by Jo Beverley
Will you rape her? it murmured. Despoil her limp body? What will be the result when she regains awareness and understands what you have done?
She’ll love you, argued Titania. She’s your marrying maid. It is her destiny to love you just as it is your destiny to love her. Do it now, my knight. Do it now so you and your line can live.
Do it now and eat bitter bread forever. Perhaps it is not necessary. Perhaps I will allow your birthday to be as your worldly custom designates.
Rob carried Martha up to his bedchamber where he laid her on the bed. He untied the stings of her cap and took it off, then unpinned her hair. He spread it, astonished by its silky thickness, aroused by it and hungry. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers….
Which were slack and unresponsive.
He inhaled, straightening. “I cannot,” he said. Titania screamed at him, Oberon laughed.
Where was virtue and vileness here? Where was right and wrong?
There was one last hope.
6
Chapter Six
Martha was first aware of a throbbing head, and then that she was cold and wet. Then that she was not in her bed, but being carried. Was this another odd dream?
She struggled feebly and realized she was trapped in something. In heavy cloth.
"Hush, love, we're home. I'll soon have you warm."
“Home?” She forced her eyes open and saw a distant starry sky. Closer, she saw Loxsleigh’s shadowed face.
"What have you done?" Her mouth was almost too parched for speech.
"Brought you to Five Oaks. It was the only way."
“No!” He was going to rape her, and here in his house there would be no noble Sir Robert to stand between. She felt her own hot tears on her cold cheeks.
He kissed them. “Don’t be afraid, love. I won’t harm you. But I had to bring you here, I had to try.”
He put her down on the steps to open the door, but only for a moment and still swaddled, so her feeble struggles achieved nothing. They entered total darkness, but he must know it well. Of course he did.
Then wild candlelight showed a high, painted ceiling. "My boy, my boy! You're home and with your bride. Praise be to God!"
Martha turned her head and saw a tousled-haired man in a night robe, candle in hand.
"Welcome my dear, welcome. Oh, happy day. But why such a journey? The poor girl must be chilled through. Bring her up, bring her up. She can lie in my bed for now."
“No!” Martha cried. Not the father, too.
“No,” Rob Loxsleigh said. “I must take her to the old hall.”
“The old hall? She’ll catch a lung fever.”
“I hope she’ll catch credulity.” Already striding across the entrance hall, he called, “The calendar change. It changed my birthday. We have no time! Bring brandy and water. Rouse the servants to prepare her a bed.”
“Please,” Martha moaned. “Please, don’t.”
But he rushed forward into darkness, struggling to open doors, leaving them wide behind him, and all around her a cacophony of voices swelled – high voices, low voices, merry and angry, coaxing and threatening, tangled up in a song. In that song. Her nightmare song.
A man growled, “He plans to rape you. Fight, mortal creature, fight!”
She tried, but was helpless.
Then Loxsleigh stopped. Small-paned windows let in a trace of light and Martha’s eyes were accustomed to the dark. They must be in the ancient part of Five Oaks. Nightmare song and creatures whirled around.
A dream. This had to be a dream!
He put her on her feet, supporting her still, and loosed her from the cloak.
The lady was there, in iridescent robes. She smiled like a Madonna, but with fierce silvery eyes. Titania.
The man paced around them like the panther she’d seen in the Tower of London. “He cannot rape you. He’s too puny for that. You have only to resist.”
Titania pressed close in a cloud of woodland perfume. “Dear child, you have only to surrender to that which you most desire.” Her hand brushed Martha’s forehead and the dull throb there faded. The room seemed brighter by the moment, and all her senses heightened. The song turned sweet.
“You love Rob Loxsleigh,” whispered the queen of Faery. “He loves you. You were destined from birth. And the threat is real, dear child. Refuse and my lord will have his way.”
“Then stop him.”
“I have brought you together. Now it lies in your hands.”
“You demand that I sin!”
Titania laughed. “I demand nothing. It will annoy me if my lord wins this little contest, but there are many others.”
Faery, Rob Loxsleigh had said, are not benign.
Martha realized that whether the light came from a magical glow or from the fey folk themselves, she could see. The room was long and low and paneled in dark oak, but held no furniture. Rob stood nearby, wild haired and grim, watching her, but prepared, she understood, to abide by her decision.
Here, now, she could not deny the reality of the threat. It showed in Titania’s heartless smile and in handsome Oberon’s simmering anticipation. He waited to exact revenge for an offence a half a millennium old. Others flowed around the room and in and out of the dark walls, watching and chattering. They were enjoying the show, as people watch animals fight to the death simply for amusement.
The unearthly song swelled – sweet, yes, but chanting both of love and death.
Martha turned to Rob. “They are vile. We must deny them both.”
He took her hands. “Martha, Martha, they are as wind, wave, and lightning. Deny them if you will, but you will still die. Or rather I will, and my father. My uncle and aunt, my cousins and my cousin Cecilia’s newborn child. Who knows how many others carry Sir Robert Loxsleigh’s blood? Trust me, love. There is only one way. Come to my bed and lie with me. We will be married as soon as may be, but Oberon will be thwarted only if we love each other tonight.”
“It would be wrong,” the dark lord growled in her ear, “and you know it. What good can come from that?”
“We can pledge ourselves now,” Rob argued. “We can say our vows. I will keep them, as will you. There can never be any other for you or me.”
“By your beliefs, it must be in a church,” Oberon argued. “Think of the scandal. Your reputation…”
It was as if all around held their breath; as if the very room, the old house, the one built by Robert Loxsleigh in a faery glade guarded by five oaks, held its breath. Even the song stopped. But Oberon had misplayed his hand. Martha’s morals still quailed, but to let innocents die for her reputation would be vile.
She looked into the man’s eyes. “I will lie with you tonight, Rob Loxsleigh, my husband in all but the ceremony.”
The chorus burst out again, a song of wild rejoicing that clashed with thunderous rage. Rob took her hand and raced her out of the ancient part of the house, back to the entrance hall, lit now by a branch of candles. The noises faded and then stopped.
Martha knew that Faery had gone. Gone on to other entertainments.
Rob took her into his arms, holding her tight and close, burying his head in her hair.
Her loose hair, Martha realized, as it had never been except between brushing and pinning.
He separated and kissed her, a gentle, reverent kiss. “You will not regret this.”
“No, I don’t believe I will.” But she swallowed before saying, “Do we do it now?”
He smiled. “We have all night. You’re damp in places and wet in others. Come up to your room and be comfortable.”
She went up with him, hand in hand, but still embarrassed. She could hear servants around, woken from sleep and talking softly. About her. They would all know…
But she would not sacrifice hundreds to her discomfort.
He led her to a room where three maidservants worked, still in their nightwear with tied shawls atop. They cast her looks, but smiling ones. Did they know? Did everyone here know?
The room was lit with candles and warmed by the flickering flames of a new-laid fire. Two of the servants were running warming pans through the bed. The other was spreading a nightgown over a rack before the fire.
“I’ll leave you in their care,” Rob said, smiling down at her.
She could do nothing but smile back. “I’m all awhirl.”
“I know. Be comfortable. I’ll return later.”
The subject still embarrassed her too much for speech, but she nodded.
He left and she surrendered to the maids’ care. They gave her small beer to slake her thirst, and stripped off her damp outer clothing. Martha wouldn1t let them strip her naked. She retired behind the screen to take off her shift and put on the nightgown.
The maids toweled dry her hair and then settled her into the warm bed with a cup of chocolate and a sweet cake. There was a plate of fruit as well, but Martha could eat nothing.
The servants left. She sipped the chocolate, which was richer than any she’d tasted. And she waited.
All awareness of Faery had gone, making her aware of how it had lived in her for days, ever since that encounter in the park. Instead, there was a growing peace, a growing certainty that all was now right, despite the lack of church and clergy.
She was drinking the last of the chocolate when Rob came to her, shining and handsome again, in a rich, blue robe.
“My peacock, I see.”
“At your command,” he said, crossing the room to her. “Always.”
He extinguished the candles until only fire lit the room and came into the bed beside her. “I’m sorry it must be this way, my love, but it will be holy.”
He was naked and she had to look away, even though she said, “I know it.”
Wildly she thought, It would never have been like this with Dean Stallingford!
He took her hand and she felt his warm lips on her knuckles. “Look at me, Martha.”
She turned her head shyly, but he’d pulled the covers up to his neck. There was nothing to embarrass her except that he was here, a man in her bed.
He took her hand, her left hand, and slid a ring onto her third finger. “My pledge to you, dear heart.”
Martha raised her hand and saw a complex ring of gold, set with small, smooth stones.
“I’ve carried that for years, love, as I sought my marrying maid. Come, let me love you now.”
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her, and there was all the magic she remembered from that other kiss, so long ago, a day ago. Heat and sparkles danced through her and this time she felt no need to resist. Shyly, she kissed him back. Her hands encountered his skin and she laid her hands on him, uncertainly but with growing pleasure.
She moved against him, her whole body twining with his so they seemed one. Especially when he raised her nightgown high, then took it off. She stared up at the bed canopy as he put hands to her naked breasts. And then his mouth. But then she was lost to anxiety and swept up into his passion, her need building so that when he thrust inside her, she cried out as much in satisfaction as in pain.
The pain was short and soon forgotten. The pleasure built until she thought she’d die of wanting more. Until it came, and she didn’t die, but ended up hot and sticky in his arms, laughing softly at the splendor of it. “So that,” she said, “is magic.”
He chuckled into her hair. “If it’s magic, it’s a magic available to everyone, love.” He nuzzled and kissed her there. “Thank you, my dear, my darling, my marrying maid. We will be gloriously happy-”
But Martha suddenly sat up. “Mother!”
Laughing, he pulled her back down. “Someone’s already dispatched to bring her here safely on the morrow. The explanations may be delicate, but I think she’ll be mollified by our wedding.” He cradled her face. “Any regrets?”
Martha shook her head. “None. This is right and true.”
“We’ll follow Faery's rules and all will be well, and when our son is of marrying age we’ll work with him to circumvent Oberon’s wiles.”
A distant look came into his eyes, and Martha said, “What? More trickery from them?”
He focused on her again. “No, love. But I’m aware of the gold now. After the kiss, it was a whisper and all I found was nearby pieces. Now, it’s a symphony on the air, a choir in my mind, from near and far. Tomorrow, will you come with me to find lost gold? To bring it into the light and warm the world?”
She snuggled into his chest, savouring new, sweet song that came from all they were.
“I will, husband. And right merrily.”
This ends the first story, but read on for one set a generation or two later, where the storyline is reversed. The very existence of Faery in England is threatened unless a Regency lady with Fae blood can seduce an unwilling lord.
The Lord of Elphindale
Prologue
In the heart of the woods, in the heart of a dale, somewhere in the heart of England, June, 1794.
Call her Mab, call her Titania, call her Kerrigwen.
Ageless and with many names, the Lady sat among her Faery Court considering the emerald globe floating before her eyes. Considering the swirling patterns there.
"The humans betray the bond, Merlon. They do not keep the ways."
"The simple people do," her favorite pointed out, lounging on the soft grass beside her. Butterflies danced on his outstretched hand to the sound of elfin pipes.
"But the Lord does not. The Lord of Elphindale sends men to cut our trees while he himself stays out of reach."
"He will die. They always do."
"The next Lord is a child still and was born out-of-dale. We said no words over his cradle. His mother keeps him away."
The beautiful male stirred, and at a flick of his fingers the insects fluttered away. He raised his hand and the globe floated down close to his eyes. "Ah." He tilted his head to consider the images. "Do the Elphinsons no longer feel the power of the dale? By rights they should be tied to it, even as we are to our places."
"No, for then they could not serve us in the world where we cannot go." The Lady drew the globe back up to her eyes. "But they must be bound to us. They mussst be bound."
At her tone, the Faery Court stilled. Blossom-small or human-size, cobweb-fine or gnarled, the Folk left off play and turned to watch their queen. Trees trembled and nearby animals quivered in their lairs.
"How long," she asked, "has it been sssince faery blood was joined with that of the Lord of Elphindale?"
"Perhaps hundreds of their years."
"That is many generationsss to humanssss, is it not?"
"Yes, Great Lady." He faced her now on his knees, as wary as the rest.
She drew a finger down his cheek. "Dear Merlon. How fortunate that you rather like them. It is time for us to mix blood with the Elphinsonssss again."
When he made no response, she rapped him with the sharp point of her nail. "Smile. Or I will think you reluctant to bind humans to our will."
"I-" He hissed as her nail pierced his skin.
"You quessssstion my wisdom?"
"No, Great Lady." Blood welled around the nail still in his flesh and began slowly to trickle down his cheek. "But the Lord of Elphindale already has an heir. To kill the boy would be…"
"Ssssanctioned if necessary."
Silver eyes met silver eyes. "The bond says that no one of the lord's family will ever die young, in childbed, or in pain."
"He is cutting the treessss. He has broken the bond."
He raised a hand toward her. "Be merciful, Great Lady. He is a child."
"Your sympathy for humans…." Slowly, she took her hand from her favorite's face and touched his skin to heal him. Slowly she smiled, teeth small, white, and slightly pointed. "Then save him, Merlon. I will bring this child back to Elphindale. You must create his faery bride."
Chapter One
Elphinson Hall, Derbyshire, September, 1794.
Amelia Forsythe read the black-edged letter in a churning mess of emotions.
She should be shocked and grief-stricken by the untimely death of her cousin, Lady Elphinson, but her principal emotion was fear. Selfish fear that she might have to leave the place that had become her home.
She wandered over to one of the long windows to look over the formal gardens. Beyond the fertile wooded valley rose the magnificent craggy Peaks. The Peak District was one of the acknowledged beauty spots of England, but it wasn't only the picturesque view that made it precious to her.
It was security.
Here in Elphindale she never had to fret about scraping together the rent, or secreting enough money to buy food. She never shivered in the winter for lack of a fire, or hobbled because the soles of her shoes had worn through.
For ten years of marriage she had struggled, burdened by a pride that would not tell anyone the predicament created by her husband's gaming. She had even taken in mending to pay for simple necessities. Then, one blessed day, she had encountered her cousin Jane on a London street. They met from time to time, but always when Amelia had had chance to put on a good appearance. That day, she had not.
"My dear," said Jane, airily kissing her cheek. "How long it has been." Her sharp eyes skimmed over Amelia. "You look... tired."
Amelia knew she looked dreadful, pale with hunger, yet red-nosed with the cold she could not seem to shake. Her gloves were thin and her inadequate cloak was frayed at the hem. She tried desperately to think of something to say, but a weary despair silenced her. She and Grayson were virtually penniless, and though he happily scrounged meals from friends she could not bring herself to do that.
Jane, cozily swathed in furs and with a handsome carriage nearby, linked arms and drew her down the street as they talked. "I don't think London agrees with you, Cousin."
Amelia could not dispute it.
Jane chattered on about family and fashion for a while as they strolled up and down, but then she said, "Sir Thomas has a home in Derbyshire, you know. Quite isolated, I'm afraid. We hardly ever go there. In fact," she said in a lowered voice, "he positively hates the place, even though it's his ancestral home. For which I can only be grateful. Mountains!" she declared with a shudder. "Mists!"