Elfland

by Freda Warrington

  “Do you think we’ll ever be finally, completely free of them?” she’d asked Lucas not long ago, meaning the Wilders, the web of Stonegate. Already it seemed like a past life.

  As photographs were taken on the sweep of marble steps outside, she noticed that her family looked as plainly human as Alastair’s. There was no difference at all. It was as if they’d crossed a barrier and become mortal, losing all memory of the Otherworld. A tiny thread of denial went through her. She saw Matthew smiling.

  Rosie chatted and laughed her way through the reception. Glasses were clinked, humorous speeches made. She felt blissfully detached. Nothing could hurt her anymore and so she was free to laugh all she wanted. From the outside, it was a flawless rendition of happiness. The guests looked on and approved her radiance. The past tipped away and the future rose on this fulcrum, the joyous point of rebirth, and not one of them knew the journey that had brought her here.

  When Alastair claimed her for the first dance, beaming with pride, she felt like two separate beings. One was the elegant, smiling bride, swept up in the ocean of massed family joy. The other stood apart, not recognizing herself. Who was this man in her arms, with his big unfamiliar body? He seemed nice, but she didn’t know him. Everything felt strange and unreal.

  Much later—the meal long over, tiers of cake demolished, guests dancing to the cheesy classics of a live band—Rosie joined Mel at a corner table. The ballroom felt overcooked. It was at the rear of the mansion, with a shiny dance floor and a long spread of French windows along one side. Outside was a path, a strip of lawn and then woodland with amber sunlight falling through leaves, a tantalizing refuge she couldn’t reach.

  Floating on too much champagne, they raked over history and confessed thoughts that they probably wouldn’t remember in the morning.

  “Alastair looks happy,” Mel remarked. “And intoxicated.”

  Rosie glanced at her husband—husband, how surreal—where he stood surrounded by family she barely knew, all roaring with laughter. His father was dead, mother estranged, and he only had these distant relatives from Scotland. No wonder he’d attached himself so readily to Matthew and Oakholme.

  “Oh, he can hold his drink. Unlike some.” Rosie nodded at Lucas, who was prettily asleep on the next table amid carnations and crystal glasses.

  “Don’t get left behind,” said Mel, pouring more champagne. “To be honest, I’m astonished you ended up with Alastair.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “He’s a nice guy, but so straight. Like the anti-Jon.”

  “Safe,” said Rosie. She twirled her glass, her fingernails flashing bronze and purple. “He’s not deep or difficult. I don’t have to prove myself to him.”

  “Mm, there’s a lot to be said for that,” said Mel. “I never thought you’d go for the traditional works. I imagined you’d do something new-agey in a forest.”

  Rosie smiled. “I went along with Matt, Faith and Alastair. They had such fun planning everything, I wasn’t bothered. A wedding, so many people get involved it sweeps you with it like a juggernaut.”

  “Not bothered?” Mel gave her a probing look, head tilted.

  “No, I went with the flow. It’s fine.”

  “Why? So you could fast-forward to the mind-blowing sex?”

  “God, you’re dreadful.” Rosie laughed, took another drink of champagne. It frothed deliciously on her tongue, tasting of lemons and new-baked bread.

  “Come on. You must be having fun under his sporran, or what’s the point?”

  “Oh, the sex is fine,” Rosie said, aware she was slurring.

  “Five times a night?” Mel grinned.

  “Twice a week, if I’m lucky. Half the time we’re too tired or lazy to bother. We’re so busy with work, pub, babysitting Heather . . . so much stuff to do, you know. It’s no big deal.”

  “My god, you’re already an old married couple!” Mel cried.

  “Kind of. Yes, we’re a fixture.”

  “But are you sure it’s enough? Does he do the right things?”

  “Pretty much.” She was giggling; it all seemed so ridiculous. “He’s not the most imaginative lover in the world, but it’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t sound it! Be more demanding, get the whip out, insist he makes more effort!”

  Rosie laughed even harder at Mel’s outrage. She wiped tears away. “No, it’s not an issue. I’m happy the way we are. He’s a sweetheart.”

  “That’s all very well, but what about passion?” Mel bent close, quiet and serious.

  “Oh, sod passion. It’s overrated. I have definitely had too much to drink.”

  “You know what this looks like, Rosie?” Mel said very softly. “Going through the motions.”

  “Oh,” said Rosie. “Does it? Well, it’s only a ritual. I had to make a decision to leave all the old stuff behind and this is it, the point of no return, the guillotine.”

  “Wow,” Mel said dryly. “That sounds extreme. As in, guillotine through Jon’s neck?”

  Rosie gave a pained grin. “Through everything,” she said. “Mel, what are you trying to say?”

  “That I don’t think you’re in love with him.”

  The words sent a cold flash of denial through her. “ ‘In love,’ that’s meaningless. Yes, he’s not Jon and I feel totally different—secure and peaceful, instead of torn up in agony. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, but . . .”

  “Look, there’s more to life than passion. I tried following my heart and look where that got me. Sometimes you have to look at things coolly and make a sensible decision with your head. And that’s the right thing to do.”

  “For some, perhaps,” Mel said, with a slight frown. “Not for you, honey.”

  Rosie gulped more champagne. “Stop it. You’re being absolutely mischievous.”

  “No, I’m not,” Mel whispered, putting a hand on Rosie’s. “I’m saying it because I know you.”

  Rosie pulled her hand free. She was trying hard not to be cross, but Mel’s words were picking away at her serene detachment. “Well, it’s done. Alastair’s part of my life and we’re married, end of story.”

  “Oh, Rosie, I know. Just ignore me. I really hope it works out for you.”

  “It will. It has to.” As she spoke, she became acutely aware of the guests, surface dwellers on the thin skin of reality, growing happy and oblivious with alcohol. There were disheveled aunts dancing with red-faced uncles, children running through the debris of fallen napkins and flowers. Rosie stared at the scene as if watching a film. A bizarre pantomime, nothing to do with her. She looked for Alastair and he was part of it, a red-faced drunk roaring with his mates.

  He saw her looking and came for her, dragging her onto the floor again to slow-dance to some cloying song. “You’re my angel,” he murmured. “Your family is amazing. I finally found people who won’t let me down.” He laughed. “I was in such a mess before I met you. This is everything I never had. Everything.”

  She was an icicle in a steam bath, dissolving. Alastair with his hot hands and blissful grin was only part of the suffocating mass. “This is it, Rosie Duncan,” he purred, his alcohol-laden breath hot in her ear. “You and me, forever.”

  A shaft of panic pierced her.

  “Just going to the loo,” she said, fighting out of his arms.

  She slid around the perimeter of the room, fending off friendly hands, until she reached the doors to the foyer and saw green parkland outside; but there were guests on the front steps, gossiping and smoking. Retracing her steps, she found a side exit. It brought her onto a path that led to the back lawns, and there she found another track winding into the woodlands. Gathering up her skirts, she plunged into the cover of trees, almost running until she was certain no one could see her.

  Gods, what a relief. Sweet fresh air, the warmth of the sun. Nothing around her but nature. The first fallen leaves crackled like bronze coins under her slippers. She glanced back and the building was out of sight. Trees
sheltered her with veils of green, brushed with early red and copper.

  At last she could breathe. She leaned back against the thick silken trunk of a beech tree, closed her eyes and sighed. The wedding music was faint. Rosie began to shake, wave upon wave of shock trembling through her.

  “What have I done?” she groaned to herself. “What the fuck have I done?” She rubbed her forehead. “Bloody hell. Shit.”

  The rustle of feet was so soft, she thought it was a bird, until she sensed a more substantial presence. Her eyes snapped open. Sam was standing an arm’s length from her. Dark blue jeans, a green-blue batik T-shirt and over that a black biker’s jacket, unfastened. The contrast with her cream finery made her feel she was in fancy dress.

  His hair had grown longer and the dark brown was tipped with gold again, brushed back off his face but trying to fall forward.

  “Hail, the Queen of the May,” he said.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He stared at her, eyes narrow, the hint of an unkind smile curling the corners of his mouth. “No invite, so I’m holding my own little private wake out here.”

  “For pity’s sake.” The thought of him lurking here, when she’d imagined him to be miles away, was disturbing. “Sam, you’re too sad for words.”

  “What about you, then? Why aren’t you inside holding court? It’s your big day, princess.”

  “It’s too hot in there,” she said, averting her face so he couldn’t pin her with his eyes. “I needed some air.”

  “Right.” Even without looking, she sensed his attention all over her. “You’ll mess up your lovely dress.”

  “I don’t care.” Her palms felt sweaty, her face hot.

  “And this fit of the vapors is because you’re so happy at becoming Mrs. Bob-the-Builder, is it?” He moved a fraction closer. “Cursing and swearing a sign of marital bliss? I saw you, Rosie.”

  “You have got to go, Sam,” she said, infuriated. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “You’re so fucking happy that you’re in the woods, banging your head on a tree?”

  “I was not—” She stopped and met his stare. His gaze pushed into her, demanding the truth as always. The contemptuous smile wavered. His green-blue eyes were sad, intense, his expression grave. Almost stunned. Catching reflected light from her dress, Sam’s face was luminous, like a sculpture of a heartbroken saint.

  Rosie thought savagely to herself, If he makes me cry in front of him, I’ll kill him.

  “Sam, you can’t be here. Just go.”

  “No.” He took a step closer. Reaching out, he touched the hair on her left temple; she flinched. “Come on, Rosie. How long have we known each other? I know a panic attack when I see one. You’re scared witless that you’ve made a mistake.”

  “How dare you?” She tried to sound outraged but couldn’t force conviction into her shaking voice. “This, from the person who told me I’m dead inside? It only shows that you don’t know me at all. I’m with Alastair. It’s what I want.”

  “Bollocks,” he said softly.

  “No,” she said, anger heating now. “I’m sorry if this has upset you, but you have to accept it.”

  Sam was quiet for a moment. He laughed under his breath. “What the hell is this about, Rosie? You don’t love him. You think you can be Mrs. Normal? Mrs. Happy Human, with one-point-eight children and no strange bright blood in your veins? You think you can turn your back, pretend the Otherworld never touched you? Yeah, you can try, but you can’t beat it. It’ll reach out in the night and grab you right back. Who are you kidding, Rosie? This isn’t what you want. It’s what Matthew wants.”

  Her breath rushed in and out. She was fighting tears with all her strength. “I’m not listening to this. We had a few conversations across a prison table. That doesn’t mean you know me, and it certainly doesn’t constitute any kind of relationship.” She made to move away but he braced one hand on the tree trunk, blocking her. The pleasant leathery fragrance of his jacket reached her, blended with whatever delicious cedarwood-scented potions he’d used, warmed by his body. His legs made folds in the thick silk of her skirts.

  “Right, and it’s not so easy to be civil without the protection of a table between us and guards all around?”

  “I’m not scared of you!” He was right, though. In the safety of the visiting room, it had been possible to talk to him. By contrast, this was pure chaos, as their old encounters had been.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s the truth that’s scary, isn’t it?”

  They stared at each other, breathing hard. He was so close, hard and real as no one else had seemed real today; and the aphrodisiac scent of his body, clean, spicy and shockingly familiar, made her head swim. Then he let his arm drop. “Go on your merry way, then. Enjoy your new life. Congratulations. You need anything—a toaster, wineglasses?”

  Rosie couldn’t move. Horribly, she realized she didn’t want to stop fighting with him. It was a hard, bright release from the pain.

  “I’ll prove you wrong,” she said, lifting her face close to his. “You’ve spent your life putting me down, trying to control me. How’s that make you any better than Matthew?”

  “No,” he said, frustrated. “Only because you’re so far above me—I never meant—”

  “I will prove you wrong,” she said vehemently.

  “Yeah?” He leaned defiantly closer. “Want to put money on it?”

  Their faces were almost touching, tilted at just the right subtle angle to each other. He raised his hand to her cheekbone. She let him. His mouth was beautiful, she saw, the lower lip full and expressive.

  “What color are his eyes?” Sam whispered.

  “What?” Rosie frowned. “Er . . . sort of hazel.”

  “You had to think about it,” he said, very low.

  They stood there for a few moments. She felt her lips parting, her whole body softening. Doing absolutely nothing to end this. “If I could kiss you once,” he whispered. “Just to say good-bye and have a nice life.”

  He hovered, as if waiting for consent, but she was already moving towards him, making the kiss her decision. As she felt the warm pressure of his lips between hers, she felt him shudder from head to foot with astonished delight. A hot wave went all through her, opening her up like an orchid. His mouth felt wonderful, like warm silk. She parted her lips, drew him deeper in, felt his tongue probing gently to touch hers.

  Gods, they were kissing. A jolt of mild horror and disbelief went through her—what the hell am I doing?—but she couldn’t stop.

  A flood of madness took her. Anger, panic, hunger; it was all the same flow. The kiss intensified, and she curled her hand around his head, feeling the soft springiness of his hair; opening her mouth to him, consuming him. It was the best kiss she had ever tasted.

  Sam leaned into her, his weight pressing her into the tree’s smooth trunk. The pressure of his body was warm, slender and muscular. Her other hand strayed around the small of his back, feeling under his T-shirt until she could caress the bare heated flesh as she pulled him harder into her.

  Now his mouth was moving over her neck; incredible sensation. She was lost. Honeycomb melting in flames. It was the first time she’d been truly in her body all day. At last, her true self, which had been a floating, detached observer, dropped back into its sheath and turned her into a column of rose-red fire.

  And her body didn’t care what her intellect wanted. Her hands clawed at his shoulders. Her lips caressed his neck and jaw. When she found his mouth again he uttered a groan and she felt his hardness through the layers of her dress, pressing into the crease of her hip with the ache of long-accumulated desire. His arousal melted her. She writhed and stroked him and tried to undo his belt. Nothing mattered but this. There was no way back.

  His hand groped for the hem of her skirt, lifting what seemed yards of silk and net layers. It was awkward, frantic. They started laughing. Then he found her thighs, looked down and gasped, “Oh my god, white stockings
,” and he went on laughing and gasping with wonder against her throat, raising the hairs on her neck. He stroked her naked skin above the stocking tops, traveling upwards. His fingers played deliciously on the white lace thong she wore, then slid and played beneath it.

  Rosie dimly knew that this was the worst thing she could possibly have chosen to do. Even as his fingertips chased the electric ripples of desire, she knew it. But she was past the point of no return. Sightless with desire, she couldn’t see past the fulfilment of this wonderful, terrible dance . . .

  Some dim flame of awareness was whispering to Sam, This isn’t how it should have been, and he knew it was wrong, that he should stop, couldn’t understand why she suddenly opened up and devoured him; but gods, this was Rosie. Might be all of her he ever had. She tasted wonderful. She was all around him, scented with rose and musk and jasmine; he felt her heat through the bodice of her dress and he wanted to tear it off so he could kiss her breasts and all of her; but he couldn’t have everything. So little time. When his hand found her at last beneath what seemed yards of fabric, she cried out, responding, folding one leg around his hip. The feel of her was beyond his most lurid dreams.

  He tasted her throat, caught the slight bitterness of perfume on his tongue, the smooth globes of her pearl necklace between his teeth. He found the texture of the long scar on her neck that was his fault; he licked it, wanting to kiss it away.

  Her breathing now high and sharp, she unzipped his jeans, drew out the straining stem of flesh. Her touch brought him close to passing out. He couldn’t wait. With the steady guidance of her fingers, he pressed into her incredible silken warmth and . . . oh gods, he was inside her. Inside Rosie.

  She shuddered and trembled. Her breath flowed hot against his ear. There was a sort of anger between them; savagery, frustration, and this blood-hot urge all merging into a single molten force. And they poured it into each other. There was nowhere else for it to go.