FOREVER ENCHANTED

by Maggie Shayne

  "If that means I can remove the tape, my lord, then I'll do so at once."

  He nodded, and Marinda was instantly at Bridin's side, peeling the tape from her wrists. It pulled at her skin, and she winced, but kept her lips sealed. She wouldn't let him know it hurt her. She wouldn't let him know he'd hurt her.

  Marinda repeated the painful procedure, freeing Bridin's ankles, as Bridin rubbed at her wrists and watched Tristan's every move. He used the old, dry tinder wood to lay a fire in the stone hearth, then ignited it with no more than a flick of his fingers. Warmth surged through the large room, caressing her chilled flesh, and Bridin instinctively moved closer to the fire.

  He stood where he was, watching her approach, waiting. She didn't stop, but moved as close as she wanted, and then stood staring into the flames and absorbing the heat.

  "What now, Tristan?" she asked him softly, not looking at him.

  "I honestly don't know," he replied, his voice as soft as hers. He reached out, as if to stroke her hair, but she pulled away before he could touch her. His sigh was deep and long. "All right. I suppose we all might as well get some sleep, for now. It's been a long night, and dawn isn't far off."

  Bridin glanced around the main room with disdain. Aside from a few meager furnishings, the place was barren. A large, circular concavity of a room. All of stone. And cold in its darkness as well as its chill. "And where am I to sleep? On the stone floor?"

  Tristan's lips pulled tight. "Tate hadn't finished preparing the place for habitation yet, but he tells me there are blankets and a few oil lamps scattered about. And I know just the chamber for you... Your Highness." He held out a hand. "Come."

  Her hand trembled at the mere suggestion she place it in his. But she didn't do it. She only nodded. "While I'm your prisoner, Tristan, I've little choice but to do as you wish. But you should know I'm only biding my time. And sooner or later, I'll escape you. Just as I did before."

  He shrugged and reached for her, grasping her hand in his and pulling her from the room and up the curving stone staircase behind him. She wondered briefly how he knew this place so well if he'd never yet been here. Tristan had said it seemed familiar. She'd have liked to ask him about it. But it would wait. Conversing with him civilly wasn't something she felt up to doing, just now.

  At the top he turned down a long hallway, passing several doors only to stop at the very last one. And then he flung that heavy wooden door open, to reveal to her a room nearly as barren as the one below. A fireplace gaped in the wall like the jaws of death itself, black and barren. A bed stood in the room's center, unmade, but heaped with folded blankets, sheets, and pillows. An oil lamp sat atop a large trunk, with a box of wooden matches beside it. Through the leaded glass of the small, square window, moonlight spilled in, bathing the room in silver. And she saw the broadsword standing up in a far corner, leaning against the stone wall, as if in repose. Or waiting for its owner's hand to curve around its hilt. She recognized that sword. Tristan's.

  "This... was to be your room?"

  "Leave it to Tate to choose the right one. His psychic powers never cease to amaze me."

  "Then... it was your room?" His words only confused her all the more. He spoke as if he'd lived here before.

  "Still is," he told her. "I can't risk letting you out of my sight, Bridin. I know how clever you are, how bold. And how determined."

  He pointed a lazy finger at the stack of fragrant wood that lay ready in the grate, and it flickered to life as if on its own. "Besides," he said, "we need to talk."

  She closed her eyes tightly, trying to gather her composure. He couldn't stay here with her. Not now. She couldn't think with him so near, couldn't begin to.

  "Bridin?" He came nearer, his hand touching her face, as if in concern. And the heat of his fingertips warmed her cheek. She nearly pressed closer to that touch...

  Her eyes flew open and met his. "If there is a shred of decency in your black soul, Tristan, then leave me. Bind me up in that wretched tape again. Chain me to the walls if you must, but leave me."

  He searched her eyes, and she saw his resistance there.

  "You've taken everything from me," she whispered. "My childhood, my kingdom... even my heart."

  "Your heart?"

  Her eyes burned, but she blinked against their stinging. "You made me fall in love with an illusion. A man who didn't exist. And now I'm left with nothing, Tristan. Nothing."

  He flinched, she thought, though he did his best to hide it. "The man you fell in love with was no illusion, Bridin. It was me."

  She shook her head. "No. You, I detest. I could never love a man who has robbed me so thoroughly. Even my freedom is yours to control... again. Leave me with something, Tristan. Take everything else away, but for the love of Rush, leave me with my dignity." Her voice broke, and she turned away abruptly. "I want to be alone when I fall apart. Give me that, if nothing else."

  He stepped close behind her, his hands closing on her shoulders. "Bridin, I—"

  "Please!"

  His hands fell away. She heard him step quietly to the door, but she didn't turn to watch him go. Her spine remained rigid right up until she heard the hinges groan. The door closed softly, and the warmth seemed to flee the room. Her composure went with it. Every muscle, every bone, melted as Bridin sank slowly to the floor, her legs folding beneath her as if they'd turned to liquid. She curled her arms to pillow her head, and lay there, limp, lifeless. And the tears came.

  Tristan paced the front hall, alternately cursing and pushing his hands through his hair.

  "My lord?"

  He stopped, brought up short by Tate's interruption.

  "The boat is hidden, and Marinda settled in an upper chamber."

  Tristan only nodded, closed his eyes, and resumed his pacing.

  "I'm sorry, Tristan. It seems my plan has failed miserably."

  "Failed? Gods, Tate, it more than failed. It's a complete disaster." He tipped his head back, gazing at the ceiling with teeth grated. "She hates me, Tate. She'd no more agree to marry me than she would leap from the damned watch-tower."

  "No, my lord, I believe you're mistaken there."

  "I'm not mistaken. I know what I see in her eyes when she looks at me."

  "You'll change her mind, then. Tristan, despite the current state of things, our goal remains the same. We must retake Shara—"

  "The hell with Shara!"

  Tristan stopped pacing. He stood very still as his own words echoed to the heavens in the large, empty hall. He could barely believe he'd uttered them. What in the name of hell was happening to him? His entire focus had shifted, altered somehow. Until the brokenhearted female upstairs had somehow replaced his own kingdom as his first priority. Gods, it was ridiculous.

  But true, nonetheless.

  "She'll come around," Tate said. "Give her time."

  "We don't have time." Tristan shook away the image of the pain in her blue eyes, and tried hard to fix his attention on matters of more importance, though they seemed somehow trivial now. "We've no idea how things go in Shara. What my brother's rule has done. What we'll be facing when... if... we return."

  "Easily remedied, Tristan. I'll go back," Tate said, as if it were all very simple. "And with your permission, Tristan, I'll take Marinda with me. It has become dangerous for her here. And there's no need in risking her life by keeping her. On the other side she can blend in with her people. Vincent will take no notice of her there. But should his assassins find her here..."

  Tristan nodded. "Yes, you're right. She'd be executed out of hand. They won't risk leaving anyone alive who might carry the tale of my brother's duplicity back to the people of Shara. Yes, Tate, take her."

  Tate nodded. "I'll return, my lord, as soon as I've learned all we need to know. Meanwhile, it would be best for you and the lady Bridin to remain here. Venturing out, even once, could very well reveal your whereabouts to the assassins."

  Tristan nodded. Much as he detested the notion of hiding from anyone or anyth
ing, he needed to consider Bridin's safety as well as his own. If they killed her, his only chance of regaining the throne would die with her.

  And so would my soul.

  He blinked, and gave his head a shake. Foolish notion.

  The tears gave way at last with the first light of dawn creeping over the leaded glass in the small, square window. She thought perhaps she'd cried until there were no tears left inside her. And finally she fell into an exhausted, troubled sleep, right there on the floor where she'd been. Too drained to move. Not caring that it was chilly or that her fire was dying to mere embers. Not bothering to reach for a blanket, though several were stacked only a few feet away on the great bed. She didn't have the energy to breathe, let alone move.

  She could not make sense of her feelings. The anger was logical and right, as was her hatred for Tristan. But beyond all of it was another emotion, more powerful than any of those. And it was this one that confused and confounded her.

  It was an overwhelming sense of relief... even joy... that Tristan was alive. She fell asleep still trying to understand that odd feeling.

  Later, much later, as she shivered in her sleep, she felt warm, strong arms sliding beneath her body. Felt herself being lifted, then lowered into a nest of softness. Something soft covered her, and she burrowed into it, rolling onto her side and sinking her burning face into what felt like eiderdown.

  And as she sank more deeply into the warm velvet embrace of slumber, she dreamed. She dreamed of Tristan. Tristan, stepping into the path of a blade that would have killed her. Tristan, clutching her pendants in a pool of blood, and whispering at her to run. Tristan's eyes, betraying his secret love for her. And then again, all over again. Stepping in front of the blade, taking the blow, to save her life.

  Only this time, as he sank to the floor, wounded and bleeding, Bridin—her dream self—sank to her knees beside him, and cradled him in her arms. "You're alive," she whispered. "Thank the gods of Rush, my love, you're alive!"

  "Not even death could take me from you," he whispered.

  "Don't go, Tristan. Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me again."

  "I'm here," he said softly. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving."

  "Hold me." And tears filled her heart until they spilled over, leaking into her eyes, flooding them.

  But his arms encircled her, held her tight to him. And his hands stroked her hair. And her sleep became peaceful again, and serene.

  She woke some time later, to the brilliance of sunlight streaming over her face. And to the embrace of Tristan of Shara, her lifelong enemy.

  He sat on the bed, his back against the headboard. And she lay curled atop him, her arms locked around his waist, and her face cradled by the firmness of his belly. His arms held her there, and one hand continued gently stroking her hair, over and over, as if he did it without thought.

  Slowly she realized that parts of her dream hadn't been a dream at all. He'd moved her to this bed and then stayed with her, held her like a child in his arms while she slept.

  Bridin felt warm and safe here, this way. But that feeling was wrong. She shouldn't allow herself to be deceived by sensations. What lay between her and Tristan was no more than a physical craving. She sat up, stiffening her resolve, but somehow unable to meet his eyes.

  "What do you think you're doing?" She smoothed a hand over her hair.

  His forefinger lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I came to check on you, and found you on the floor, Bridin. Shivering and crying in your sleep. So I put you to bed."

  "An act which would have been noble, coming from any other man," she said. Though her voice didn't carry the right amount of censure. It was too soft and too hungry. "But of course, you're no gentleman, are you, Tristan? Otherwise you'd have covered me up and left me here, rather than climbing in beside me."

  Her accusation didn't seem to bother him. He never even blinked, just held her gaze steadily. "I tried to leave you here, Princess, but you wouldn't allow it."

  "Nonsense!"

  His brows rose. "You clung to my neck and muttered my name. You asked me to hold you, begged me not to go. I think you must have been dreaming."

  "I think, Tristan, the only one dreaming in this room is you. Why would I ask you to hold me when I can't bear the sight of you?"

  "I can't imagine, Bridin. But I know what I heard. It seems fairly obvious you're not being quite honest. Is it your conscious mind or your dreaming one that's lying, I wonder?"

  "You're the liar here, Tristan, not me."

  She moved to the side, ready to slide from the bed to the floor, but Tristan caught her shoulders and pulled her to him. His arms slid around her, until her chest was pressed tight to his and his mouth was only a breath away. "I'm not lying about this at least. I want you, Bridin. You are a fire in my blood, and you always have been. Just as I am burning in yours. Admit it."

  "I'd sooner be tortured by hot coals," she whispered, but her eyes were focused on his lips, and she was yearning for their touch against hers. Starving for it.

  "Liar." He gave her what she couldn't ask for then. His arms hooked under hers, and bent upward so that he cupped her head with his hands. She couldn't have turned away if she'd wanted to. But shameful as it was, she didn't want to. He brought her closer and claimed her mouth, kissing her hard. And yet not hard enough. She should be struggling, she thought. She should pull herself free and slap him. But instead she felt her lips tremble and then part. And she felt him breathe the word "yes" into her mouth, before forcing it open even further, taking her with his tongue. Stabbing fiercely in a slow, deep rhythm that was filled with innuendo and promise and threat.

  And gods, how she burned for him. Ached for him.

  She clung to him, not kissing him back because she couldn't move. Not the way he held her and ravished her lips. It was all Tristan. And it made it easier that she didn't have to comply and that she couldn't pull away even if she'd wanted to. This way she'd never have to admit, not even to herself, how much she wanted this. Craved this.

  He lifted his head at long last, but only to dip it to her neck, and nuzzle her there. He pushed the strap of her shift aside with his mouth and nipped at her shoulder, and upper arm, and then, sliding lower in the bed, his hands at her back pulling her down atop him, he moved lower. His wet mouth moved hotly over her breast, through the silk. He scraped a path with his teeth, bumping to a stop at the tautness of her pebblelike nipple. And then he caught it with his tongue. Licked at it, wetting the silk. Pushed and pulled, and suckled her hard. And then he bit her there, and she gasped in pleasure and a tiny, shivery bit of pain. He heard her gasp, stiffening for an instant, holding her there throbbing between his teeth, then biting down harder.

  She cried out, and it seemed to galvanize him. He gripped the fabric in his teeth, growling deep in his throat, and tore through it. She felt her breast fall free, naked and vulnerable, against his face, and she started to pull away, but he didn't let her. His hands held her tighter still, yanking her down to him, and his head rose from the bed, and he clamped his mouth over her breast and fed there like a man starved for her taste. With his hand he pulled her other breast free, and then moved to feed at that one. Pulling hard, nipping, working her until she was wet from his mouth and aching with need.

  The shift tore open, down the center, as he slid one hand between them and yanked at it. And his mouth followed the path of the tear, tongue darting downward, wet and warm against her belly, moving lower, wetting her panties, biting at the elastic of them, pulling and letting it snap back. He mouthed her as if he were devouring her, and she told herself to stop this insanity before it was too late. But it was already too late. She could feel his mouth on her and it was already far, far too late.

  He bit through the material, tearing her panties, shredding them with his teeth until she was naked. And he kissed her. Soft, teasing kisses. Then his fingers parted her folds, and he kissed her again. A hot little trail of quick, hard kisses. She groaned and pulled away. His
hands gripped her buttocks and he jerked her down hard and fast, and locked his mouth to her quivering flesh. And he wouldn't release her. He refused. There was a feeling of invasion as he forced her open, and thrust his tongue upward, filling her with it, taking everything she had, devouring her very soul, it seemed. She felt her body begin to clamp in on itself, felt the tightening, and the trembling. Again she tried to pull free, but this time his teeth closed on the tiny nub that was the center of her need, and he nibbled at it until she stopped pulling. Until she settled herself down. Until she relaxed her clenching thigh muscles and let them fall open wider. His hands squeezed her buttocks in approval, and then his tongue stabbed her again. He bathed her with it, thoroughly, until she was completely unable to move or think or feel anything beyond this mouth on her. And then he seemed ready to give more. He moved again, harder this time, hurting her so deliciously that she cried out loud.

  She screamed as her body yearned and reached and hungered for something she couldn't imagine. And then she found it. Her soul exploded as the orgasm seared through her. She heard her own anguished cries, but they seemed to come from somewhere far away. There was only one plane of reality. That place where he touched her. That place where he was. The universe was centered right there.

  And then she collapsed atop him, shuddering and shivering and unable to move. He slid up her body, his lips blazing a trail with his kisses. His arms wrapped around her, he cradled her head to his chest, and he whispered something in her ear. Something...

  "I love you, Bridin."

  She stiffened, her glorious, glowing body cooling at a rapid pace. "Don't—"

  "It's true. I want you to marry me. Now. Right away."

  The chilling of her heated flesh was complete. Bridin slid away, and sat up in the bed, staring down at him. "Are there no depths too low for you to sink, Tristan? Is there anything you wouldn't do, any lie you wouldn't tell, to get my throne again?"

  He sat up, too, his eyes narrowing, sparkling. "This has nothing to do with the throne," he said. "This is just you and me, Bridin, and it always has been. You know that. Dammit, in your heart, you know that."