FOREVER ENCHANTED Read online

  "Bridin... Bridin, wait!"

  But she'd already whirled around, yanked the door open, and vanished inside. And he was left with a curious and ever-growing feeling of... betrayal. How could she? she'd asked herself. He was asking the same thing. How could she kiss another man the way she'd kissed him? How could she lose herself in the arms of some stranger named Stone, every bit as madly as she'd lost herself to the embrace of Tristan of Shara?

  And how could he feel suddenly flung into competition... with himself?

  Bridin leaned back against the door she'd slammed and felt the locks she'd turned digging into her shoulder blades. How could she?

  Gods, when she'd been in his arms, crushed to his body and melded to his mouth...

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. She couldn't have!

  Oh, but she had. She'd thought of Tristan. Fantasized him. Drawn him up out of her memory and slipped him into the place of the man she'd been kissing. In her mind, in her heart, it hadn't been Stone holding her at all. It had been Tristan... just the way he had done in the forest. Just the way...

  Just the way Stone had done, seconds ago.

  Frowning, Bridin pushed herself upright, away from the door, and paced across the carpeted floor. Was it her imagination... her errant memory? Or had Stone's kiss truly been as much like Tristan's as it seemed? Gods, unless she'd lost her mind entirely, the two even tasted the same.

  She stopped short as her stomach knotted. Closed her eyes. Licked her lips. Tasted him... tasted them... again. Sweet. Minty. Erotic as musk. The knot moved lower, pooling in her loins, and she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning.

  She might well have hated Tristan. Detested him right up to his dying day. But she'd also wanted him. And he'd known it. He'd felt it, too.

  And despite the fact that they were sworn enemies, he'd been the only man who had ever made her feel that way. So now... now that this newcomer, this Stone, was stirring similar responses from her... she felt... almost...

  Guilty.

  She closed her eyes and bit her lip as the word whispered through her brain. But that was it. That was it exactly. She felt guilty. As if she were cheating on a lover. Ridiculous!

  She shook her head at the absurdity of it all, and headed through the apartment to peer in at Marinda as she slept. Sensing her there, Marinda parted her eyes a minuscule amount and muttered, "So? Is he or isn't he?"

  "He might be." Bridin leaned her forehead on the cool doorjamb. "I'm still not certain."

  "More tests are in order, then?"

  She nodded. Tristan was gone. She had to accept that, and deal with this Stone, this man who was very nearly as infuriating as Tristan had been.

  Gods, but she missed fighting with him.

  "Yes, Marinda," she whispered, and the thought brightened her a bit. "Yes. More tests." She smiled very slightly. Watching him deal with the tests she had in mind would be the most pleasant part of this entire ordeal.

  In the dream, she was in a dark room. A dark, chilled room, with a hard floor littered in dried rushes... She could feel them beneath her small bare feet.

  My goodness, why were her feet so small?

  Of course. She was a little girl. And she was here in Rush, in one of the rooms of her family's very own castle. Only... only...

  A terrible panic swept her heart like a killing frost, and she felt the tiny organ's beat become a staccato tattoo. She couldn't breathe. Her stomach cramped. Something horrible was happening. Something...

  She looked up, and saw the blade of a mighty broadsword flashing down at her. And for just an instant, she envisioned her own head rolling crookedly across the floor and spinning as it came to a stop.

  But the blow never came. And when she had the courage to peek and see why not, it was Tristan's face before her, not a deadly blade. His eyes met hers, probing them. He held to his shoulder with one hand, and blood pulsed through his clothing and flooded over it. In his other hand, the wounded one, he clutched her fairy pendants.

  She held his gaze, searched his eyes. "You died for me," she whispered to him.

  "Because I loved you," he replied. And then his beautiful, soulful eyes fell closed for the very last time.

  "No," Bridin whispered. "No... no... No!"

  She sat up in bed, drenched in sweat and shaking like the tiniest twig of a giant maple when the winds are harsh and biting. She trembled right to her soul. And Marinda was there, beside her, pushing her hair away from her face, dabbing at her tears with a paper tissue from the box beside the bed.

  "There now, my lady. There. It was only a dream, my friend, nothing more. Just a dream. There now."

  Bridin sniffed and drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them. She couldn't believe the tears she shed. Her face was soaked and felt swollen. Her nose ran. She rocked back and forth, hating that she was crying like a silly little girl, and she stammered, "It isn't true, Marinda!"

  "Of course it isn't," Marinda soothed, having no clue, Bridin knew, of what she spoke.

  "Tristan of Shara never loved me!" she shouted. "It's a lie!"

  Marinda straightened away, searching her face with a scowl, and then reaching out to snap on the light. "Now, Bridin, suppose you tell me who it is who's doing the lying? Who says the Dark Prince ever loved you?"

  "He did!" Bridin blinked, sniffed, rocked some more. "In the dream, he did. He said he loved me... as he lay there dying by his brother's own sword. He said he saved my life because he loved me. But it's not true, not one word of it, I tell you!"

  Marinda smiled and shook her head. She stroked Bridin's hair until Bridin finally stopped rocking. Then Marinda eased her back down to her pillows, and tucked her covers over her. She left for a moment, and returned with a hot cloth, which she used gently on Bridin's stinging face. "It was but a dream," she said softly. "But a dream. Your own mind... or your conscience, lady, rising up to torment you. He never told you that he loved you, did he? He didn't say a word as he lay there... except to tell you to run. And he didn't die until later in the day."

  Bridin nodded and let her eyes fall closed as the hot cloth settled across her forehead, and Marinda began rubbing tiny circles over Bridin's temples with her fingertips.

  "Why do you suppose he did it, Marinda? What would make him leap in front of his brother's sword the way he did?"

  "Who's to say what makes any male do anything?" she asked, rubbing, still rubbing. It felt good. The tension seemed to ease away from Bridin's brain, melting into Marinda's fingers.

  "He thought Vincent would pull back. He didn't think he'd be killed."

  "That might very well be it, child," Marinda said.

  "Or maybe he..."

  "Maybe he what, dear?"

  Bridin opened her eyes, but all she saw was the look in Tristan's that last time he'd looked into hers. As he lay there, dying, telling her to run. He hadn't spoken the words of her dream... but a fairy could see a man's heart by gazing into his eyes. And she'd seen his that bloody dawn. It had simply taken her this long to realize exactly what she'd seen there.

  She swallowed hard, but it didn't help. The tears flowed anyway. She felt as if her heart were being slowly crushed in a gauntlet-clad hand. He'd loved her. The foolish arrogant bastard had loved her.

  And she'd never known. Not until he was gone far, far from her reach. No wonder he'd never been able to bring himself to do her harm. No wonder. Why hadn't he told her? Why hadn't he simply... Ah, but what difference would it have made if he had? It wasn't as if she returned his tender feelings.

  She hadn't.

  She didn't!

  "Physical lust, that's all it is." Tristan returned to the hotel suite, poured himself some coffee from the fresh pot Tate had left warming for him, and paced the tiny kitchenette. "Powerful, yes. But that's to be expected when dealing with her kind."

  "Talking to oneself is considered a sign of mental illness in these parts, my lord."

  Tristan whirled around quickly, slopping hot coffee onto his hand, and then
hissing a few choice curses. He banged the cup down and thrust his hand under the faucet, cranking the cold-water tap with the other hand.

  Tate only chuckled and fixed himself a cup of the tasty brew. "So I take it the evening out wasn't exactly a rousing success?"

  The burning eased. Tristan shut the water off, walked to the breakfast bar, and sank tiredly onto a stool.

  "Land sakes, Tristan, she didn't beat you with a mace, did she?"

  He grimaced at his friend. Then shook his head. "Tate, have you ever had a child?"

  Tate's eyes rounded, and Tristan thought it was his turn to slop the coffee. He set it down instead and clambered his way onto the stool beside Tristan's. Then he punched Tristan's arm. "Guess the date went far better than I could have hoped, eh? You're a sly one, I'll say that for you."

  Tristan rolled his eyes. "This has nothing to do with the date, my friend. I'm thinking about Bridin. I had control of her from the time she was just a bit of a thing. Hell, I was little more than a brat prince myself. Only ten years her elder."

  Tate nodded. "I know the tale, Tristan. You got into her uncle's head. Convinced him she was a little off, and that she had to be kept under careful guard for her own protection."

  Tristan nodded. Then he grimaced. "I'm only just now beginning to realize how... how cruel that was."

  "Cruel?" Tate's head came up, eyes as curious as a little bird's. "As I understand it, the child was lavished with attention."

  "The attention of strangers. Her uncle was rarely there. Her only family were her nurse and the old man. Raze."

  "No fault of yours," Tate said. Then he sipped. "Her uncle could have stayed around. You didn't make him go away and leave her, did you?"

  "No, but I've no doubt she suspects I did." He lifted his head suddenly. "She believes I had her adoptive parents killed, you know. She's always believed it."

  Tate twisted his lips to one side, a sign of deep thought. "You... um... ever tell her otherwise?"

  "Defend myself?" He sniffed. "Never."

  Tate rolled his eyes, sipped his coffee. "So what is your point? You feelin' guilty about her upbringing now?"

  Tristan shook his head. "Not guilty," he said, and knew it was a lie. "Well, not exactly. But I'm beginning to think I may have had a hand in creating my own devil."

  "Not much you can do about it now, though."

  "But there is." Tristan smiled slightly, and then more fully as his plan became clear in his mind. "Yes. There is, Tate, don't you see? I'm supposed to be wooing her anyway. I can try to make up for some of what she missed."

  Tate bobbed his head forward, lifting one hand cuplike to his ear. "Eh?"

  "Don't you see? All those things she said she'd dreamed of... the things she was denied. A circus. A zoo. A hamburger and French potatoes with a free trinket in the box."

  "Tristan, are you all right? She didn't put some kind of drug into your wine, did she?"

  Tristan only smiled, feeling as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. "It's her secret childhood dreams I'll be fulfilling, Tate," he said, and he slugged down the rest of the coffee and turned toward his bedroom, feeling for the first time as if he might be able to sleep tonight. "It's the best possible way to win her heart."

  "Is it now?"

  "Of course," Tristan said, stepping through the bedroom door. "Why else would I bother?" He nodded good night and closed the door. And then he drew a deep breath, held it... and sighed from the core of his heart. Who was he kidding? He wasn't going to do this because it would win her. He was going to do it... to make it up to her. To make it up... not to the imperious princess who wanted his throne... but to the beautiful golden child who used to look at him with so much awe in her eyes.

  "I will make it up to you, Bridin," he whispered to that little girl's image in his mind. "I promise."

  Chapter Eight

  "I'm so sorry, Bridin," Brigit's tinny voice said over the telephone. "I know how much you were looking forward to this."

  Bridin shook her head, plastering her brightest smile in place before remembering that it would do little good. Her sister couldn't see her. "Stop apologizing. Jonathon is what's important here. Are you certain he's all right?"

  "I told you, it's just a slight cold. He'll be fine."

  Biting her lip, Bridin clutched the receiver more tightly. "But he's three-quarters mortal, Brigit! And you know how fragile mortal children are. Much more than any fairy's child." She paced until the tug of the telephone cord made her turn and start back. "If only I had our pendants. We could do a healing on him and—"

  Soft laughter came from the phone, halting Bridin's nervous pacing. "I fail to see anything funny about this, Brigit!"

  "Sorry," her sister replied, getting her humor under control, though it sounded as if it cost her a great effort. "I'm still not used to the way you think."

  "And what way is that?"

  "In terms of magic and the great mysteries," Brigit said.

  "And you, my dear sister, think like any common mortal." Bridin was more than a little bit offended. "Have you lost all your fay sense?"

  "Not all," she said, and Bridin could hear the smile in her voice. "But we don't need the pendants to take care of Johnny. He has something better. It's called a pediatrician."

  "You're laughing at me, aren't you?" Bridin asked. "As if I don't know about such things. I lived here most of my life, Brigit. And I know about mortal medicine. I also know it's a Saturday."

  "Well, this pediatrician takes calls on Saturdays. Especially when they come from worried mothers. And he says Jonathon is just fine. He just needs to stay out of the autumn wind, is all." She drew a deep breath. "And I wasn't laughing at you, Bridin. You know I'd never do that."

  Bridin sighed. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry if I'm a bit testy."

  "How's the husband hunt coming? Beginning to get to you, is it?"

  Bridin opened her mouth to reply, then changed her mind. There was no use in worrying her sister over her own emotional state. Particularly when it was such a foolish one. Tristan was dead and gone. What he'd felt or hadn't felt for her was completely irrelevant. All she did now, she did for the good of Rush. Nothing else mattered.

  "Bridey, hon? You okay?"

  "Fine," she said. "Have you ever known me not to be?"

  "Are you sure? You sound a little... odd. Is it... Have you found him?"

  "I... I have to go, dear. Marinda's calling. She's probably blown something up with that microwave oven again." She replaced the receiver in its cradle, then stood staring at it for a long moment. Had she found him? It was a good question. And a disturbing one. Far more disturbing than it ought to be.

  The sound of a knock at the apartment door stopped her from dwelling on it. Marinda was still in bed, sleeping as soundly as if she'd had as eventful a night as Bridin. Sighing heavily at the suddenly dreary outlook for the day ahead, Bridin walked to the door and pulled it open.

  The creature standing there looked, at first glance, like an explosion of velvety red roses with legs. But then the flowers were lowered a little, and she saw those familiar ebony eyes and felt a stab of pain. "Stone," she said. "You must be an incredibly early riser."

  He looked worried. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

  "And what could you possibly do to rectify it if you had?"

  He held up the flowers again. "Offer a bribe in exchange for forgiveness, of course."

  Twisting her lips into a grimace, she took the flowers from him, then stepped aside to allow him to come in. He seemed to hesitate, glancing into the room as if to inspect it first. "Are... you alone?"

  "My bevy of lovers left at dawn," she told him. Then she remembered Marinda, and added, "And my . . . roommate is still sleeping."

  "I promise to be quiet." He came in, closing the door behind him, and followed her into the kitchen.

  Bridin became suddenly, acutely conscious of her state of dress. She wore a lilac-colored satin robe, with nothing beneath it, and only a single sash to ho
ld it closed. And she knew he had to be aware of it.

  Nothing to be done about it now, short of making a cowardly dash to the bedroom. And Bridin never ran from anything. So she forced an outward appearance of calm and located a large clear glass vase in a cupboard, filled it with water, and stood at the sink arranging the roses. One of them drooped, its blossom too heavy for its skinny stem. Automatically Bridin ran her fingers over the weak stalk. "Little flower, hear my song. A fairy's touch will make you strong," she said, and then plopped the suddenly perfectly straight and tall rose in with the others.

  Then she closed her eyes and slowly released her breath. What was she thinking? This mortal was standing right behind her, lounging in the doorway, watching and listening. What would he think?

  Bridin cleared her throat, lifted her chin, and turned around with a bright smile. "Just a little nursery rhyme," she muttered. "I don't know what made me think of it."

  He smiled back at her. A knowing smile. It sent a shiver down her spine. "Is that coffee fresh?" he asked then, nodding at the full pot on the counter.

  "Of course." She turned again, to take cups from a cupboard, filled them, and then carried them to the breakfast bar. The room was too small for a table. She sat on one stool, and the dark man sat on the one right beside it.

  "I'll drink it fast," he promised, reaching for his mug, drawing her gaze to his strong, graceful fingers. The gesture made her remember how he had kneaded her waist when he'd kissed her. It made her remember Tristan.

  Tristan had loved coffee. Good coffee. Black, no sugar, and hot enough to scald his tongue.

  Then Stone took a huge gulp of the steaming brew, ignoring the sugar bowl and creamer on the table.

  She swallowed hard and sweetened her own coffee, then poured the heavy cream until it was caramel-colored. Then stirred, waiting for it to cool. "No need to hurry," she said absently, looking again at his eyes.

  "No?" He set his cup down. "I thought you'd be getting ready for your outing with the nephew. Jonathon, wasn't it?"