FOREVER ENCHANTED

  FOREVER ENCHANTED

  By

  Maggie Shayne

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "I TRIED TO LEAVE YOU, PRINCESS, BUT YOU WOULDN'T ALLOW IT."

  "Nonsense!"

  "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."

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

  "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.

  And how she burned for him.

  Other Avon Contemporary Romances by

  Maggie Shayne

  Fairytale

  AVON BOOKS NEW YORK

  FOREVER ENCHANTED

  MAGGIE SHAYNE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of The Hearst Corporation

  1350 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1997 by Margaret Benson

  Inside cover author photo by Karen Bergamo

  Published by arrangement with the author

  Visit our website at http://AvonBooks.com

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96-97087

  ISBN: 0-380-78746-6

  First Avon Books Printing: April 1997

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Chapter One

  Tristan of Shara, master of all he surveyed, drew his mount to a halt and watched the one woman who could take it all away from him, fighting for her life.

  The three men who'd cornered her in the forest were common garbage. Criminals who didn't give a damn who ruled the realm, so long as they could roam free. He knew their type. This trio happened to be Albinon, but their kind existed in every race. They were the selfish ones who lived without a conscience or a single moral fiber. They took what they wanted without remorse. And he had a fair idea what they wanted from Bridin, could guess it by the gleam in their pink eyes.

  He watched as Bridin was backed up against a rough granite wall while the three closed in around her. She held her chin high, meeting their eyes with a defiant stare and a toss of her honey blond tresses. The pendant she wore caught the moonlight and glinted. The pendant that would protect her from Tristan. It would do her little good against those three. Its fairy spell was meant for him, and his kin, and any he sent to do his bidding. And only for them.

  She was Tristan's sworn enemy. She was the one obstacle to his dream of a peaceful reign, a kingdom no longer divided, a faithful following. The one thing he'd wanted all his life. The thing he now held in his hands, though his grasp, he knew, was tentative. Because of her.

  He should turn the black stallion around right now, and let them have her. They'd kill her when they'd finished with her. There was no doubt of that.

  His horse, Moonshadow, stomped a forefoot and tossed his head, shaking his wild mane in excitement.

  Tristan dug his heels into the animal's sides and drew his sword. It hissed against its sheath as he pulled it free, and the men froze where they stood. Bridin's gaze lifted, met his, held it. The moonlight bathed her face and shone its reflection in her eyes, transforming them into blue flames.

  He couldn't look away. This was the first time he'd seen her since she'd escaped him a month ago. And for the briefest of moments he had the most ridiculous feeling that he'd missed her. His heart leapt in his chest at the sight of her, as if he were glad to see her again. Foolish, of course. He shook the odd notion away and broke eye contact with an effort. Looking into the eyes of a fairy princess was too dangerous, and he wasn't foolish enough to linger in the fiery wells of her eyes. It was not the first time she'd tried to enchant him that way. Pity she still hadn't realized his will was far too strong.

  Instead of proving it by holding her fairy eyes with his, he leveled his gaze as well as his sword on the nearest ruffian, easing Moonshadow forward until the tip of the blade touched the man's chest.

  "We seen 'er first," the Albinon blustered, backing up a step and scanning Tristan head to toe as if taking his measure.

  "Do you know," Tristan asked slowly, "to whom you speak?"

  The man's pink eyes narrowed in his pale-skinned, utterly hairless face. "Don't know, don't care," he said, and then he spat on the ground. "Only know there's three of us, against one of you. You'd best be on your way."

  Moonshadow was well trained, and took another step forward at the merest nudge of Tristan's knees; just enough to keep Tristan's blade in contact with the man's chest.

  "You ought to kneel," Tristan said, twisting the blade against the man's ragged shirt, "when approached by your prince."

  The man blinked and stared up at Tristan, eyes widening. Tristan slanted a glance at Bridin, but she only glared at him, her eyes sparkling with defiance.

  From the corner of his eyes, Tristan saw the man's two companions fall to their knees at once, groveling in the rich black soil. Very slowly, this one, their apparent leader, genuflected as well.

  But Tristan's gaze never left Bridin's. "Well?" he asked her.

  She stepped forward, her jaw tight. No flowing gowns for the former heir to the throne of Rush, he noted. No, she wore garments more suited to life in the forest where she hid out with her band of rebels. Tight-fitting leggings and a tunic of leafy green, with a belt at her small waist and a scabbard at her side. An empty scabbard. Her knee-high boots were of soft brown suede. She moved forward to stand at his horse's side. A warm breeze lifted her golden hair and sent a strand blowing across her face. Fists anchored on her hips, feet set apart, she gazed up at him like a warrior goddess.

  "I'll never kneel to you," she seethed, eyes flashing. Then she turned to the closest of the bowing criminals, planted a booted foot against his backside, and gave him a shove. He landed on his face in the dirt. "Nor should you! Fools! Don't you know me? I'm Bridin of the Fay, daughter of Queen Maire, and your rightful ruler!"

  "Gods of Rush have mercy," the toppled man muttered as he slowly righted himself, back- handing dirt from his mouth. He got to his feet, looking from Bridin to Tristan and back again as he retreated. "We're no part of this fight," he said, his voice dropping to a fear-filled whisper. "Have at it, kill each other if you will, but leave us out of it!" Whirling, he raced away into the sheltering trees.

  As Tristan sat silently upon Moonshadow, his gaze riveted to
Bridin's, the other two did as their companion and scattered away. He didn't try to stop them. He didn't care where they went or what they did. They represented no challenge. Killing them would have been like picking off songbirds with a slingshot. Too easy to be sporting.

  Bridin, on the other hand, was a worthy opponent. So much so, it was going to be almost sad to see her conquered in the end.

  "So," he said softly, caught in the trap of her blue eyes like a fly in a spider's web, and hating his own inability to look away. "You did make your way back here."

  "No thanks to you."

  He didn't dismount. It would have done little good anyway. As long as she wore the pendant, he couldn't touch her. Couldn't harm her. And she knew it.

  All the same, she edged sideways and bent to retrieve her gleaming sword from the ground where it lay. She didn't sheathe it, he noticed. And then he frowned, because as she bent, her pewter fairy pendants swung free, and he saw that she wore two of them now. But the other had belonged to her twin.

  "Your sister?" he asked automatically.

  "Very good, Tristan." Straightening, she wiped the gleaming blade free of dirt with the edge of her tunic. "That note of concern in your voice sounds almost genuine." She smoothed her long hair away from her face, holding the sword in one hand, studying its sheen. "Brigit is fine. Living a mortal life with her mortal husband and their baby son on the other side."

  "Loyalty, it seems, is not one of her strengths." He'd fully expected both twins here plotting against him. But there was only one. Only Bridin.

  Her eyes snapped up to meet his once more.

  "This is not her battle, Tristan. It's yours. And mine."

  "As it's always been." Tristan dismounted slowly and saw the wariness in her eyes. When his feet touched down she backed up a step, lifting her sword.

  "No closer," she said.

  A warrior goddess, yes. A fierce fighting woman, the sort of which legends were made. Standing there with that sword at the ready, her slender hands curved around its hilt, long fingers almost caressing the gilding there. That rough stone wall behind her, glittering with the crystals embedded in its granite face. Like her. Rugged beauty. Unattainable treasure. Gemstones embedded in rock. If he were a painter, he'd capture her just this way. Standing there armed and defiant. Beautiful and deadly. She took another step backwards as he advanced.

  Tristan frowned and shook his head. "Don't tell me you're afraid of me now. You never were before, Bridin. Nor did I ever once give you reason to be."

  Her sparkling blue eyes narrowed on him. "You brainwashed my uncle," she said in a voice low and trembling with anger. "You convinced him I was insane and in need of constant care. Made me a prisoner in my own home from the time I was seven years old, Tristan, and set your own people to guarding me there in the mortal world. All to prevent me from returning to Rush and taking my kingdom away from you." She tossed her head in the same agitated manner his stallion did when he smelled battle. The wind took a few more strands of spun gold and whipped them into motion. "And you say I've nothing to fear."

  He shrugged and stepped closer. She held her ground this time, bending a little more at the knees, and lifting her sword a bit higher. "It was a cruel step to take," he said. "I admit that. But my choices were limited, Bridin. I was barely grown, a boy of seventeen with the responsibilities of an entire kingdom. My brother advised me to have you murdered and be done with it. Surely, given the choice, you'd have preferred your childhood prison to death?"

  "Given the choice," she whispered, "I'd prefer to see you beheaded."

  He lifted his brows. "You know that's a lie."

  She averted her gaze abruptly. And Tristan was glad. There was nothing more disturbing to him than staring into those mesmerizing eyes of hers. Many a man, mortal and otherwise, had lost his soul in such a way. And while Tristan had long since become convinced he was not susceptible to her fairy allure, looking into her eyes still had an unsettling effect on him. Like staring too long at the sun.

  "I took care of you, Bridin. Saw to it you had every comfort. Surrounded you with mortals who adored you. The nurse, Kate. And the old man. Razor-Face, wasn't it? Whatever became of him?"

  He saw the defensiveness that clouded her eyes and the sudden tensing of her fine jaw. She'd loved the old man dearly, and now had the look of a she-wolf protecting her cub. "Raze is nothing to you. Your battle is with me, Tristan, and me alone." She met his eyes again. "I will have my throne back," she said. "And I'll see you and your followers driven from Rush once and for all. My kingdom—"

  "My kingdom," he said, "is no longer called Rush, but Shara. As it was a thousand years ago when your family drove mine out and took it from us by force. For ten centuries, Bridin, my people had been condemned to live in the darkest part of the forest, where even the sunlight fears to venture. A prison too cruel for the most vile criminal. One that doesn't even compare with your own limited freedom as a child under my care."

  "Your care?" She tossed her head. "I didn't have limited freedom, Tristan, I had no freedom. And your care was nonexistent. You were my captor."

  It was a lie. He had cared for her. Always. But he would not stoop so low as to admit that.

  "The blood of my ancestors cries out to me for justice, woman, and I will not ignore their pleas. I cannot. Ruling the kingdom is my sole reason for existence. It's the only reason I was born, and my father reminded me of that sad fact often enough so that I will not forget. The kingdom is Shara, its rulers are Sharans, and will be forevermore. And if you try to take it from me . . ."

  He let his voice trail off, unable to complete the sentence. She knew it; he could see that in the glint of victory in her eyes.

  Boldly Bridin stepped forward. She slid her sword smoothly, slowly, into its sheath, and stood so close to him, her chest nearly touched his. And she tilted her head back and looked into his eyes. "If I try to take it?" she asked him. "Go on, Tristan of Shara. Tell me what will happen if I try. You'll kill me? Is that what you were about to say?"

  He parted his lips, but no words escaped. Her eyes... Gods, the power in her eyes! He wanted to grip her slender shoulders and shake her until she understood that fighting him would be useless. He wanted to toss her over Moonshadow's saddle and carry her back to his castle to fling her into the dungeons where she could no longer torment him this way. But he could not. So long as she wore the pendants, he could not lift a hand to her.

  But she could touch him if it pleased her. And she did. She lifted her hands to either side of his face and slipped her fingers into his hair. "You can't hurt me, Tristan. Because for all those years you kept me prisoner, you were feeling the allure of the fay, though you'll deny it with your dying breath. You felt it. You know you did. You tried to get inside my mind, the way you did the mortals. So you could alter my thoughts as you did theirs. But instead, it was I who touched your mind, Dark Prince. And you can't get me out of it now."

  "You're wrong," he said, but his words were harsh and coarse.

  "When I pretended to be sick, you took me to a hospital," she went on. "Even knowing it was likely a trick on my part, you took me. You couldn't do otherwise. You couldn't stand to see me suffer and think I might die. And even now, Dark Prince, even should I take these pendants from around my neck at this very moment, you couldn't harm me. I told you I'd own your soul, Tristan. And I do."

  "You own nothing!" he said, but he felt her words sinking into his flesh like blades, before melting into pools of molten steel that burned him inside. And her scent, the scent of the forest where she lived, and something else, drifted up into his nostrils and made him dizzy. Dammit, she was using the most powerful weapon of the fay against him, and he was succumbing when he'd deemed himself immune to it!

  "No?" she asked. And she lifted her head, pulling his down to her, and touched her lips to his. He stood rigid, fighting her magic with everything in him. But she moved her lips, opening and closing them over his mouth, sucking at it as if it were a moist plum.


  He couldn't touch her. He couldn't... he mustn't...

  His back bowed over her, and he dropped his sword to the ground. His arms slid around her waist, and he pulled her body tight to his. His lips parted and he kissed her. For the first time in all the years he'd known her, he kissed her the way he'd always fantasized. Plunging his tongue deep inside and tasting the honeyed recesses of her mouth. Feeling her heart pound against his chest and her hips arching against him, and her hands clawing at the richly woven fabric of his tunic where it lay upon his shoulders. As if she'd like to rip it from him. She shuddered in his arms, her taut body going soft, molding against his. She opened her mouth to him, and her fingers tangled and tugged his hair. And he wanted her then. Be it by fairy magic or... or something else. He wanted her more than he wanted to breathe again.

  Then suddenly she pulled her mouth from his, turned her head away, and whispered, "Enough."

  And as soon as she said it, some invisible force pushed him backward. His arms fell to his sides, and his heart thundered like the hooves of a thousand stampeding horses. "Gods," he muttered, still struggling to catch his breath. In all his imaginings... it had never been... like that. And then he frowned, because he'd bypassed the enchantment of those pendants, somehow. "I touched you," he said, lifting his brows in question.

  "Only because I allowed it." She was breathing hard and fast, and her face was flushed. She didn't meet his eyes.

  It dawned on him slowly, gradually, but when it finally did, he knew he was right. As maddening as the kiss had been for him, it had been equally so for her. At least equally. Gods, she looked as if she were having trouble standing, as if her knees would buckle at any moment.

  "You wanted it, too," he whispered in disbelief, stating his thoughts aloud to see her reaction. A pretty reaction, it was. Pretty and pink and suffusing her face with denial and fury. He smiled very softly, stepping around her, better to see the effect of his words on her averted face.