by Shana Ab
“Am I your prisoner, du Morgan?” Lauren asked him, teasing.
Ari smiled at her, open and glad.“No, beloved. I believe I am yours.”
And he began the kiss that would prove to her his words, that she alone held his body, his heart, and anything at all about him that might be of virtue. He began his worship of her with all the gratitude in his soul that ever lived—and all the grace and goodness in the world wrapped securely in his arms.
UTHOR'S OTE
Some readers may have noticed and bemoaned the lack of dialect written into the English dialogue of the Scots in Intimate Enemies. I decided to forgo such idioms as “ye” for “you,”“mon” for “man,”“canna” for “cannot,” etc., for the very simple reason that I found it distracting to have Lauren speak so differently from Arion.
Once, a long, long time ago—okay, college—I played a Polish character in a Polish play with a Polish setting that had been translated into English. The director had instructed the cast to speak our lines with Polish accents. Everything went as imagined, all of us tripping over our tongues in truly ghastly accents that sounded nothing like they should have, until finally another faculty member asked bluntly,“Why should they speak with Polish accents? Would the Poles be speaking Shakespeare in Polish with English accents?”
Why would Lauren have a Scots accent in her English? Technically, she would not have been speaking English at all, but rather a regional dialect of Gaelic. Even Arion would have spoken no language you or I would readily recognize, but rather a combination of medieval Norman French with a bit of Saxon thrown in.
Obviously, it would not do to have my two main characters not understand a word the other was saying.
So forgive me, please, for my leap into the dramatic, and the smoothing over of the linguistic knots that would have actually occurred between these two people.
And while I'm still immersed in the spirit of honesty, I would like to note that although the distillate uisge beatha or aqua vitae—the “water of life”—was a cherished part of the medieval Scottish world, the term whiskey would have been unfamiliar in the time of Lauren and Arion. Nevertheless, it fit the story so nicely that I could not let it go.
I hope you enjoyed the romance of Lauren and Arion, and that your days and nights will be filled with a love that is even more splendid than theirs.
—S. A.
BOUT THE UTHOR
SHANA ABÉ lives in Southern California with her husband, Darren, and two house rabbits. Yes, the rabbits really do live in the house. Shana can be reached through her website at:
www.tlt.com/authors/sabe.htm
Or write to her at:
Shana Abé
PMB 180
2060–D Avenida de los Arboles
Thousand Oaks, CA
91362–1361
Don't miss Shana Abé's The Secret Swanavailable wherever Bantam Books are sold
Read on for a preview of this hauntingly beautiful love story …
Prologue
SAPEHE MANOR, 1349
HE LATCH TO THE GATE CAME off in his hand.
Tristan stared down at it in some surprise, speckles of rust dotting his skin like dried blood. The soldered seam meant to hold it in place had corroded completely through; he was damned lucky he hadn't cut himself on any of the flaking metal. No doubt the result of the sea air in this godforsaken place.
He remembered now. Nothing lasted here.
Carefully Tristan dropped the ruined latch to the gravel beside him.
The gate itself did not appear much more promising. One half of the barred grill hung at a drunken tilt against the other, offering paltry defense against anyone who actually wished to enter the estate.
It suddenly made him want to laugh. Who would truly want to come here, after all? Safere was the outermost edge of the world—far, far past any prayer of civilization. Surely only the banished or the insane dwelled here.
The thought was so particularly apt that he did laugh now, low and mirthless, but the wind only snatched it away from him. It pushed up off the ocean nearby, a steady tearing at his hair, his skin, drying his eyes to grit. On the journey here Tristan had found himself constantly squinting against it to perceive the land around him, as if that might clarify matters. It had not.
He cupped a hand to his mouth and called out a greeting past the iron bars. It faded off against the bare walls of the buildings beyond. No one responded.
Perhaps there was no one here, after all. Perhaps Sa-fere was as deserted as it appeared to be. He could not fathom why anyone would want to stay here, anyway.
If ever a land was rocky and formidable, it was this place. Whichever of his esteemed ancestors had claimed this seaside territory obviously had not been bothered by the lack of greenery. Perched on its lonely outcrop of rock overlooking the ocean, Safere seemed better suited for a prison than a stronghold: barren, remote, breath-takingly desolate. The water was a steady roar against the cliffs below. The wind never ceased.
He fancied he could hear words in it now—a thin, berating wail that wrapped around him, relentless.
She's gone … they're all gone … shame … shame …
He gave the gate a vicious kick. The broken half of it shuddered in place. The other half did not move at all.
Tristan did not like Safere—he never had. Even now, in the peak of summer, vegetation was rare, and trees rarer still. The farther he had traveled on his ride to it, the less and less hospitable the land became. Dirt paths, endless and winding. Pale tufts of grass struggling for life. Faraway birds, tangling into fantastic shapes amid the blue of the sky, dark against white clouds….
But mostly there were rocks. White rocks, golden rocks, even ones tinted pink, which he decided were his favorite. The pink ones did something with the light, a trick of dusk and dawn, capturing the color to create a glow, suffusing the very air around them with warmth. Yes, the pink ones were—
Tristan caught himself with a mental shake, turning back to the problem of the gate.
He might be able to squeeze through the bottom of it. The gap from the angle of the disjointed half was severe enough that he could make it, with a good bit of crawling. He would have to leave his horse behind.
Wonderful. The Earl of Haverlocke crawling back to his wife. What a pretty sight that would be. And nothing less than he deserved.
It was the reproving wind, perhaps, that made Tristan straighten, glancing around him again. Many might laugh at the sight of him on his hands and knees amid dirt and gravel, but it wasn't going to be the ghosts of this place. There had to be another way in. He thought he remembered a garden gate somewhere….
He took the reins of the gelded brown rounsey and began to walk around the walls that enclosed the estate. From here he could see the top portion of the manor, stone and wood, bleached with sunlight. No banner flew to welcome him home. In fact, he couldn't even see the staff for it. The edges of the roof dipped and curved in places it was not supposed to; a few of those shadows might have been gaps in the beams. If the main house was as dismally neglected as the gate had been, he supposed he might be fortunate to find shelter at all tonight.
On the far side of the stronghold the salted rock wall came perilously close to the edge of the cliff, eroded away under the constant assault of the elements. He kept the reins of his horse firmly grasped in one hand, allowing the other to slide along the rough stones of the wall—a thin illusion of security. It would not help if either of them stumbled, but the feel of something solid beneath his palm gave him some comfort.
The gelding snorted and tossed his head against the wind. Tristan pulled him on.
Nothing. No garden gate—only this long, unbroken expanse of wall, stretching on and on. How ridiculous to imagine there might have been another gate. He must have been thinking of one of the other estates. Merllyf, perhaps. Or Layton. They were all mixed-up in his head now, indistinguishable. Mayhap none of them had a garden, or a gate. Another fantasy, whirled up out of nothingness.<
br />
The wretched portal of the entrance loomed before him once again. Full circle, Tristan thought, and for some reason the phrase stuck in his head.
With a sigh he approached it, releasing the reins, grasping the rusted metal of the broken half and lifting with all his might. He was rewarded with a hideous squealing sound, the hinges protesting this rough handling. After a long while and a great deal of sweating effort, the gap had widened enough to fit through without crawling.
He dropped the gate, panting, and absently wiped his hands down the front of his tunic. Rust left smudges of darkness against the gray of it. He had no gloves.
Tristan entered his estate.
Once inside the walls the howling of the wind was drastically reduced, a sudden respite that rang in his ears, close to pain.
No one came to greet him. There was only more dirt before him, and buildings and sky.
He took a deep breath, then called out again—and again he gained no response beyond the mournful cry of the wind.
Shame, shame …
An ungentle push from behind reminded him of his horse. The gelding had crossed the entrance after him and now stood impatiently, tossing his head once more.
Yes. Tristan had stolen a mount—he should not have forgotten that. The horse would be hungry. He must see about feeding him. The stables must still be here somewhere.
Safere was fairly sizable, for an enclosed estate. The manor house took up most of it, along with a modest, neat garden—no gate—he could see growing along one of the walls. Here at last were living plants, herbs and vegetables, even a scattering of flowers near the back, a decent effort against the thin soil. He supposed it was some sign of hope that there might be more than just ghosts to this place.
Thankfully, he did not have to remember where the stable was to find it. It was the only other structure of any significance, and at first glance appeared just as abandoned as everything else. He found a reasonably clean stall and led the rounsey into it, then had to stop and think about what he must do next.
Hay. Water. Oats, if he could find them.
A rustling sound came from nearby. The delicate head of a bay topped the door of the stall opposite, eyeing him suspiciously.
When he was done with his own horse, Tristan got a closer look at the other one. It was a mare, a sweetly formed thing, really, with clean lines and a shining flank. One more hopeful sign.
He left the animals examining each other with trembling hostility, walking back out into the bright sunshine of the day.
“Amiranth?”
No one answered him. There was no one here at all. Not a serf, not a servant. Certainly not her. He had come to the end of the world and found it just as he had left it all, so long ago—forgotten.
A small noise in the distance caught his attention. Tristan swung around, startled. It might have come from the depths of the manor. Aye. He moved toward it.
The interior of this place was darker than he recalled, cool and musty. A dim hallway of stone and wood paneling stretched out before him, closed doors on both sides. He had to pause to allow his eyes to adjust, until the shadows lightened from black to soft charcoal. The scent of something that might have been beeswax lingered faintly in the air. But the only sound to be heard now was his own breathing, and the occasional creaking of the beams of wood above him.
Tristan walked deeper inside.
One by one he opened the doors, taking care to throw frequent looks over his shoulder—in case they came, creeping close behind him; in case they had followed and were here as well, ready to drag him back to hell … he would die first. He would slay them all—
But there was no one behind him. All he found, in fact, in this soulless place were deserted chambers and scattered furniture covered in a fine layer of dust. Ashes in the fireplaces, long cold. Windows encrusted with dirt, uncleaned. Every single thing spoke of abandonment.
In one room he discovered an elegant little tableau set up: a pair of chairs brought close around a low table of polished wood, the empty hearth just beyond. The edges of a wooden screen closed off a corner of it, creating intimacy. A bit of embroidery lay askew across the seat of the chair closest to him, needle and thread placed neatly on top, as if the seamstress meant to return at any moment.
Tristan picked up the scrap of cloth—a dreamlike scene of the night sky and stars, a swan on a moonlit lake—then shook it. Dust erupted around him in a cloud, clogging his senses. He gave a rough cough, tossing the lot of it back to the chair.
The needle dropped from the side and swung gently back and forth, bright silver suspended by a sapphire thread.
Had his wife begun this piece? What would have caused her to discard it so nearly completed, forsaken to the mustiness of this room?
He felt a chill and shook it off, continuing his exploration.
She would be here. She would be.
There was food in the buttery. That had to be good. Not much, granted: some bread and cheese, flour, roots, dried fruits and herbs—from the garden, he would guess. Certainly not enough to feed all the people that should be dwelling here … but enough for a few people, for a while.
Again came that elusive noise, outside now, just past the kitchen door. But when he walked back into the sunshine, there was nothing there—only the dirt of before, an empty sky, the mocking wind. Tristan closed his eyes and let out his breath, setting his teeth.
Alone, alone again. She was not here, no one was. Perhaps she never had been. Perhaps he was not even married at all—it had all been just another dream of his, a delusion conjured up by his mind: that girl, her face, the soft touch of her hand—
No. It had to have happened. It had to have been real. If she was not here she would be somewhere else. He would find her. It didn't have to be this place, empty Safere….
But when Tristan rounded the next corner, he discovered that he had been mistaken; Safere was not so empty after all. At the foot of a new garden there was a statue of a marble girl seated upon a marble bench, posed to stare out thoughtfully at the few trees and bushes pressed up against the outer wall.
As first he didn't understand what he was seeing. A marble girl on a marble bench … but she wore a black gown that rippled in the breeze. Why had they clothed a statue? Why was her hair so golden?
The marble girl turned her face and gazed back at him, still thoughtful.
Tristan Geraint, Earl of Haverlocke, stopped in sheer surprise.
The woman—not a girl and not marble, but flesh— quickly stood, taking a step away.
“No—wait.” Tristan held out his hands, his palms streaked with rust.“I won't harm you.” He scanned the area around them, seeing nothing but more of the garden, the pale stone walls beyond that. She was the only sign of life, this figure of gold and white and black.
“Amiranth?” he asked her, but he knew it was not she.
This woman's hair was darker than he remembered his wife's to be, more of a honeyed blonde than the silvery curls that young girl had had. She wore it loose and free, strange for a grown woman—he had not been gone that long, to think that a noblewoman would reveal her hair so openly—but Tristan did not regret the sight of it, not when it shimmered in the sunlight as it did, shades of amber and burnished gold, richly layered.
She had not run away, but her hands had come up to shield her eyes from the bright sun; he saw only full lips stained red, like the sunset, and a sweetly curved chin. Long, elegant neck. The tail-end of the wind slipped over the wall, pressing back the shadowed black of her gown, revealing a slender shape in teasing glimpses.
If God had come and placed a desert flower in the midst of this vast emptiness, this woman could not look more out of place than she did.
It was not she. It could not be.
But he said again anyway,“Amiranth St. Cl—Geraint?”
Certainly it was not she. There was no reason to feel disappointment when the woman slowly shook her head in denial, allowing the sunlight to send sparks weaving thr
ough her hair.
This would be her servant, then. A handmaiden, perhaps.
“Where is she?” Tristan asked, taking another step forward. The woman did not back away this time, but to reassure her he added in a calm voice, “I am her husband. You may direct me to her.”
The handmaiden lowered her hands, not even blinking against the sun. An odd pang of regret ran through him as he took in her face. She was lovely and familiar. He might have seen her at the wedding, all those years ago—
“Where is she?” he asked again, motionless. He would not give in to the urge to come closer to her.
Her head bowed; a slight frown marred her forehead. He watched as one of her hands lifted, very pale against the black sleeve of her gown, her finger pointing into the garden.
Tristan turned, searching past the trees. There was no one else there. Was she jesting? Did she think to test him somehow?
When he glanced back at her she was still pointing mutely to the garden, her stare now direct to his, unflinching. With her golden hair streaming past her shoulders, she was as stern and solemn as any avenging angel.
He felt a strange sense of helplessness come over him. This was it, then. This was what he deserved, after all.
Tristan looked again at the garden.
There it was. A simple plaque amid the plants— actually just a flat rock of that pink shade he had favored, a few words carved roughly into the stone.
Her name had been written clumsily. No doubt it had not been easy chiseling the marker.
INTIMATE ENEMIES
A Bantam Book / June 2000
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