Anth - Mistletoe & Magic

by Mistletoe

  "If only he hadn't ordered us to enter this struggle together! I would rather be most anywhere than locked on some secretive quest with her."

  "That is a sentiment I concur with heartily." Ariana's small, lilting voice pierced through him like an arrow.

  Taran looked up, shoved his loose hair back from his forehead, and saw her standing before him. Her hands were poised on her hips, her bright eyes glittered, and her small, lovely mouth twisted with its usual tight irritation, curled upward at one side. Despite all his anger, and all the humiliation he had endured at her hands, the only thing he could think of was kissing her.

  She wasn't dressed in her usual medieval overgown, and her long hair had been wound into some kind of loose bun behind her head. Whoever had assisted her in the task had been artful enough to leave spiraling tendrils to frame her cheeks and cascade with tantalizing care along her slender neck.

  She looked ravishing. Ariana always looked beautiful, and while he had somewhat gotten used to her appearance, he had not mastered the brief pang the sight of her always produced. He'd gotten used to her long, flowing hair, with its haphazard curl and gentle sway as she spun to march away from him. He'd gotten used to her long, green velvet gown that followed the lines of her body.

  This new garment she wore, chosen undoubtedly to blend with those women were wearing in modem Britain, had the unfortunate alteration of a lower neckline and a tighter waist than her usual attire. Rather than peaceful green, this gown was dark red and trimmed with lace. Something about the shift in color suggested passion. Its snug bodice drew attention to her breasts, which though fairly small, were round and well-shaped. He remembered their pert fullness in his hands, and the familiar ache in his body resurfaced.

  She noticed his attention upon her body, and her frown deepened. "I am clothed as befits a lady under the reign of Queen Victoria." She looked him up and down and shook her head. "You would do well to suit yourself in something fitting the times, also. We don't want to attract undue attention."

  He rose to his feet so that he towered over her. He had always enjoyed the way her back straightened as if she wished somehow to force herself to be taller than he was. Her bright eyes slanted in suspicion, as if she knew he had stood up to make her feel tiny.

  "I will go as I am dressed now."

  She assessed his attire, slowly, with her usual intent and critical scrutiny. Her gaze fixed on his snug leggings, and intense displeasure covered her small, lovely features. "What you are wearing is completely inappropriate for male garb in this period of time."

  Hakon rose and joined Ariana's scrutiny. "She has a point, Taran. You look more like a barbarian warrior than a British gentleman."

  Taran fought irritation. "That is because I am a barbarian warrior." He wasn't the sort of man Ariana wanted and he'd stopped fighting it. In her lifetime in Wales, he had no doubt she had been courted by many lovers, renowned and wealthy, men who could offer her anything she wanted. True, she had never married, but she had been still a very young woman when Nicholas had saved her from death.

  Taran had been a strong man, noble and brave, but he had never cared much for his position in society. Ariana surely wanted something more. Well, she was welcome to it. One night with a barbarian hadn't changed her. He couldn't allow one night with a lady to change him.

  "I will go clothed as I am."

  She rolled her eyes. "You will be seized and thrown into a dungeon the moment we get there." She looked brighter at the idea. "But so much the better. I will handle whatever quest arises without you."

  His jaw clenched. Fiend. From what he'd quickly learned about Queen Victoria's prim society, they might be crazy enough to do just that. Without a word, Taran turned, went to the costume workshop and found himself a suitable garment. He dressed silently, furiously, as Natasha the Russian seamstress looked on.

  His leather leggings had been traded for black linen trousers, and his rough tunic was now a cumbersome black coat with tails, over a white shirt and the most abominable, useless article of clothing he'd ever encountered: the cravat.

  "You are vision, Taran. Englishwomen will fall to feet before you." Her words were heavily accented.

  Taran wondered what foolish period of history Natasha came from if she approved of such outlandish attire. She could be from any time. Nicholas had been taking people into his service for many years— long even before the notion of saints, though Taran had heard that the man had recently become canonized. However, his helpers had come from societies so far back in the past that Taran had never heard of them. She might be from one of those. Her sensibilities were certainly not like any he knew. Fortunately, Nicholas had bestowed all his minions with a magical gift of comprehension— at least of language. Otherwise, with all of Nick's helpers coming from different periods and countries, interaction would have been difficult. However, they could all converse easily enough— albeit in accented speech— even if their sensibilities remained different.

  Even more man Natasha, Ariana's land and people in particular seemed strange to Taran. Even compared to Egyptians, Mayans, and Sumerian priestesses, Ariana seemed a world apart. Maybe it was because he paid more attention to her, but there was something about her Celtic nature that was fascinating

  "You will need this cap, Taran." Natasha passed him a tall, black hat and Taran repressed a snarl.

  He crunched it into a ball. "I am not wearing this."

  She took it from him uncertainly and looked nervous as if she knew her next suggestion was doomed to fail. "You will cut hair, to level of ear."

  "I am not a boy. I am a man. My hair stays as it is."

  "You look like Mayan priest. You will shock English."

  That was possible, but still not enough reason to savage his appearance. His long hair was the symbol of his virility, his right after his passage into manhood. "I will enter England as a foreigner. Much that I don't know of the English ways will be explained by that."

  Natasha eyes him, men sighed. "You will attract attention, no? Yes. that much is certain. But I suppose you are used to it."

  Taran smiled at those words, pleased. Ariana should realize how much other women appreciated his masculine appeal. Though she had chosen to cast him aside, she might find it grating when others desired him.

  Taran studied his reflection in the looking glass. He was tall, and the somber black suit had the effect of highlighting his uniqueness rather than making him look like a prim gentleman. He tried the top hat, hated it instantly, then tossed it aside. His hair looked favorable hanging over his shoulders, which were unquestionably broad, and his height served the garment far better than it might have on a smaller man.

  He adjusted the unpleasant neck cloth, then decided to lose it at the first opportunity. He thanked Natasha, then went to the door to embark on his journey.

  Ariana was waiting for him, impatient as always. She turned, her pink lips open to speak, but no words came. He watched with a deep thrill of satisfaction as her green eyes widened For only a second, he saw a flash of admiration in her eyes and his pulse quickened.

  She had looked at him that way once before, that festive Christmas night when he had first asked her to dance. They had danced and danced, forgetting their mutual animosity. Much that had simmered unspoken between them had come to the surface that night, and ended in the most perfect bliss Taran had ever known.

  As much as he tried to forget it, he relived that night over and over with careful memory as to the exact details. He remembered every sigh from her lips, every touch, the look of her small hand, pale against his dark skin, as she pressed her palm over his heart. She haunted him like a ghost, even as her impatient self stood waiting

  The momentary admiration he had seen in her disappeared, and she replaced it with a familiar smug smile. "You will terrify British society dressed like that, Taran. I see that it is easier for me to maneuver from the past into the future; for you, it is clearly a grievous strain."

  "You dress well, Ariana, yet i
nside…" He paused while her smile faded to suspicion. "Yet inside, you are as much a barbarian as I. I wonder if you can conceal your wild, Celtic impulses. If the English have the slightest sense, it is you they will fear, not me."

  She started her retort, but a trio of short Laplander— elves— arrived with the sleigh Nicholas used to disperse gifts on Christmas Eve and she fell silent. The sleigh would bear them across the endless winter, and back to the mortal world, driven by the elves. Taran didn't know how it worked, but the system had never failed. Rarely were the elves sent out for anything but collecting the chosen few from near-death, that and for the yearly Christmas excursions. Today obviously proved an exception.

  Nicholas came out from the main house and stood silently as if assessing their potential for success. His expression indicated he was giving them relatively low odds.

  Ariana, however, seemed enthused and ready for their journey. Her expression left Taran deeply uneasy, as if she might be plotting some deviltry at his expense. He came up beside her. Even in the cold, he detected the delicate, feminine fragrance of her soft skin. "You appear cheerful, Ariana, I take it our punishment has appeal for you."

  She looked up at him, alert and bright as always. "It does, in fact. I am pleased with the thought of rejoining society, of the intrigues and excitement of life. People who have worked overmuch can benefit from a holiday, and I will view this journey as such."

  Nicholas overheard her, and his heavy brow arched. "With that spirit, my dear, looking to the bright and hopeful side, you may be ready to face your challenges, after all."

  Ariana glared with pride and self-assurance. "That is so, sir, and quite the way I have always dealt with adversity. In fact, I thank you for this opportunity to remind myself that such small disturbances as a barbarian can produce are truly nothing significant." She paused. "And I am looking forward to sitting in a pleasant room, partaking of sweets and wine—"

  Taran coughed to repress laughter. "A holiday, indeed. It may please you to remember, my lady, that we have but two days to accomplish our task. I trust you can fit that in, somewhere amidst your parties, revelry, and sweets."

  "I am well up to that task, Taran. You will be a stranger in my land, and you are likely to feel lost and out of sorts. But you can trust me to guide you in proper behavior— and if need be, cover for your unavoidable blunders."

  She climbed into the sleigh and adjusted a soft gray cape around her shoulders. Taran got in beside her. In two days' time, they might be parted forever, he to his old land, she to hers. Apparently, that prospect didn't affect Ariana half as much as it tormented him. Well, if she felt that way, he wouldn't allow his own weakness for her to show.

  "Let us go, Ariana. This might be a pleasant holiday, after all."

  Chapter Two

  "You can't drop us here at night, in the dark, in a storm! I have no idea where we are!" Ariana sputtered in fury, but the Laplander elves simply dumped her small bag at her feet, then hurled Taran's after it

  Her little sleigh-drivers appeared unmoved by the disaster into which they had pitched her. "Nicholas instructed us to deposit you a good distance from any dwellings, lest your arrival bring suspicion that might threaten your quest"

  Ariana hopped from one foot to the other. "I didn't dress for the winter wilderness! Wait!"

  The sleigh rose and disappeared before she had the chance to jump back in and try to wrest away the reins,

  Taran stood beside her, glaring into the darkening gray sky. Then, he looked around at the shadowy landscape. "They have dropped us in hell," was all he said.

  Ariana shivered and pulled her soft gray cape closer around her shoulders. She couldn't see much of her surroundings, but from what she could make out, they appeared to be amidst rolling hills and snow-covered farmland. "Not hell." She paused, then nodded. "Scotland."

  Taran glanced at her. "You're Welsh, not Scottish. Why here?"

  Ariana shrugged. "The object of our rescue must be here." She looked around. "Somewhere."

  Taran's dark brow slanted. "Probably frozen in the snow." Fat flakes fell from the sky and lodged themselves in his hair. He looked disgruntled, but still devastatingly handsome. "If we could see a light from a village, or even a hut…"

  They studied every horizon. Ariana squinted to see through the snow. "Nothing."

  "You profess to know this land, Ariana. Which way do we go?"

  Ariana shivered again. "South."

  All exasperated smile formed on Taran's lips, but she appreciated it. She loved it when he smiled. It reminded her of how enjoyable his company could be, and how much pleasure he took in life. They started off together, plodding through the snow in the direction that seemed most southerly. the snow was deeper than it looked, and the journey therefore far more tiring than she'd anticipated. After a short time, her legs ached. Every step came as an effort.

  Taran walked on ahead, his long legs providing him an advantage Ariana didn't share. For a while, she felt competitive and she forced herself onward. When he glanced back, she hopped forward so that he wouldn't notice how far she'd lagged behind.

  He stopped and waited, though it hadn't been her intention for him to do so. "Are you all right, Ariana?" he asked.

  She seized a quick breath and tried to hide her discomfort. 'Tin perfectly fine. Why are you stopping?"

  "You're bounding through the snow like a hare." He paused, assessing her. "You must be more rugged than you appear, if you have enough energy to leap about so."

  "I am."

  He shrugged, and headed off again. She drew a long, miserable breath and followed. An hour passed, and at last Ariana could no longer keep up. the evening cold had numbed her flesh; she couldn't feel her fingers or her toes, and her legs throbbed with pain. Night had darkened all around them, mercifully, so Taran didn't notice the tears frozen on her eyelashes.

  Ahead, he stopped to survey the landscape, and Ariana pretended to have stopped for the same reason. He came back to her, a tall, dark shape in the night. "There's a light on the hillside to the east. I suggest we head in that direction."

  She looked to where he indicated and her heart crashed. It was at least another hour's walk, in good weather. A sharp fear surfaced inside her. I can't make it that far. But neither could she simply collapse.

  "Very good." Her teeth were chattering, so she said no more, but Taran moved closer to examine her.

  "Is your cape providing enough warmth, Ariana? It appears somewhat thin."

  Death first. She would never admit weakness to her handsome nemesis. "My cape is extremely well made, and very warm. It is so warm that I am almost hot. I may perhaps shed it after a while, as its warmth is so extreme." She straightened her back, with effort, and marched off to where he had pointed.

  He hesitated, shrugged, then followed. He caught up within a few strides. She didn't want to let him pass, but neither could she increase her own speed. She stopped and stretched, casually. He stopped, too. How like him to investigate signs of her weakness!

  "Are you tired?"

  She frowned. "Certainly not! I could walk all night, if it happens to be necessary." She hoped fervently it would not. "But if you're tired, we can certainly rest."

  She felt his penetrating gaze upon her, so she avoided meeting his eyes. He studied her awhile, no doubt seeking evidence of her deceit. "Since I'm not tired, and neither are you, I think it would be best to reach our destination as quickly as possible. If you're sure you're well enough, we will walk on."

  Her heart fell, but she kept her expression even. "I am perfectly fine. Proceed."

  Taran stalled off ahead. The moment his back faced her, Ariana's shoulders slumped and the frozen tears returned. She wished desperately for a mug of something hot and pleasant to sip, a warm fire for her toes, a blanket… But she had only water in her pack, and it was frozen.

  Snow swilled around them, increasing as the night deepened. Fate seemed against her surviving their walk. the light on the eastern slope grew brighte
r, veiled in the snow, but Ariana's hope dwindled. She fought panic, but the cold seemed to reach inside her and freeze even her fears. She walked on by rote, feeling less and less, her gaze fixed on Taran's back.

  After what seemed an eternity of trudging through the gathering drifts, Taran stopped and pointed. "We're not far now, Ariana. I can see the glow of a well-lit health through a large window. Do you see it?"

  He glanced back but Ariana felt too weak to care about their quest now, when each step forward was agony. "Yes. It's lovely." She saw nothing but Taran, but she couldn't let him see how weak she had become.

  He started off, and Ariana followed, but her thoughts spun and wandered aimlessly, first to the days of her childhood, to the mystic hills and vales of her Welsh home, then to the festive dances of spring. She remembered wanting love so much that it hurt, wanting to believe that the most magical of unions could happen to her.

  Young men had courted her, and several times, she thought she had found "the one." But always, there was something that proved her wrong. One man found another bride more profitable, revealing a shallow heart. Another found himself torn between Ariana and a woman his family had chosen. In the end, he obeyed his family's wishes, grieving ever after that he had lost Ariana. But the moment he wavered, Ariana had known he wasn't the one she had been seeking. True love would never waver. It might hesitate and it might fear, but when the moment of decision came it would never fail.

  After a time, Ariana had considered entering the nunnery; that would spare her the pain and disappointment of love. But the lingering, deathless hope of someone unforgettable— someone so rare that in all the world, there was only one such man— that had kept her from taking the veil. Somehow, she had always known— prayed— that she would find true love, and had been unable to give up.

  She had grown older, then, and lost hope. That was when she had made her daring rescue of her village's stolen children. Life had held no more meaning. And it was then that she had been saved by Nicholas. There, doing the noble work that was as close as she would ever come to fulfillment, she had found Taran.