

  Surely, it would be painful. And embarrassing. Yet as Ralf led her toward their marriage bed, she felt oddly eager.

  Just as they reached the bed, and Ralf’s hands eased her back against the velvet-covered cushions, she heard a howling outside the window that made her jolt upright.

  Ralf, grinning, pushed her gently back against the pillows.

  “Have no fear, my queen. It is only a wolf.”

  A wolf? In the village? So close to the castle?

  “Kerric is known to many as the Realm of the Wolves,” he told her. “Great packs of them roam our forests to the east. Sometimes they wander down as far as the villages. It might seem strange to you, but though the people guard their children and their chickens, they do not greatly fear the beasts. In legend and ballad, it is sung that my grandfather knew the art of changing himself into a wolf at will, that he prowled the lands to protect his people. Most folk believe that the great leader of the wolves is of my line—and that noble blood runs in the beast’s veins.”

  He had removed his tunic and brooch while he spoke. Brianne forgot about the wolf. She could do nothing but watch him, too riveted even to be embarrassed.

  He was magnificent.

  In the amber and gra
y shadows of the chamber, his body gleamed darkly bronze. Muscles rippled across his chest, bulged in his sinewy shoulders, corded his arms. She shivered, not with fear, but with some strange, unexplainable longing.

  Half naked now in the firelight, ruggedly handsome beyond belief, Ralf met her gaze and smiled. Her heart turned over.

  He looked part warrior, she thought, suppressing a groan of laughter, and part mischievous boy who’d just discovered stolen treasure. His thick, silky hair fell in tumbled dark locks across his brow, and his keen eyes blazed into hers for one purposeful moment, then his gaze swept down to her throat and slender shoulders, before dropping even lower to the delicately ribboned bodice of her gown.

  Ralf strode toward the bed with the cool deliberation of an advancing soldier.

  And that was when she noticed the gold chain glinting around his neck. And dangling from that chain, pressed against the dark, crisp hair of his chest, was a moonstone.

  Brianne bolted upright again, staring. The blue stone seemed to glisten in the firelight. Without thinking, she reached toward it.

  Ralf caught her outstretched hand and seated himself beside her on the bed with a grin.

  “I see you’re not shy, after all,” he remarked with amusement. And then, seeing how she still stared at the moonstone, he added with a chuckle, “Brianne, surely you are not in awe of a gold chain and a talisman. It is only a moonstone, my queen. If you like it, you shall have a necklace much finer, one of amber—no, of rubies set with gold.”

  “Where did you come by this?” she whispered.

  Dear Lord, could this be her moonstone, the moonstone of her mother’s vision? She felt an odd, cold tingling all through her body.

  Releasing her hand, Ralf bent to remove his boots and breeches. “I have had it these many years,” he replied carelessly. “I do not precisely remember when I found it. I only know that I was out hunting one day, and tracked a boar through the woods. I tracked it for the better part of a morning and finally killed it with my spear. But when I dismounted beside the beast, I saw the moonstone on this chain, strung round a branch, dangling directly over the boar’s head. It was as if I’d been led there to receive this gift. But I don’t have any idea why.” He shrugged suddenly, and shifted his weight on the bed. “I placed the chain around my neck and have worn it ever since,” he finished, taking a drink of wine, dismissing the subject.