FOREVER ENCHANTED

by Maggie Shayne

  She couldn't return those invisible gazes. But she held her head high as she was led past the rows of cells and around a corner, into a separate room. The dry, crackling rushes on its floor were old, and the place smelled musty with neglect. But she knew what it was from the moment the guard on her left swung a torch through its arching doorway to illuminate the foul stone walls with dancing shadows. This was a torture chamber, pure and simple. The rack and a table with restraints lay before her. Tools of the hideous trade littered the hook-laden walls. She shuddered with revulsion, yanking one hand away from a guard to close it around the pendant at her throat as she walked all the way to the farthest wall, appalled and amazed that this den of horrors existed.

  "Don't worry," the younger of the two guards muttered, and she could have sworn she detected the barest hint of sincerity in his voice. "You won't be harmed."

  She turned her back to the wall, facing him as the second guard stepped closer to her side. "You'll forgive me if I put little stock in your assurances," she whispered, her throat taut.

  And even as she spoke, the second guard was snapping iron manacles around her wrists. She grated her teeth and tugged at the bonds, as if to test them, only to find herself chained to the wall behind her. Much the same way her mother was imprisoned in the room far above. Except that Bridin's chains were much shorter, only a few paltry links of rusty iron. Her arms were caught up high and outspread, as if she were some bird of prey in midflight, and the wall at her back was cold as ice. The guard knelt in the filthy rushes to apply shackles to her ankles as well, and he didn't need to put his hands upon her in order to get the job done. He simply snapped the leg iron in place and then tugged the chain up until it offered the least possible freedom of movement. And when he finished, her heels touched the stone wall, and there was a great deal of space between the one foot and the other.

  She glanced down at her position, then lifted her chin to meet the guard's eyes. "For maximum humiliation?" she asked, her voice soft and dangerous.

  "No, Lady Bridin," said the younger one. The gentler one. "For minimum mobility. And only because Prince Vincent fears you—"

  "Frederick!"

  The younger one bit his lip. "He knows of your powers, lady, and doesn't wish us to give you the slightest chance to escape."

  "What are his plans for me, Frederick?" she asked, and she held his gaze with her own, willing him to tell her.

  "I do not know, my lady."

  The older guard sniffed. "Tell him what he wishes to know, and you won't be havin' to find out."

  "He won't hurt you," Frederick said. "He couldn't, lady. You're too fair... too—"

  He stopped as the older one's open hand cuffed him across the back of the head. "She's fay, you fool. And using her wiles to charm you already, you weak-willed runt." Then he shoved Frederick out the door, and she heard them bickering as their steps echoed endlessly.

  Bridin hung there in her chains, and wondered how long they would leave her to linger here.

  Hours passed. Countless hours. She didn't know if it was day or the middle of the night. Her arms and legs ached and screamed from the lack of movement. And the waiting and not knowing what Vincent intended was driving her mad.

  And then he appeared. As if thinking of the nightmare could bring it on, the bastard himself was suddenly there. She looked up and saw him, lounging in the stone archway, head tilted to one side as he studied her.

  "Vincent," she whispered. "Let loose these bonds. I surrendered to you of my own free will. I'm not going to try to escape."

  He shrugged. "I can't be sure of that, can I? Your kind is known for their cunning, after all."

  She clenched her jaw, saying nothing.

  "Come now, Bridin, you disappoint me. Aren't you going to beg, even a little?" His eyes skimmed her face. "No, I thought not. Pity."

  "Keeping me in chains serves no purpose," she told him.

  "Ah, but it does. It amuses me, Bridin. Isn't that purpose enough?" He lifted his brows. "No? Well, then I suppose one must take the torture into account."

  She sucked in a breath against her will, then glanced down to see her pendant still resting upon her chest. Vincent, though, was strolling into the room now, walking its boundaries, toying with the tools that dangled from the wall. Irons and hammers and whips and other things whose uses she couldn't even imagine.

  "Y-you cannot harm me," she whispered.

  "No. Shame that. But I can only guess, Bridin, since you surrendered yourself to me in order to end the suffering of your people, that what I have in mind will be just as effective." He turned slowly, faced the door. "Bring her in."

  And Bridin gasped. At once a beefy hand pushed a small child into her line of vision. A little girl, her face grimy with dirt and marred by tearstains. Her once golden hair in filthy tangles. Her arms bound behind her back. The guard pushed her down to her knees in the doorway.

  "Tell the princess your name, child," Vincent purred.

  Blinking back fresh tears, the girl whispered, "Am-Amelia."

  "And how old are you, Amelia?"

  "I'm t-ten," she stammered, never lifting her head or looking up. Not once.

  Vincent caught the guard's eye and jerked his head to one side. The guard nodded and pulled the child to her feet, leading her away again. Bridin heard the shuffling of those small, bare feet through the rushes, and then the soft sounds of crying.

  "I don't understand," she said, even though she was sickeningly afraid she did.

  "Simple," Vincent replied, watching her face. "I want to know where my brother is hiding. I want to know what he's planning, and when he's going to move against me. Will you tell me?"

  She closed her eyes. "I can't tell you," she said. "I don't know."

  "I think you do."

  She opened her eyes and met his. "I don't."

  "That's a shame. Because I'm going to make you watch while I torture that child. Amelia, wasn't it? By the time I'm finished, I'll be sure of exactly what you know, Bridin. Because I think you'll tell me everything."

  She felt the tears brimming in her eyes. "You can't! Vincent, you mustn't hurt that child. I swear to you, I know nothing. I... Vincent!"

  But he was leaving her, leaving her alone to mull over what he'd said, no doubt. As he vanished around the corner, he called, "Three hours, Bridin. And then I'll be back for your answer." He returned a second later and, smiling, extended his hand. She gasped as she saw the oversize hourglass he held, bit her lip as he slowly turned it over and the sand began streaming through its slender neck. "Three hours," he repeated. "And you can watch it pass, knowing that with each grain of sand that falls, little Amelia comes closer to torment." He lowered the hourglass to the floor, setting it down in a shadowy corner. She could barely see it there, and she knew that was deliberate. It would torture her more to have to squint in the shadows and strain her eyes to see how much time remained, and she'd constantly doubt what she saw. "You're evil itself, aren't you, Vincent?"

  "That might very well be, Princess."

  Tristan left Moonshadow tethered in a glade beyond the city walls. He could graze and reach water there, and he was hidden from curious eyes. And if for any reason Tristan couldn't return, he knew Tate or one of the others would come for him. He'd be cared for. Safe. Safer than Bridin was right now. Gods, when Tristan thought of her inside that towering castle, when he thought of what his brother might do to her in his fury... He'd kill him. Surely he would. If Vincent had harmed her in any way... Ah, but what hope was there that he had done anything less? He was a brute and an animal, and Tristan couldn't for the life of him understand why he hadn't seen those things sooner. Far sooner than he had.

  No, nor indeed why he hadn't realized what Bridin must have been planning all along. He'd been so selfishly focused on his own foolish notions of how to woo her and win her that he'd neglected her safety. Dammit, he knew her well enough to have guessed what she would have done. But he'd been too busy feeling sorry for himself for losing h
er, even for a short while. Too busy planning out how to win her back again... He'd been blind. Stupid and blind. He should have known. He knew her strength and boundless sense of honor and duty. He should have known.

  He crept into the city in the pale light of predawn. Crept into the castle by way of one of the hidden entrances Tate had mapped out for him, and made his way through a tunnel—the same tunnel through which he and Tate had escaped this place—to the dungeons. To the cell he'd once been consigned to by his own flesh and blood. The place where his brother had left him to die.

  He dropped from the ceiling and landed in a crouch on the floor, pausing there, waiting, listening, scanning the darkness. There was nothing but silence and the occasional flicker of the torch that burned from a wall sconce, emitting soot-laden smoke that burned his eyes and throat. Darkness and the tall shadows of the barred doors. Stone block walls and floors, dirty with the soot and fouled with the stench of all who'd been held here.

  Moving slowly, silently, Tristan stepped forward and tried the door. He sighed in relief when it gave way. No one here saw the use in locking vacant cells. All the better for him. He stepped out of the cell and walked silently along the rows of them, searching each cell, perusing the pathetic souls who slept on the floors in many of them, and probing even the darkest corners of the empty ones. When he came to the torch in the wall, he pulled it down, carrying it with him, better to see into the grim shadows. But with each cell he passed, his heart grew heavier, because he didn't see Bridin in any of them.

  And when he reached the end of the cells, he thought he'd failed. But then he heard rustling, and a rattle of chains. And he remembered the ancient torture chamber. He'd once used it for storage. But his brother, no doubt, had emptied it of its stores and filled it instead with agony.

  Bridin!

  He rushed forward, torch held out ahead of him, his stomach turning at the thought of what he might find. And then he paused, just inside the doorway. He stood there, and he stared at her as she slowly lifted her head and met his eyes.

  Jamming the torch into a wall bracket, he rushed forward, wrapped his arms around her, buried his fingers in her hair. "Bridin! Dammit, Bridin, has he hurt you? Are you all right? Did he—"

  "I'm fine." She lifted her head away from where he cradled it on his shoulder. "He can't hurt me, Tristan, so long as I wear the pendant. I'm safe. It's you who are in danger. Leave here, now!"

  "Not without you," he told her, and he straightened, searching her face. She was so beautiful, and so determined. "I know you wanted to ease the suffering of your people, Bridin, but there has to be another way."

  "There isn't."

  "I won't leave you here. Understand that. It's foolish to come here like a sheep to the slaughter."

  "I'm protected—"

  "He's deadly!"

  She closed her eyes, and he saw her gathering her wits for the argument with him. Oddly, though, it didn't come. Instead she glanced past him, toward the shadowy corner beyond, then nodded toward the chains at her wrists and sent him a meaningful glance. "Free me, then."

  Narrowing his gaze, Tristan gripped the manacle in his hands and pried at it. Then he tugged at the chains. He tried using his sword as a tool, tried countless times to free her. But nothing worked. His callused hands pulled on the chains until they were raw, and still he tried to free her.

  "You see," she whispered, and the hand closest to him stroked his hair gently. "It's hopeless, Tristan. You can't free me."

  "I can't leave you here."

  "It won't be for long," she told him. "Tristan, your duty is to your people now, not to me. You have to get away from here. Stay safe, and don't sacrifice this entire kingdom trying to save one fay female."

  "I don't give a damn about the kingdom."

  "You have to leave me," she whispered.

  But he didn't. Instead he caught her head in his hands and kissed her mouth as if he were starving for her. His tongue thrust inside, tasting her, and knowing he'd die before he left her here to face his brother on her own. And he felt her response, he felt it, recognized it, knew it was for him and him alone. He lifted his head. "You planned this all along," he whispered. "When you said you couldn't marry me, you were only trying to spare me—"

  "You're wrong." She turned her head away, averted her eyes. "I'm sworn to obey my mother, Tristan. Now more than ever."

  Stunned, he caught her face in his hands. "Why now more than ever?"

  "Because she's alive."

  "What?"

  Bridin only nodded. "It's a long story, Tristan. And there's no time for it now. But my mother is alive, and—"

  "I don't care," he said quickly, and he knew he'd interrupted her because he was sorely afraid she might convince him she meant what she said. And he didn't want to believe it. He refused to believe it. She was his, dammit.

  "I love you, Bridin."

  He saw the tears pooling in her eyes then.

  "You won't be able to get me free," she whispered. "Not in time."

  "I will."

  She closed her eyes, and he opened his mouth to ask her what she'd meant by "not in time." But then she opened those gemstone eyes again, and focused on his mouth. "Make love to me, Tristan. Just one last time."

  He shook his head. It was madness, what she asked of him. Insanity to waste precious time, when he should be digging the chains from the stone with his very fingers if necessary.

  She pressed her lips to the skin exposed below the neck of his tunic, and then lifted her fairy eyes to him. And his pulse quickened. His heart accelerated. His skin heated. "I can refuse you nothing, Bridin."

  And he put his arms around her. Pressed his hips against her. And she couldn't respond the way he knew she wanted to. But she moved her hips against his, and returned his kisses.

  She tugged at the chains, but her arms remained where they were, out to the sides and above her head. She pulled at the leg irons, but her legs remained spread apart and bound tight to the wall. Tristan lifted her tunic and ran his hands up underneath it. He pushed it up high, baring her breasts to his touch, and then he cupped them in his hands, squeezing and holding them. And Bridin twisted herself from side to side in blatant need. He stopped kissing her, drawing his mouth away from hers, to bend his head lower. And he lifted the prize to his lips and suckled and fed from it, and he knew he'd never tasted anything sweeter than the honey of her nipples, the very essence of her skin.

  And she whispered at him to hurry, to take her, to do it now. Tristan pushed the hose down to her knees, and rapidly fumbled to free himself from his own. And then he pushed into her. She flung her head back, arms going stiff, legs spread wide and trembling. And he slid his hands around her to cup her buttocks, his knuckles scraping the stone wall behind her. And he held her to him as he thrust himself into her. He took her fast and hard—as fast and as hard as if he truly believed this would be his last chance with her. But he didn't believe it. He never would.

  "You're mine," he told her, as he pumped into her, plunging deeper each time. "Mine, Bridin. No man will ever love you like I do." And he kissed her mouth when he felt her come, swallowed her cries, inhaled her breaths. And then he filled her with his seed, and held her tight to him as he spent himself into her.

  And still longer.

  Until she lifted her head, and trailed a line of kisses over his face. "Right my clothes, Tristan. Hurry, please."

  And though he wished to hold her, he knew she was right. Even the few moments of blazing passion had been too much to risk taking. Damn, why had she tempted him that way? He stood away from her, putting her clothing to rights before his own.

  "Now. There's not much time—"

  "You keep saying that—"

  "There's a child, Tristan. A little girl named Amelia. Please, go to her now. Get her out of here."

  "I've come here for you," he argued. "Dammit, Bridin, it's you I'm taking out of here."

  "There's no time to argue. She's a child, so they won't have taken man
y precautions with her. She should be easily rescued. Please, Tristan. I couldn't think of leaving her behind. Take her outside, through whatever secret way you came in. While you're about, you can find a hammer or an ax to break these chains of mine. But hurry. Please, go now. Hurry."

  Tristan swallowed hard, and he thought he detected something in her eyes. Something that should have warned him.

  "I'm begging you. She's an innocent child, Tristan, and he plans to hurt her. Terribly. Take her away now, and come back for me."

  "I'll take you both—"

  "If you don't go fetch an ax, you'll never get me free anyway. Please, just take the girl with you!"

  He backed away, shaking his head, knowing she was right. He needed a tool to free her, an ax, as she said. And it would take no more time to gather up a small child on the way out of here.

  Why, then, was he feeling this sick ball of dread forming in his stomach?

  "Hurry," she whispered. "Hurry, Tristan. Go, find the girl."

  He surged forward and kissed her again. "I'll be back," he promised. "No more than a few minutes, Bridin. I swear it to you."

  "I know."

  And at last he tore himself away, hurrying from the room without looking back, lest he lose his ability to leave her, even for a moment.

  Finding the child was an easy task. She was tied by a lead rope to a ring in the wall. As one would tie a dog. She crouched on the wet floor with her hands bound behind her, and she looked terrified.

  "It's all right," Tristan said softly, and he bent to untie her. "I've come to take you out of here."

  "No," she whispered. "You came for the princess."

  He met the child's eyes, wise beyond their years. "Indeed I did. But she says she won't leave here unless I first take you away."