FOREVER ENCHANTED Read online

  "And now perhaps you know what I've always known, Bridin." It was only a small lie; he hadn't always known. But he should have. "That in attempting to invade my soul, in attempting to charm me with those magical fairy's eyes, you inadvertently gave me access to yours. This power you have over me... it's two-pronged. It runs both ways, my fay princess. And you could no more allow harm to come to me than I could to you. You let me into your soul, Bridin. And I'm not leaving."

  She shook her head, her gaze averted. A trembling hand rose, and her fingers pressed to her lips... as if in wonder. "No."

  "Yes."

  "You're wrong. I care nothing for you! I'll fight you, Tristan, and I'll win. Rush will never be yours."

  "It's mine now."

  "That's a lie! There are constant uprisings, constant skirmishes in the outlying villages. My people will never bow to your rule."

  Tristan lowered his head. It was true. There hadn't been true peace in Rush—in Shara—since his father's armies had retaken it more than twenty years ago. But Tristan knew his duty, he knew why his father had begot him. Tristan of Shara had been bred and born to be king, and to hold the land his father had taken. If he couldn't manage it, then he might as well not be alive. His father had made sure he understood that. So he would do it. Fulfill his destiny, live up to the part he'd been born to play. Serve his people by seeing to it they never had to return to that land of darkness to which they'd been banished so long ago.

  His mission in life was all there was. All there would ever be for Tristan. He'd had this lesson drummed into his head from the time he was old enough to talk and listen. He'd been denied everything else. Love. Affection. Recreation. Friends. None of that mattered. His indoctrination and training were all he'd needed, according to his father, and they had served him well.

  Until now.

  Well, he had a plan. He'd always had a plan. And that was why he'd taken Bridin prisoner and kept her all those years. Not to prevent her return. But to put it off... until he could convince her to return with him, at his side. At the point of his sword, if need be, but at his side nonetheless.

  "There will be peace and harmony in Shara again," he told her. "Your people will bow to my rule and cease their senseless rebellions... just as soon as they see their beloved princess kneeling before me. Calling me king."

  She jerked her head around to face him. "I'll die first."

  "I'll see to it you're given that option. When the time comes." He retrieved his sword from the ground, lifted it, aimed its tip at her throat.

  She jumped out of reach before he could slice those pretty chains and leave her unprotected and utterly at his mercy. He sighed in disappointment. If he hadn't been such a fool, he'd have ripped the pendants free when she'd kissed him, instead of dropping his weapon and groping her like a buck in rut. Physical desire meant nothing, dammit. Securing his hold on the throne was all that mattered, and all that should be on his mind.

  He wasn't even certain he could break the chains and free her of those pendants, given the power of enchantment in them. But it might have worked.

  As long as she wore them, though, she was safe. Tristan turned away from her and easily swung into the saddle. He was disgusted with himself for forgetting his mission, even for a moment, and disgusted with her for being the cause of his error.

  "When you attempt this foolish coup you're planning, and fail, Bridin—when you're utterly defeated—come to me, and I'll dictate the terms of your public surrender."

  He kicked the stallion's flanks and pulled on the reins. Moonshadow whirled and galloped away, leaving the beautiful fay princess shouting obscenities after them.

  Bridin stomped into one of the many caves that lined the forested hillsides of Rush. She swore as she entered, drawing the gazes of everyone present. But she only looked back at them, and in a very loud, very firm voice announced, "We attack the city at dawn."

  She saw Raze's reaction. He lowered his head and shook it slowly back and forth, rubbing the graying stubble on his chin with one hand. The others only remained still and silent, watching her, awaiting an explanation.

  It was her cousin Pog who slowly rose from the stone slab where he'd been resting. He paced toward the small fire that danced and snapped in the center of the floor, providing the hideaway with warmth and light, and he studied its flames, and then her face, for a long time. She knew all too well what he was doing, and avoided his eyes. Not that it helped.

  "You... you've seen him. The Dark Prince."

  The fay male's powers of discernment were incredible. Pog was gifted, far more than most. And as a third cousin or some such, he'd been leading the forest dwellers in her absence. It had been he who'd brought them to these natural catacombs, and then converted the place into a virtual fortress city. It had been he who'd kept them busy, inciting villagers to revolt against Tristan's rule in order to keep the interlopers off balance and preoccupied. And it was he who'd kept her followers loyal to her. All had been ready for her return. Many had been waiting for a very long time.

  She owed Pog a great deal. But right now she felt nothing but irritation with him. "What difference does it make whether or not I've seen Tristan of Shara," she snapped.

  There was a gasp, and all eyes turned on her.

  "My lady," Pog said softly. "You break the laws of your ancestors by speaking the Dark One's name. It's been outlawed for centuries. Since the banishment of his people to the Dark Side. You know that."

  "And a stupid law, it is," she replied, tossing her head, and refusing to apologize. "What harm can speaking the man's name possibly do?"

  No one spoke. They only stared. Drawing a deep breath, Pog turned to the few others who had gathered here. "Go. The princess Bridin and I would speak alone."

  One by one they shuffled out. All manner of beings, from the hairless, pink-eyed Albinons, to the pint-sized Wood Nymphs, to the fay folk. Until only Raze and Pog remained in the room with her.

  "All right, Bridey-girl," Raze said. "Tell us what happened." He sat in a stoop-shouldered pose on a stone, and didn't bother getting up.

  She pursed her lips, staring into the flames. "Nothing. I met him in the forest and we quarreled. Nothing more than that."

  "You seem awfully angry over a mere quarrel," Pog observed, tilting his head as he paced a circle around the fire. He was lean and graceful, long-limbed and light. He could move through the forest without making a sound, nor was he likely to be seen with his leaf-colored garments and bark-colored curls.

  His fragile appearance might be misleading to some. But not to Bridin. She'd come to know him well since her return, and she knew he was powerful, both in physical and magical strength. Slow to anger, but impossible to fight once his mind was made up.

  So she'd best make her arguments and make them well. "I'm not angry at all," she said softly. "I simply believe the time is right. Our archers have been honing their skills. We've made enough arrows to fill every quiver, Pog. We have weapons enough to fight six wars. We've gone over our plans again and again. I see no need to put this off any longer. We attack at dawn, while those Sharans sleep off their ale."

  Pog frowned and tilted his head. "What makes you think they'll imbibe on this eve more than any other?"

  "Today is Tristan's birthday, Pog." She averted her eyes. "I was reminded only when I met him in the forest."

  "His birthday?" Pog seemed amazed. "How in the world did you know—"

  "I was his prisoner for seventeen years," she explained, still not meeting Pog's gaze. "One comes to know a person fairly well in that amount of time. I know Tristan as well as he knows himself. He is three and thirty today."

  Pog looked at her, a cloud of concern darkening his brown eyes. "Too old to remain a prince. He ought to be king at his age."

  Raze frowned hard. "But he can't be king until he marries. That's the way the law here works, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Pog told him. "That's been the custom for as long as anyone can remember. The question is, why hasn't he mar
ried? What is he waiting for?" He looked at Bridin. "You say you know him better than anyone, my lady. What say you?"

  She shook her head. Bridin had her suspicions, topmost being that the man had a heart of stone and no woman in her right mind would wish to be his wife. His only care was for the kingdom.

  They had much in common in that regard. For taking the kingdom back from him was the only thing in the world she ever cared about.

  "I don't know why Tristan hasn't married, nor do I care. The point I'm trying to make is that the prince's birthday celebrations will last long into the night, and at dawn his men will likely be inebriated and unconscious. Even those who might wake will be too ill to fight. You know soldiers and their love of any excuse to indulge in drunken revelry."

  "Yes." Pog nodded hard. "Yes, I do believe you're right," he said at last. "I'll call a council meeting. Inform our forces to make ready."

  "Good," she said. She turned to go, wishing only to curl up in a warm blanket and try to sleep, but then she paused, looking back at Pog once more. "Just one thing," she said.

  He lifted soft brown eyebrows and waited.

  "Tristan is not to be harmed."

  "My lady?" Pog's eyes were round with confusion.

  She hated the way he was looking at her. As if she were insane. And she searched her mind for all the logical explanations she had thought of for this command. But they seemed weak now. "Sparing his life will ease the minds of those who've been loyal to him. They'll be grateful to us, and more willing to bow to my rule. And... besides, if we keep him in our dungeons, then others of his family—that blackhearted younger brother of his, for example—will not dare attempt to retake our city, for fear we'd harm him at the first sign of trouble."

  Pog tilted his head, and she knew by the narrowness of his brown eyes that he was trying to read her thoughts.

  "If those reasons are not good enough, Pog, then this one should be. I am your princess and it is my command."

  He bent his head. "Yes, my lady. It shall be done."

  "Make sure of it," she said, and then she turned to go. She left the main room by one of the many tunnels that opened off it, and headed through the smoky torchlight into her chamber. She paused once on the way, when she heard echoing footfalls scooting off down another passage. Small footfalls. Light ones, like those of a child. Snatching a torch from the wall, she followed the sound, but saw no one.

  She sighed hard and shook her head, telling herself she was only nervous. And then she went on to bed. But she didn't sleep.

  Each time she closed her eyes, Tristan's voice came back to haunt her. Or his touch. The feel of his mouth on hers and the shock of the intense reaction she'd had to it. Gods, his kiss had left her weak and longing . . .

  She swallowed hard. He'd been right. She couldn't see him harmed any more than he could lift a hand to her. And it made no sense. She hated him. Hated him. He'd kept her prisoner in the mortal world until she'd become old enough and smart enough to escape him. He was ruling the city that rightfully belonged to her, his father's troops had murdered her mother in the battle to retake that city.

  And yet... and yet she couldn't see him harmed. The very thought made her heart feel heavy and tight.

  Damn him. Damn him.

  Chapter Two

  Tristan twisted beneath the covers, but the brush of cool satin against his naked flesh only made matters worse. He couldn't stop thinking about her. Bridin. Her tiny waist entrapped in his arms and her breasts pushing against him. Her mouth. The taste of it. The way she'd shuddered, and sighed, and blushed in his arms.

  Gods! She was his sworn enemy. Always he'd been aware of his weakness where she was concerned. He'd never been able to bring himself to simply have her killed and be done with the only true threat to his rule. And he'd known, for weeks now, the location of her forest hideaway. Yet he didn't tell anyone he knew. Even his second-in-command, his own brother, Vincent. Only Tate knew, and that was because he'd been the one to discover the honeycomb of caves in the hillsides. Tristan didn't inform his knights, didn't launch a raid. All because Bridin would likely be killed in such a mission, and he couldn't stomach the thought of that happening. Nor could he tell his men that he wanted her life spared. If they realized his weakness for their enemy, they'd turn on him, and his reign would end in mutiny.

  No. He'd risked all he cherished to spare her life, in the hopes she would give up her foolish notions of retaking the kingdom. He prayed that would be the case.

  But deep down, he knew better, didn't he? Because no one, not even Bridin herself, knew her heart the way he did. And he knew she'd never give up without a fight. Never.

  He closed his eyes. He ought to be up, dressing in his royal finery for the revelry of tonight's celebration. The celebration and feasting and merriment were things he'd just as soon do without, but his men needed the break from the tension. Constantly putting down rebellion had taken its toll on them. And his birthday was as good an excuse as anything else to let them cut loose and have some fun. He'd thought a short nap might better prepare him for the night ahead, but of course, he couldn't sleep. And he knew too well that none of the perfumed whores paraded before him tonight were going to remedy what ailed him.

  Not now that he'd tasted her. He didn't think he'd ever know a good night's rest again. And yet his own reaction baffled him. He knew he was stronger than her fairy allure. Was certain of it. Why, then, did he feel this need to have her in his arms again? Why couldn't he stop thinking about that kiss?

  A tap at his chamber door stirred him, and he sat up in the bed, pulling on a purple satin robe and belting it tight as he slid to his feet.

  As a precaution, he drew the small dagger from beneath his pillow, and stood to one side of the door. As ruler of Rush, he must be careful, for there were others besides Bridin who would take his throne if they could. Why, some even suspected his own brother of plotting his fall. He smiled wryly at that ludicrous notion, and shook his head.

  "Who's there?"

  " 'Tis Tate, Your Majesty. I bring news."

  Tate. Tristan smiled. Dear, overcautious Tate. He was the one concocting far-fetched theories about Tristan's brother, Vincent, among other things. Of course, being overly paranoid was a common trait among the Wood Nymphs.

  Tristan opened the door, and Tate paused to peer into the room, as if checking for unseen enemies before stepping in and closing it behind him. He went directly to the bedside stand, picked up the single candle that burned there, and then touched its wick to every unlit taper in the room until the place glowed. The nymph hated the dark. Most did. And though he had to stand on chairs to reach some of the candles, Tate didn't stop until every last one was alight.

  "There," he said, replacing the first and hopping into a chair that dwarfed him. "Much better. Are we alone?"

  Tristan remained standing where he'd been as he watched Tate's antics. "Do you see anyone else here?"

  "That doesn't mean we're alone," Tate observed, tilting his cherubic face to one side. He looked like an angelic little boy, with charcoal curls and bushy dark brows and thick-lashed black eyes. His chubby cheeks and a bow-shaped mouth made him appear to be a beautiful six-year-old.

  He was, in fact, one hundred thirty-six.

  And Tristan's most trusted friend. "You said you'd brought news," he said, lowering himself to the edge of his bed. "We're alone, Tate. What is this news?"

  "The princess Bridin plans to attack at dawn."

  Tate could have struck him and shocked him less. Tristan only gaped, shaking his head, searching for words.

  "I know. It's the very worst of news. But it matters not, Tristan. You gave me your word twenty years ago when your father's troops first took this castle. You promised you'd never harm the princess. Doesn't matter if she leads the attack herself, you have to see she's safe."

  "You know I won't hurt her."

  "But will you protect her?"

  Tristan lowered his head. "Tate, my friend, I don't believe I have m
uch choice in the matter."

  Tate frowned and searched Tristan's face, then shrugged. "It won't be easy. If your brother has the chance, he'll kill her out of hand—"

  "Don't be ridiculous. My brother will follow my orders."

  Tate met Tristan's eyes, his small black ones filled with foreboding. "You know better. He wants your crown, Tristan."

  "He wants no such thing. You're always seeing conspiracy where none exists."

  "Of course I do. And his constant complaining about your weakness in dealing with these little rebellions is not meant to weaken your authority with your own men, is it? No, of course not. The man is only voicing an opinion. Behind your back. Planting seeds of doubt in the men's minds with no intent of harvesting what grows there. He's—"

  "He's my brother."

  Tate shrugged and stopped arguing, and Tristan was glad. He didn't like arguing with the little man. Tate had a way of making Tristan feel like a naive little child with those knowing eyes of his. Worst of all, Tate was rarely wrong. But on this occasion, he must be. Vincent wouldn't turn on him. They'd suffered through their childhood on the Dark Side together, through their constant indoctrination together, lost their mother together, and then their father. And while neither of them tended to show emotion, having been taught that feeling was a weakness, Tristan couldn't help but believe his brother harbored some mild affection for him. He must. For if he didn't, then no one did. Vincent was all Tristan had, the only person in the world he'd allowed himself to feel anything for. He wouldn't betray him.

  "Tristan?" Tate asked, interrupting his thoughts. "What shall we do about Bridin?"

  Tristan sighed, lowering his head. "I suppose I should call off tonight's celebration, and meet with my lieutenants instead."

  "If the princess is killed, there will never be peace in this land," Tate warned, hopping out of the chair and heading for the far wall as if to gaze out the window. "Those loyal to you wish her dead. And those loyal to her wish you dead. But beware, Tristan, my prince, for there are those loyal to another. And they would like to see you both dead."