Once Upon a Star

by Nora Roberts

  “Halt!” Lianna darted forward, her dagger clenched, her eyes blazing at the outlaws closing in upon the fallen man.

  They paused, staring at her, as startled as if she had sprung down from the very sky.

  Then the one who had slashed the peddler grinned toothlessly, and the others joined him.

  “What’s this, lads? A pretty maid joins the fun. Our luck is truly in, I say!”

  The woman and her husband stared in shock as the outlaws turned their attention upon the lovely young woman whose elegant face was flushed with fury.

  “Welcome, beauty,” the tallest of the three muttered. They left the man lying on his side and fanned out as they approached her—two of them gripping knives, the shortest man clenching a long stick whose tip had been sharpened to an evil point. “Put down that shiny blade and come join us,” the tall one barked. “There’s no turning away now.”

  “Stand back.” Fear clawed at Lianna, nearly overriding the outrage that had filled her when she saw the plight of the peddler and his wife. But she refused to step back even a pace as the men advanced.

  “Come no closer,” she warned. “I order you to leave this place at once—in the name of Ambrose, Duke of Blackenstar.”

  These words made the outlaws laugh. They did pause, though, and surveyed Lianna with uproarious amusement. The burly man brandished his knife overhead.

  “I don’t see no Duke of Blackenstar. Do you, Werric?”

  “All I sees is a wisp of a woman who looks like she’ll be as tasty a morsel as any I’ve known.”

  The tall one, obviously the leader, stepped forward, his black eyes glistening like chunks of coal. “You two see to the peddler,” he ordered, his gaze riveted on Lianna. “Kill him and take whatever gold or silver you find. Do what you want with that screeching woman. This tasty morsel is mine.”

  Lianna’s blood froze. She could hear the woman in the wagon weeping as if from a long way off. She saw the peddler struggling to gain his feet, but he swayed and fell into a pool of his own blood. “I am under the protection of the Duke of Blackenstar,” she said desperately. “If you harm me, or these people traveling his roads, you’ll have his wrath to deal with. See here?” She touched the star-brooch glittering at her shoulder. “I wear the brooch of Blackenstar. You’d best beware!”

  A flicker of doubt crossed their faces.

  “Go now—while you still may!” she commanded, and prayed through the frantic drumming of her heart that they would be cowed enough in that moment to obey.

  But the leader began to curse, and his hands tightened on his knife. “I might be feared of a man, but not of a brooch. Or of any woman who thinks to trick me. I’ll take you, my fine lady, and your star-brooch. It’ll fetch a handsome price in the marketplace.”

  And with that, he leapt toward her. Lianna slashed out with the dagger and caught him in the stomach. With a strangled gurgle of surprise and pain, he stared at her, then down at the blood pouring from the wound. Then he fell to his knees, the knife slipping from his slack fingers.

  “Kill…her!” he rasped as the other two rushed forward.

  The old woman staggered down from the wagon and picked up a rock, shrieking as she headed into the battle. Lianna scarcely had time to notice. The outlaw with the stick struck her full across the shoulders, a whacking blow that sent her reeling sideways into a tree.

  Before she could recover, the third outlaw seized her arm and wrenched her jeweled dagger from her. Holding his knife in one hand and her dagger in the other, he grinned grotesquely and came at her.

  Through the terror sweeping over her, she heard a great roar, felt a whooshing rush behind her, and before she knew what was happening, the clearing was filled with a great charging horse and Ambrose leaned low in the saddle, bearing down upon the outlaw like a dark bolt of fire.

  The man shrieked and tried to parry the blow, but Ambrose drove the glittering sword through his heart with one swift thrust.

  Screams. Blood. Death.

  Through a fog of horror, Lianna watched as the outlaw tumbled into the dirt and Ambrose spun his horse toward the other two, for the leader, bloodied and hurt, had grabbed his knife and hurled himself to his feet, his face savage with fury as he returned to the fray.

  Two against one.

  There was nothing to do but watch, her heart in her throat, as the duke fought both of them—his face calm, determined, and utterly ruthless. Neither man stood a chance, Lianna realized after that first awful moment. Ambrose fought with single-minded purpose and sublime skill, and before the peddler’s woman even had time to run to her husband and kneel at his side, it was over.

  The outlaws lay dead beneath the clouded sky, and Ambrose himself turned his destrier and surveyed Lianna as though he would like to run her through as well.

  For a long moment she met his harsh gaze, unable to look away, shaken by the way he had fought for her, killed for her, and fully aware of what would have happened if he had not come when he had. And then the sobs of the woman penetrated her shock.

  With a choked cry, she ran to the wagon and knelt beside the fallen man.

  “There, now, let me see.” She spoke quietly to the weeping woman, who raised a grimy, pockmarked face to her.

  The knife wound was deep. The man had lost much blood and lay in a faint.

  She heard Ambrose approach behind her, but focused her attention on the peddler. The ancient spells came easily to her lips as she pulled a sprig of umsbar from her pocket, crushed it between her fingers, and sprinkled the coarse brown powder on the wound. She asked the woman for bandages and salve, if they carried any in the wagon, then returned her attention to the fallen man as his wife went in search of them.

  The moments blurred as Lianna ministered to the man, and by the time the wound was bound up they had been joined in the clearing by Sir William and Beorn and half a dozen other knights, who stood silently behind Ambrose and watched.

  Gently Lianna lay her hands upon the man’s brow and closed her eyes. Her lips moved, the old spells of healing sprang forth sweet as song.

  At last she felt the faint, hot pulsing beneath her fingertips, and at the same moment she heard him moan. She opened her eyes.

  Another groan came from the man.

  “Will he live, then, my lady?” The woman clasped her hands to her throat.

  Lianna nodded wearily, her vision dazed. She was utterly drained.

  “He can recover in the hall. My men will take him to the keep.” Ambrose turned and quietly gave orders to Sir William, then lifted Lianna to her feet. She sagged against him, her knees buckling at the weakness that assailed her.

  Without a word, Ambrose lifted her and set her upon his destrier.

  “My mare,” she murmured softly. “Back there.”

  “William will fetch her.” Ambrose spoke curtly, tightly controlled anger in his voice.

  He swung up behind her, and once again they rode together toward the castle.

  They did not speak until they were nearly at the gates. Then Ambrose addressed her, his voice so cold it was like a bucket of icy spring water poured over her.

  “Why did you run away? Did you really think you could travel back to Penmarren in safety on your own? You would never have reached the border. And if you had—and your father took you in, I would have made war on your people. Is that what you wanted?”

  “No…I wasn’t going to run away. I would never bring your anger down upon my people!” Lianna cried. Her head was swimming—the result of conjuring up the spells, of the deep concentration needed to ensure the man’s healing. She fought to think and speak coherently.

  “I only wanted some time alone. In the open air. I am used to going about freely out-of-doors…gathering herbs and medicines…”

  “I told you the first night we met that I would have you brew no potions.”

  “Not potions—herbal draughts, healing medicines. You said I might do as I pleased…”

  “Not that.” They reached the portcullis
and the guards opened the gate, saluting.

  Lianna turned in the saddle and risked a glance at his face. It was thunderous.

  “Go to your quarters and await me there. You will not be allowed out of your rooms without my leave. A guard will be posted.”

  “You can’t keep me a prisoner!”

  “Can’t I?” His mocking smile made Lianna wish to strike him. “You will see what it means to cross me.”

  Lianna couldn’t reach the castle soon enough. She refused even to look at him when he helped her down from the horse, his hands tight at her waist as he set her upon the ground. Though she was dizzy from the weariness besetting her, the same weariness that always drained her after the exertion of the healing spells, she held her head high and walked swiftly and with dignity straight into the hall, never once looking back.

  She knew exactly what she was going to do.

  5

  DARKNESS CLOAKED HER chamber when she awoke.

  Candles flickered, streaming pale ribbons of light upon the walls, the rush-strewn floor, the crimson bed hangings. Pushing herself up slowly in the bed, Lianna gazed about her, relieved to see that she was alone.

  Her head was clearer than it had been, thank heavens. Sleep had cured her of the aftermath of the magic. But she felt fear and panic churning within her. She was a prisoner, not only of the keep but of her own chambers. She who loved to roam the woods and hills, to feel the breeze flying through her hair, was locked here within these dank old stone walls.

  Until Ambrose granted permission for her to leave.

  Cold sweat broke out upon her skin, and she had to force herself to remain calm.

  Someone—Marthe, no doubt—had left a tray for her on the table near the window. She had no appetite, but to distract herself from her predicament she tiptoed barefoot across the room and found on the tray thick slabs of bread, a wedge of cheese, a dish of eggs in jelly, and a plate of sliced venison and turnips. She tasted a bite of bread, then a sip from the goblet of wine that stood beside the plate.

  She turned to the window and stared out at the magnificent star-bright night.

  Else’s plea the night she was taken from her home flashed into her mind. Come to the window, my lady, I beg you. Perhaps you will see a falling star and can make a wish, and all of this will vanish like a bad dream.

  Again the faint shiver of memory ran through her, and a distant song tinkled somewhere in her brain. Her grandmother’s spells—something about a falling star and…a curse? Had there been something about a curse in that same spell? And dreams…coming true…

  She closed her eyes and felt the gentle stroke of her grandmother’s beautiful hands upon her hair, heard that low, witch-husky voice as if it whispered in her ear once again. Comes the night of a falling star…

  No. This time it was different.

  Catch yourself a falling star….And love will…

  The sound of the door opening banished the fragile wisp of memory and everything else except the hot tension that flooded the room as she whirled and saw Ambrose’s large frame filling the doorway.

  “You slept a long while, Princess.”

  “I fear not long enough.”

  Lianna moved from the window, holding her head high, eyeing him with the haughtiness her mother had reserved for the lowest of stableboys. She remembered now what she must do, what she had vowed silently to do when he had carried her back to this keep as his prisoner.

  She would aid Constantine in every way possible. She would find a means of ensuring that Ambrose the Barbarian lost everything he craved in the world—and threatened no one ever again.

  “You didn’t touch your supper.” Ambrose stalked into the room and kicked the door closed behind him.

  “Supper? Too common a word, my lord,” she chided tightly. “Why, this repast is a veritable feast. I thought prisoners were served up stale bread and water.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  She nodded coolly. “Of that I have no doubt.”

  As his gaze raked her, she became suddenly aware that she wore only a sheer ivory sleeping gown, with pale lemon flowers embroidered upon it. Marthe must have helped her out of her day garments, just as she had helped her into bed. Vaguely Lianna remembered the woman’s somber gray face swimming before her, but that was all.

  But now it was Ambrose who stood there, studying her, a hard dark gleam in his eyes that Lianna didn’t care for. A gleam that made her throat tighten and her own heartbeat race.

  With fear, she told herself. Nothing more. But a heady excitement like that of too much wine seemed to burst inside her chest.

  “I am not well, my lord. If you must lecture me, let it be on the morrow. I am in need of sleep.”

  “It is not a lecture I had in mind for you, bride.” Ambrose came closer. One big hand reached out and captured her hair, twining through the loose, lustrous black curls.

  “And you do not look sickly to me. You look quite lovely.”

  “The aftereffects of my magic—”

  “Are gone,” he finished for her, his tone taking on a firm note. “It is clear that sleep has refreshed you. Your eyes are as bright and clear as ever, your cheeks delectably flushed. You look as lovely as I have ever seen you.”

  Lianna caught her breath. “Well, I…I…have no wish to speak to you at the moment.”

  “We needn’t speak.” He took another step forward.

  Lianna backed up. “Then good night.”

  “It will be a good night,” Ambrose agreed and advanced again.

  Lianna retreated two more steps to counter his forward ones, only to come sharply up against the window embrasure. She gasped as he closed in upon her and seized her by the arms.

  “Wait, my lord—”

  “Wait?” Ambrose pulled her closer, one muscular arm snaking around her waist. There was a tautness about his mouth, a tension in his powerful limbs, that filled Lianna with a kind of strange and wonderful panic. “For what should I wait, Princess? My battle is over. Sandar is defeated, his ships burned. The keep is safe—for now.”

  “Then…you should celebrate. There is wine…”

  “I intend to celebrate. With my beautiful—and disobedient—bride.” Suddenly he swung her toward the velvet-covered bed and sent her sprawling backward upon it.

  Before she could spring up, he was upon her, pinning her beneath him. His eyes gleamed silver in the candlelight and anger stamped his face.

  “You may be royal, Lianna, but you are also foolhardy. You might have been killed today if I hadn’t returned in time, found you in time. You were told to stay in the keep, to let Sir William guard you, yet you ran off—straight into danger. You were told—no, forbidden—to mix potions, yet you were gathering plants and herbs for just that purpose. If it is taming you want and need, Princess, I’ll damn well give it to you!”

  “Let me go!” Lianna struggled futilely beneath him. He was far too powerful, and though she twisted and writhed and kicked, it was all to no avail. Her hair straggled across her face, her breath came in deep, gasping rasps, but Ambrose held her down easily, his weight pressing her relentlessly into the softness of the bed, his hard face showing no sign of pity for her helplessness.

  “If you don’t release me right this very moment, I will…I will…”

  “Yes?” Ambrose asked, his lip curling.

  She stared up at him, a red film of rage across her eyes. “I will turn you into a worm and mash you up and feed you to a falcon!” she gasped.

  He laughed, the sound rumbling clear up to the rafters.

  “You dare to laugh? You think I won’t?” she fumed, frustrated by a strand of hair that fell and lingered across her eyes.

  “You, Lianna, are a healer,” he said at last, gazing into her eyes with a piercing intensity that nearly took her breath away. “Not a sorceress. I may be a bastard and not royal-born, but I am not stupid. I saw what you did with that man back there. I heard the spells.”

  He brushed the wayward lock of ha
ir out of her eyes, smoothing it away from her creamy cheeks.

  Lianna stared at him. “Then you know I never planned to use those plants and herbs to concoct any dark potions!”

  Her words made sense. He admitted it. No doubt she only wanted to find healing plants, but Ambrose couldn’t afford to take chances. Not after what had happened with Madeline.

  He resolved to take the herbs and plants she’d gathered to the wise woman of the village, who knew such things, and make certain they could not be used for poisons or potions that addled the senses.

  As he stared down at her, still frantically struggling beneath him, he couldn’t help but feel a rush of admiration for her courage. She was hopelessly outmatched in this battle, yet she still fought with both her body and her mind.

  He hadn’t expected to get such a fiery beauty when he’d set his sights on the princess of Penmarren. He needed a royal bride, someone to bring respectability to his title so that his heir might rule in peace one day, without this incessant fighting. He needed someone who could help him to end this vicious curse of war and strife that seemed to shadow all who tried to lay claim to power in this land.

  He’d had no personal hopes of a woman who would interest him beyond the usual reasons men were interested in women.

  But this one not only interested him—she enticed him. Something his pale, secretive first bride in their very brief marriage never had done.

  With her eyes bright as the flowers that grew in the mountains of Blackenstar, her creamy skin and ripe lips that were pinker than sunrise, she was the most sensuous female he’d ever seen. And her velvety hair—how did it happen that it always smelled like roses? Was that some magic, too?

  “If you don’t stop struggling you’ll wear yourself out and be no use to me at all this evening,” he told her gruffly and was intrigued to see her lovely eyes shoot sparks of even hotter blue fire.

  “Barbarian! I will never stop struggling. If you’re going to treat me like a hostage, a prisoner, like a serf here to serve your pleasure, then I will behave like one and fight you with my every breath!”

  “I think you would,” he growled, meeting her fierce glare with a thoughtful look. “Woman, if you show this much passion when we consummate our marriage vows, you just might tire me out.”