FOREVER ENCHANTED Page 12

  "As well I know, my lady."

  "There was also an archery game. Simple thing, really. Any child could have hit the targets with the blunt-tipped arrows. They were little more than ten feet away. But still, I thought I might study his form as he took aim, so again I suggested we play the game." She tilted her head. "And you know, I got the feeling he sensed I was testing him. Yet he agreed readily enough."

  Slinging the robe over her shoulder, she bent down to pull the matching slippers from beneath her bed.

  "The arrogant show-off insisted on standing fifty feet from the targets, though. Made the carnival workers clear a lane for him, so he wouldn't hit anyone accidentally. And then he shot three times, hitting the bull's-eye with each shot. The third arrow hit directly between the first two."

  "Very impressive," Marinda said. "Skilled in battle."

  "At archery, at least," Bridin put in. She carried her slippers and robe up the hall, crossed the living room, and went back into the bathroom.

  "Well, yes," Marinda said. "I don't suppose you had opportunity to test him any further today. The rest can wait, I suppose. But these are good signs, aren't they? They all point to him as the one."

  Bridin hung the robe on the bathroom door. Then she set the slippers down and headed out again, aiming for the kitchen this time. Marinda was right behind her, but getting a bit breathless. "I thought I was through testing him for the day," she said. "But then he went and rescued a small child who'd fallen from one of the rides. Risked his life to do it, too. I suppose he thought I'd be impressed." She ran water into the teakettle, set it on the stove, and turned on a burner. "No, that's not true. I believe he'd have done the same whether or not I'd been there to witness it and be impressed by it."

  "And were you, my lady?"

  Bridin sighed deeply. "Yes, Marinda. I was. I truly was."

  "Ahhh," Marinda whispered. "He's the one. I'm sure of it. There's no doubt in my mind."

  Closing her eyes, Bridin muttered, "I wish to the gods of Rush that he weren't."

  "But why?" Marinda's voice rose an octave, and Bridin's eyes shot open again of their own will.

  She took a teacup and saucer from one cupboard, and a chamomile tea bag from the canister on the counter below. "Because... I like the man, Marinda. He... he stirs something in me that I haven't felt before... except..." She bit her lip and carefully unwrapped the tea bag from its protective white paper, then concentrated fiercely on unwinding the string and leaving it to dangle over the edge of the cup.

  "Except for when you were with Tristan," Marinda said softly. "You don't have to try to hide it from me, child. These eyes only look young. They're old, my lady, and they know what they see."

  Bridin turned to face her, finally ready to admit the suspicion that had begun to keep her awake nights. "I think that I might have been in love with Tristan, Marinda." She lowered her head, shaking it slowly. "But he's gone, and now I'm feeling something very similar happening to me again. And it doesn't seem right, somehow, that I should feel... that way, for another."

  Marinda shook her head slowly. She reached out to take Bridin's hand in her tiny one, and gave a gentle squeeze. "Don't feel guilty, my lady. You've done nothing that should make you feel that way. Nothing at all. Only sought to fulfill the edicts of that crystal."

  The teapot didn't whistle, just hummed a bit. But Bridin didn't like it too hot, so she moved to take the kettle from the stove, and filled her teacup with steaming water. Sighing, she leaned an elbow on the counter, resting her cheek in one hand and slowly dipping the tea bag with the other. "I'm not even certain it's Stone I'm having feelings for, you know. It might be just that he reminds me so much of Tristan."

  "So perhaps it's those parts of him you're falling in love with, lady. And there's nothing wrong with that."

  She finally stopped dipping. She took the tea bag out, squeezed it between two fingers, and then carried her cup with her, walking slowly back into the bathroom. "I don't want to fall in love with any parts of him," she said, shaking her head in frustration. She set the cup on the tub's edge and reached in to turn off the water. Then she turned and sat down beside her teacup. "That wasn't part of the plan, you know. I wanted a man I could respect. A man I could trust. But I didn't want to love him. This was to be a marriage of convenience, not one of..." She bit her lip.

  "Not one of passion?"

  "Damn you for your mind-reading, Marinda."

  Marinda shrugged. "Force of habit, my lady."

  But her eyes were kind as they met hers. And Bridin found herself blinking away tears. "I'm frightened, Marinda. I've never been so frightened before."

  "It's natural to be afraid, dear."

  "I hate being afraid." She clenched her jaw, then lifted her chin. "But I'm a fay princess, and I'll do my duty, despite my fears. If he's the one, then I'll marry him."

  "And what more must he do to prove he is the one, if I might be so bold as to ask?"

  Bridin rose, and turned, unbuttoning her shirt as she did. "Well, I only know he's brave and strong, and a very good shot," she said. "I need to know that he's wise, as well. And fair-minded. And honest. Above all else, he has to be honest."

  "Oh, my," Marinda muttered.

  Bridin glanced over her shoulder at her. "What's wrong with wanting an honest king?"

  "Nothing, my lady. Seems reasonable. I was only wondering why you place it above all else, in your list of requirements."

  "Because," Bridin said, continuing to release buttons, "if Tristan had been honest about his feelings for me, then just think how different things might have turned out. But no, he had to insist he was my enemy and claim he hated me. And what happened? He died." She felt her shoulders begin to tremble, felt the tears sting her eyes. And the next thing she knew, she was on her knees beside the tub, with her face in her hands sobbing her heart out and muttering, "He died. Oh, Marinda, why did he have to go and do that?"

  "My lord, can't you take a single day off from this pursuit of the lady Bridin? I've made all the arrangements and the house is ready for us. You know how cramped I feel in this apartment. I detest it. I'm used to vaulted ceilings and gilded halls."

  "And secret passages and hideaways. I know, I know, Tate. But this is important. It finally seems that I'm making some headway with her."

  Tristan rested on the sofa with his arms folded behind his head and his feet crossed at the ankles. Tate had commented that he had the look of a man well pleased with himself, and if he did, then well he should. He felt pleased with himself. "I do believe this plan of yours might just work after all, my friend," he said to Tate. "She's responding to me."

  "You think she's beginning to believe you're the one?" Tate asked.

  "More than that. I think she's beginning to... develop feelings for me."

  "Well! That is something to be pleased about." Tate came around the sofa and planted himself on the overstuffed chair opposite it. Then he tilted his head to one side. "So if we're so pleased about it, why are you frowning?"

  He shrugged. He did not wish to discuss his feelings of uneasiness and betrayal with Tate. Not with Tate. Not even with himself. Hell, it made no sense to be jealous of his own alias, but he was. It was the only thing that detracted from the pleasure of seeing Bridin succumbing to his charms. This creeping, utterly foolish feeling that she was being unfaithful to his memory by falling so easily.

  Ah, but at least it was he, and not some stranger. Not that she had any way of knowing it.

  There it was again. He didn't think he'd ever fully trust the woman after this.

  "So how long will it be, do you think, before she'll agree to be your bride?"

  Tristan sighed hard, shaking his head. "I'd thought to give it more time," he said. "But now... now I think we may need to move a bit faster, Tate."

  "Why?" Tate tilted his head, looking concerned.

  "I think... I saw someone. A man, watching her today. Following us together."

  "A mortal?"

  Tristan shook
his head. "I wasn't close enough to tell, Tate, but..."

  "But?"

  "I'm not sure. But I had an uneasy feeling when I saw him. Do you think he could be a scout of some sort, sent by my brother to track her down?"

  Tate narrowed his eyes. "What did this man look like, Tristan?"

  "I wasn't close enough to see his face."

  "But his clothing..."

  Tristan eyed Tate's worried face. "He was dressed all in black." Tate paled, and Tristan felt a tremor run through him. "What is it, Tate, what does this mean?"

  Tate blinked, shaking his head. "It might not mean anything, Tristan. But... but black was the traditional color of a member of the brotherhood you banned when you inherited the crown."

  "Brotherhood..."

  "The Sharan Assassins," Tate said. "You never saw them in action, Tristan, so you wouldn't know what to look for. You only learned of their existence and ordered them to disband. They were a crew of highly skilled killers, created by your father long ago. Tristan, do you think your brother has sent them after you?"

  "It isn't me I'm concerned about," he said, getting to his feet. "It's Bridin."

  Tate leapt to his feet, hurried to the bedroom, and flung a case out from beneath the bed. "We'd best hurry, then," he said. "The mansion is far more defensible than this worthless hovel. We must move at once, Tristan. And we must get Bridin and Marinda there with us. Immediately!"

  As Tristan watched, Tate began packing. "Marinda?" Tristan said. "Is that the name of the Wood Nymph she has with her? I wasn't aware you knew the woman."

  Tate froze in his work, his back to Tristan. "She's one of my own," he said, speaking very slowly, so slowly, Tristan began to wonder just how well he truly knew the female. "We're a close race. We all know one another. And though she's on the wrong side in this, my lord, I'd hate to see harm come to her... or any of my own kind."

  Tristan put a hand on Tate's shoulder, stopping his work. "I'll take care of moving our belongings to the mansion, my friend. There's something else I need for you to do."

  Tate turned slowly, staring up into Tristan's face. "What is it?"

  "Go back through the veil, Tate. Return to Shara and try to find out if there's any reason for my concern."

  Tate closed his eyes, released his breath slowly. "You want me to spy on your brother, find out whether he's activated the legendary Sharan Assassins and sent them here for her."

  Tristan nodded gravely. "It's true that I banned the brotherhood when I took my father's crown," he said. "But perhaps they only went underground. I need to know."

  Lifting his chin, Tate shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lord. But I cannot obey your command."

  Tristan's eyes widened in shock. Tate had never... He wouldn't. "Explain yourself."

  Tate lowered his eyes. "If you're moving our things, and I'm on the other side carrying out this mission... then who is to protect Bridin and Marinda? Suppose that was a Sharan Assassin you glimpsed in the crowd at the fair? No, Tristan, the women shouldn't be alone. Not even for a short while."

  Tristan shook his head. "You misunderstood me, Tate. Bridin is a warrior at heart, my friend. But even so, I've no intention of leaving her unguarded for another moment."

  "Well, Marinda is not a warrior," Tate countered. "She's but a Wood Nymph, skilled at magic, not at battle. And I'll not leave her unprotected, nor even trust her life to you, though you know I'd place my own in your hands in an instant."

  Tristan tilted his head, studying his friend's determined eyes. "I'm going to them right now, Tate. I'll bring them here with me to get our things."

  "Unless it's already too late."

  The thought of it shook him. As he hurried from the room, he went on, but knew he was trying now to convince himself more than Tate. "I'm telling you, Bridin is more than capable of protecting herself, as well as her lady. They're safe. They have to be."

  "I don't know," Tate said, hurrying after Tristan. "I only know I won't be all right until I see for myself that Marinda is, and that she remains so."

  "I never should have left her," Tristan said. "She shouldn't be alone. Neither of them should. My God, Tate, they've been unguarded for several hours already." He dove into his car, Tate climbing in the other side, and they sped into the night, Tristan battling nightmarish images all the way there of what he might find in Bridin's apartment.

  Bridin came awake at a subtle sound. A scraping, as if... as if a window were slowly sliding open. Frowning hard, she slipped out of bed, reached for the light, but then stopped herself. An extra sense of some sort, like the danger sense of a spider, told her not to turn the light on. Not to make a sound, in fact. And she got very quietly to her feet and walked with the typical light step of a fairy, not making a single noise as she crept to the doorway of her bedroom and gripped the cold metallic knob in her warm palm.

  She twisted, and pulled, very gently. The door opened but a crack, and Bridin peered out through it, but saw only the darkened hallway standing empty and alone. Still, an icy finger traced a shivery path up her spine. Something was wrong.

  Pulling the door open further, looking up and down the hallway first, she stepped out of the room. And her first thought was of Marinda, sleeping alone in her own bed next door. So she stepped silently to that door, and opened it to look in on her friend. Marinda seemed fine, sound asleep on the small bed, bundled up in covers and hugging her inanimate pillow. The window beyond the bed was closed, and the moonlight from without spilled through, making grate-shaped shadows on the bed and on Marinda's sleeping form. She loved the moonlight, Marinda did. She'd like that it bathed her as she slept.

  Bridin backed into the hall, locking Marinda's door from the inside before pulling it closed once more. Then she began her silent trek again, heading for the living room this time. From the hall where she stood, swathed in shadows, the living room stretched out before her, with the bath to her left and the kitchenette to her right. Nothing. She saw nothing. The apartment door was still locked up for the night. All windows in here closed tight, by the looks of it. Only the bathroom remained to be checked.

  Drawing a breath and telling herself that her fay sense was way out of kilter tonight, Bridin headed for the bathroom, and belatedly wished she'd remembered her big robe. It was chilly tonight, and she wore only a shiftlike nightgown of green silk, with spaghetti-thin straps that left her shoulders and arms bare. Her back and chest were barely covered, and her legs shivered from midthigh down to her undressed feet.

  She checked the bathroom. Nothing. Good.

  Releasing the pent-up breath she'd been holding, she turned and happily went back to her room, envisioning herself bundled beneath the warm blankets. She stepped into her bedroom and came to a stop as the pretty white curtains billowed in the gentle breeze that wafted in through the open window.

  It was just as Tristan had reached the second-floor landing and started down its hall to her door—having very little idea what to do once he got there—that he heard her scream.

  His heart leapt into his throat. The sound made his blood curdle, and he knew Tate had been right. And for a moment, for just one chilling moment, he traveled backward in time. He was standing in that chilled corridor outside the chamber in Castle Shara, hearing her cry out. He'd smashed through the door then, only to see a blade swinging in a deadly arc toward her throat. It had nearly killed him to see that... Death, licking its lips at the thought of a taste of one so sweet.

  With a fierce growl he slammed his shoulder against her apartment door, half expecting to see a similar sight.

  But as he stumbled inside, he saw nothing. No one. He could hear the frantic pounding coming from one of the bedrooms, and heard the Wood Nymph's cries. "My lady, my lady! What is it! Let me out! Help!"

  And then a crash... the sound came from Bridin's bedroom. Tristan's heart leapt into his chest and he lunged forward, kicked the door in, and saw her.

  She stood with her back against the wall, and the man before her, his face invisible b
eyond the black mask he wore to cover it, lifted his sword. "I execute you in the name of Vincent, prince of Shara!"

  "No," Tristan shouted, and he hurled himself forward.

  She saw him from the corner of her eye, and it was as if she were reliving her worst nightmare. "Gods, no," she screamed as he lunged between her and the blade. "Not again!" And she launched herself at the attacker, her head and shoulders taking his midsection much as the football players did on television sometimes. She heard his blow land, heard the sickening wet sound it made, and Stone's grunt of pain. But the attacker went down onto his back on the floor. And Bridin landed atop him. She thrust her hand downward, found the dagger in his boot, yanked it out, and buried it to the hilt with a neat upward thrust just below the rib cage.

  The man groaned once, and then lay still.

  Bridin pushed herself up, and turned to see Stone lying on her bedroom floor, clutching his arm where it pulsed blood, and staring up at her with eyes so familiar... so very familiar... and so pain-filled.

  A great wrenching sob was torn from her chest and she flung herself down to the floor with him, pulling him into her arms as the tears flowed and the sobs grew more and more forceful. She held him, kissed him. "Please don't die," she cried. "Please... please don't die. This can't happen. Not again. I can't bear for it to happen again."

  And gradually she felt one of his hands stroking her hair, and heard him whisper into her ear, "Bridin, it's all right. Shh. It's only a small cut. All blood and no substance, I swear it. I'm fine."

  She lifted her head, searching his face in disbelief. "You... you're all right?"

  He nodded. "Look." And he lifted his arm for her inspection. Bridin turned her attention to it, tearing the fabric of his shirt away, then ripping a bit of the silk from her own nightgown to press to his wound.

  "It's true," she whispered. " 'Tis not a mortal wound."

  "No."

  "You're not going to leave me just when I've begun to know you, are you, Stone? You're not going to go away just when I've begun to... to love you?"

  He blinked at her. "Love me? You..."