Once Upon a Time
By
Marylyle Rogers
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Happily Ever After
Prologue
Chapter 1
OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR MARYLYLE ROGERS
"Marylyle Rogers not only writes about magic but she creates it with one of the most beautiful historical romantic fantasies ever printed."
—Affaire de Coeur on Chanting the Storm
"Marylyle Rogers transports us to the age of magic and mystery, weaving a wondrous aura of mystical enchantment."
—Romantic Times
"Marvelous Marylyle Rogers again proves that she is one of the top historical romance writers of the nineties."
—The Paperback Forum
"A superb writer with an incredibly vivid imagination."
—Affaire de Coeur
ONCE UPON A TIME
Copyright © 1995 by Marylyle Rogers.
ISBN: 0-312-95758-0
Chapter 1
Ireland, 1851
" 'Tis sorry you'll be if you provoke the elvenfolk's dubious mercies by venturing into their fairy ring." Gentle words were accompanied by a bright twinkle in blue eyes which belied the speaker's advanced years. "Amn't I right, ladies?" As Daffy glanced expectantly about her circle of friends, sunshine amazingly bright for so early in spring drifted through dainty curtains to make her thick white hair seem a halo.
Amy paused in the parlor's doorway while a chorus of voices echoed agreement with Great-aunt Daffy's repeated warning. Smiling fondly, she nodded at her still seated companions, octogenarians all. Though barely more than a quarter their age, she felt like an indulgent mother humoring the fantasies of these elderly women gathered for a luncheon honoring her visit's final day.
Having changed into an older gown both more appropriate for the walk ahead and more comfortable, save for a too tight bodice, Amy was prepared to set off on a small journey to grant her beloved hostess's wish. She hesitated a moment longer, filled with the regret of knowing it would be a long time, if ever, before she again saw most amongst this delightful company. They were all dears, though each as "eccentric" as her great-aunt.
Amy turned to go, grimacing against the half-truth in that description of Great-aunt Daffy. She recognized what few others took the time to see— Daffy merely donned the guise of elderly eccentric to shield amazingly sharp wits from curious eyes. Knowing that, Amy questioned the seeming earnestness of repeated warnings always accompanied by a barely restrained grin.
Holding her packet of drawing supplies near, Amy slipped from the cozy stone house cradled amidst a glade of trees arrayed in their first green sprouts, harbingers of thick foliage to come. She made her way around to the cottage's back and passed through a well-kept garden where various herbs, crocuses and hyacinths were just breaking through rich, dark loam.
From the garden's back Amy began ascending a gentle hill. At its crest an ancient oak towered while a glorious band of flowers grew in a wide circle around the gnarled trunk. Each bloom seemed at its peak of fragrant beauty despite the earliness of the season. It was this, Amy decided, that might lead the gullible to believe these flowers to be cultivated by magic and truly a fairy ring. But, Amy reassured herself, that foolish I am not.
"Now, you mind, no' a soul in right senses would step into a fairy ring."
Amy mimicked an Irish brogue to softly repeat another elderly woman's twittered warning. She was fond of them all but amused that they apparently accepted as fact the superstitions she'd thought only naive children could believe.
It was fortunate, Amy told herself while stepping over the flowers, that she didn't share her luncheon companions' illusions. She moved across a carpet of grass to stand beside the oak's broad trunk. From there she took in an enchanting vision which confirmed her suspicion that this taboo position afforded not merely the only available shade but the best view of her subject.
Crowning the next green hill was the picturesque scene of a crumbling castle, romantic ruins half-covered by a curtain of ivy. From near the first day of her visit Amy had repeatedly promised to sketch it as a farewell gift for Great-aunt Daffy. And this was her last opportunity as tomorrow she must leave, reluctantly, for London and the dreaded opening of the Season.
London, the Season… and Orville. With the last of these three unpleasant thoughts in Amy's mind rose a vivid image of the portly, self-important man her parents had chosen as an appropriate husband for her, no matter that he was nearer their age than hers.
Lord Farley Danton, Viscount of Wyfirth, and Lady Cornelia (even in private thoughts Amy called her parents by the titles they so proudly bore) had seen the futures of three older children adequately settled and were anxious to have done with the same chore for her. Never mind that Amy might have ideas on that very personal subject herself. Least of all would they understand that, given the choice, she'd prefer to follow Great-aunt Daffy's initial path into honorable spinsterhood. Anything rather than become a subservient wife shackled to the pompous Orville. Truth be known, she'd rather forsake the Queen's church to enter a Catholic nunnery. Well… almost…
An invisible cloud of despair darkened Amy's dove gray eyes to charcoal. She was trapped! Trapped and no getting around it. Once back in London—no matter how hard she fought and fight she would—it would be impossible to avoid Orville. Oh, depressing thought!
Frustrated and annoyed by the inevitability of that bleak prospect, Amy abruptly sank to the ground. That action, so lacking in her usual grace, gave reason to be thankful for the hard ground's thick padding of grasses—the dead brown from the past season as well as the fresh blades of the new.
After two decades of training by Beattie, first as her young nanny and now lady's maid, Amy's conscience protested the loosing of stormy responses usually kept locked safely inside. She decorously spread pale rose skirts in an arc before adjusting the drawing pad across her lap. It was a feeble attempt to atone for the further example of her unfortunate and unfeminine temper. Unfortunate not only because Society expected its debutantes to be demure but because it threatened her goal for logic in all things.
The chill in gray eyes melted while gazing across a verdant valley dotted with sheep to the ruins of what must once have been a glorious castle. Amy fervently wished herself able to ignore the parental summons and linger in this peaceful countryside.
During her fortnight's stay she ought to have sought the advice of her favorite relative. After all, Great-aunt Daffy had maintained her single status until well into her middle years. And then, despite either the consternation roused amongst the family or the social scandal, she'd chosen her own spouse—an impoverished Irishman of low birth. More shocking still, Daffy had happily moved to her "vulgar" groom's humble home on this disdained isle. To further confound gossiping snoops, after being widowed Daffy had traveled widely and openly pursued a great many adventures.
In one corner of her mind, Amy guiltily ignored her own avowed wish for cool reasoning and fervently yearned for even a small measure of Daffy's blessed independence, a chance to experience even one of her escapades.
Admiration for Daffy's audaciousness put an impish smile on Amy's lips as she began sketching t
he castle's outline. While gracefully layering many short, soft lines, she wished Great-uncle Patrick hadn't died before her own birth. From what she'd learned of the good-humored man, Amy suspected that—unlike other family members—she would have approved. Amy was amused by the dismay her snobbish relatives suffered in knowing that the end result of Daffy's unconventional life was a wealth far outstripping their own.
Amy held her drawing at arm's length, glancing between it and the actual scene. Then settling the pad again amidst bright skirts spread over grass like a cheery flower, she adjusted several lines while musing over the actions of Great-great grandfather Smythers which had set the scene for family rivalry. He had amassed a fortune by quietly investing throughout the expanding British Empire. On his death it had been equally divided amongst his offspring. All of his children, save Daphenia, were burdened with both growing families and overweening pride demanding they be seen to maintain rich lifestyles. Thus forced by circumstances, they'd steadily nibbled into their capital while Daffy, with little reason to touch the principal of her fortune, had grown only richer. For Daffy's relatives, including Amy, the carefully hidden prospect of quiet poverty loomed.
With rueful distaste Amy had watched her cousins and, sadly, even her siblings court Daffy's good graces in too obvious anxiety to benefit from her will. Though she couldn't help but love her family, Amy was shamed by their foolish desire to live an idle life off the wealth of someone they privately labeled "Daft Daffy." In Amy's opinion, it was Great-aunt Daffy's "eccentric" habits, her unique spirit that made her so special and a favorite relation. For Amy not even the prospect of severely reduced circumstances—carefully concealed by nervous parents—could drive her into so misusing Daffy. That low she refused to stoop!
Realizing that dark thoughts threatened to undo the light touch she sought in her drawings and mar the finished sketch, Amy laid her pencils aside. Alone on a hilltop it was safe to release the uncomfortably prim restraints taming dark hair. She threaded slim fingers through the heavy mass before leaning back against the dubious comfort of the oak's massive trunk. Calm. That's what she needed. Calm thoughts on pleasant subjects. Although the sun was riding low, Amy assured herself there was time enough to spare a few minutes for taking pleasure in the verdant peace of her surroundings.
Consciously relaxing, Amy purposefully turned her mind to the innocent faces of her nephews and nieces… children who might rationally accept the illogic of fairy rings and magical stories. At their age she, too, had reveled in make-believe dreams. Indeed, she still enjoyed sharing her own favorites with them.
A gentle breeze rustled through leaves above and carried the sweet fragrance of encircling flowers to Amy. As thick lashes drifted to her cheeks she slipped into dreams with the opening to all fairy tales floating through her mind: "Once upon a time…"
"… And after the evil queen cast her dark spell, Snow White lay upon a flower shrouded bier until a handsome, golden prince knelt at her side. Across her lips he brushed the thrilling kiss of life…"
Against the sensation nudging her from a safe haven of dreams, Amy firmly squeezed her eyes tight even while slowly lifting fingertips to press against her own mouth. The dream had become too real. Amy could almost swear she'd actually been kissed…
Although a conscience trained to modesty urged outrage for the liberty taken, it was regret that filled Amy—regret and irritation for being forced from the misty world of fantasy and dropped from sweet slumber into rude wakefulness. Nibbling a full lower lip to squash foolish thoughts, she forced sleep-heavy lashes to lift.
"Beauty awakes."
"I'm not a beauty," Amy instinctively answered the deep voice, despite the jumbled rush of strange emotions assailing her. She was still dreaming. She must be! What else could it be when the stunning, golden-haired prince yet knelt at her side?
"You think to jest with me?" The kneeling man smiled wryly while at the same time visually tracing the delicate oval of her face from wide-spaced eyes down dainty nose to the dusky rose of a tempting mouth. "But I plainly behold a lovely maiden with hair like a midnight sky and a gaze filled with morning's gentle mists. Aye, 'tis a beauty I see."
The mere sound of this husky voice sent an unaccountable shiver through Amy. And yet while remarkable emerald eyes took her measure she studied the man speaking in the cadence of a distant past. Amy's first thought was that the devastating masculine beauty of his face and powerful form were too perfect for him to be anything but a fantasy hero. Yet it couldn't be true! Still, even what he wore seemed to support the unbelievable as fact. He was dressed in the styles of an equally ancient time with hose the shade of a forest covering muscular legs while golden threads were woven into the luminous fabric of the pale green tunic clinging to his broad shoulders.
Amy blinked rapidly, expecting—hoping or was it fearing—that the breathtakingly vivid vision would disappear. It didn't and her confusion deepened. She would swear herself wide-awake. And for proof there was a painful tug on dark strands caught in rough bark as she pulled away from the tree trunk to sit fully upright. But if this wasn't a dream, then for some nonsensical reason he was out here in the hinterlands dressed as if for an elaborate costume ball… as a fairy-tale prince? Amy didn't realize she'd spoken the last few words aloud until he answered.
"Prince?" Though he feigned affront, amusement glittered in his eyes. "Nay, a prince I am not."
Amy fought against a much despised but all too common hot flood of embarrassment by eyeing him suspiciously while boldly demanding, "Then what are you? And where did you come from?"
"I am Comlan—" Grinning with what even the sheltered Amy recognized as a wicked sensuality, he made an elegant bow to the human damsel more courageous than most he'd met. "King of the Tuatha De Danann."
Inherent pride textured his deep voice but it was the potent smile accompanying this formal answer that threatened to halt the beat of Amy's heart with its near physical impact.
Slight frown puckering delicate brows, Amy struggled to restore composure and make sense of his claim. Tuatha De Danann? Surely here was proof that this truly was a dream. She'd learned enough from tales told by Great-aunt Daffy and her friends to know that Tuatha De Danann was the legendary name of folk inhabiting the Faerie Realm. And she was certain that the elderly ladies' talk was responsible for inspiring this dream. Yes, a dream—nice but definitely a dream.
"As for where I came from," Comlan added once a relieved smile curled the maid's lips, "my home lies there." He waved toward the next hill.
Amy's glance followed his motion to discover the ruins of her drawing replaced by a castle more splendid than any her admittedly active imagination could've conjured. Its towers soared heavenward and even during these daylight hours glowed with the white brilliance of moonlight.
"But I don't believe in the Faerie Realm… or its inhabitants," Amy boldly announced, as much to convince herself as him.
Comlan's laughter rumbled out from the hilltop to fill the valley between magical ring of flowers and luminous castle. Humans were a foolish lot who, in the main, were fearful and greedy. Was this dark maid an exception?
"Then how do you explain me?" With the mercurial mood shifts common to beings of his nature, Comlan's eyes abruptly snapped with quick temper. "Or this…" He waved his arm and a shimmering mist appeared to hover above lush grass for long moments before resolving into a powerful white stallion.
"You're a dream," Amy flatly stated, squinting against the amazing sight of a magnificent beast that looked as real as the man. And when the powerful figure swung up onto the horse's broad back, she told herself to remember that he was merely a fantasy.
From atop the white horse, Comlan grinned mockingly at the girl plainly struggling to sufficiently bolster her courage to meet him eye to eye. Her bravery was a rare and valued trait. And yet it was her claimed disbelief that piqued his attention as little had in a very long time. Apparently she didn't realize that if truly an unbeliever, she wouldn't be able to se
e him—not in this, his natural guise.
Amy took exception to his wry amusement, plainly at her expense. "Soon I'll wake up." She fervently hoped he couldn't hear the uncertainty behind her bold statement. "Then—poof—you'll be gone."
"Ah, but till that moment arrives, won't you come with me to my castle?" Comlan leaned down to gallantly extend his hand, offering the dark maid his aid in standing. "Come, enjoy the merry company of my subjects while we sing and dance to enchanting melodies."
Amy froze, suspiciously gazing at his incredible home. It was a daft suggestion and required a decision anything but logical. And for someone who'd claimed a determination to pursue the logical processes of scientific thinking, it was impossible.
"Come." Comlan's potent smile had rarely failed to win whatever he sought, and he was confident it would be enough to melt this human damsel's resistance. "There's a feast of savory delicacies and the finest ambrosia to drink."
For several seemingly endless minutes Amy silently studied this dangerously attractive fantasy hero obviously a figment of her imagination. To her chagrin he, too, remained motionless. His only visible response was the deepening glitter of amusement in the depths of emerald eyes and the open invitation in his waiting hand.
Possessing confidence more than equal to this human maid's visual assault, Comlan permitted his solemn companion to search beneath striking good looks until she recognized an aura of power far beyond his undeniable physical strength or noble position.
Cool logic fought a brave battle with the doubtless despicable wish to yield to the mesmerizing figure reaching for her. But then, Amy self-righteously told herself, this was her chance to experience what she'd so recently claimed to desire—a single page from the book of Daffy's daring adventures. And as a dream, what harm could it cause?
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