Midnight Magic

by Shari Anton

  He came through the door and stopped abruptly when he spotted the tub. He closed his eyes and took a long sniff of steamy lavender.

  “Oh, joy. Oh, rapture!”

  She chuckled at his approval, but said not a word as he threw the bolt on the door and tore off his garments. Gloriously naked, his warrior’s hide thankfully intact and unmarked, he padded over to the tub and dipped in a hand.

  He sighed. “You like your bathwater hotter than I do.”

  She twisted her hair and pinned it to the top of her head before she approached him. He held out an arm in invitation, and she slid easily and firmly into his embrace. Pressed breast to chest, her arms around his neck, his hands at her waist, she placed light kisses along his rugged jawline.

  “The water must be hot so it does not cool too soon.”

  His hands slid down to cup her bottom, pulling her lower body up and more firmly against his hardening phallus. “How long do you plan to linger in the water?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  She felt his fingers gathering up her chemise, the fabric rising and teasing her sensitive skin.

  “For what?” he asked, his voice low and gruff.

  “For you to pleasure me so throughly I do not notice when the water cools.”

  The chemise bunched at her waist, his long fingers splayed against her bared bottom, he again pulled her in tight against his now fully engorged arousal.

  “You ask much of your husband so late at night.”

  She wiggled against the hard rod she wanted to ease her deepest ache. “I have never known my husband to fail to please me, no matter the time of day or night. The water cools. Get in.”

  He pushed her chemise upward, over her head. “We have time to rub salve on your bruise. How feels your hip? Still sore?”

  “Other parts of me hurt more. The salve can wait until after.”

  Finally, he surrendered to her urging, easing slowly into the water, stretching his legs the length of the tub. She followed, sinking into the soothing heat to sit between his legs and melt back against his chest.

  She couldn’t help a sigh. “So this is heaven.”

  His arms came around her. “Our own piece of it anyway. Lord, what a day this has been.”

  “I prefer not to think about today, or even tomorrow. ’Struth, I just want to be with you and not think at all.”

  He scooped up a handful of water and dribbled it over her shoulder. The rivulets trickled down her arm and over a breast. With a finger he traced the path of one drop to slide over her nipple, then paused to circle the nub. Her body responded as it always did to his fondling, greedily begging for more.

  “Do you know how beautiful you are, Gwen? I could sit here and look at you all night long and never tire of the sight.” He kissed the side of her neck. “And touch. Your skin is so soft beneath my fingers and mouth. Delectable.”

  She shivered beneath his warm kiss and tried to turn around to kiss him, too.

  “Not yet. Let me look, and taste, and touch a while longer. Do nothing but enjoy.”

  “You will let me have my turn at you, then.”

  He chuckled. “Without a doubt.”

  Then Alberic reached for the bar of soap atop the stack of towels next to the tub, and Gwendolyn reveled in the most erotic of baths. His hands slick and skilled, he kneaded her shoulders, stroked her arms, then thoroughly washed her breasts until she nearly screamed for mercy. Her respite came when he washed her hands, his fingers gliding over and around hers, giving her a chance to inspect his beleaguered hand.

  The seal of the dragon glittered, remaining firmly fixed in place. No amount of tugging would remove the ring, and ’twas obvious he’d tried all manner of ways to get it off. She interrupted his ministrations to take his left hand in both of hers to massage away the soreness. After dunking it in the water, she brought his hand to her mouth and kissed the knuckles.

  “You said this morn you had no regrets. Can you say that still?”

  His hand tightened on hers. “I would be the veriest fool to regret whatever brought me to Camelen and to you. I swear, I would not rather be anywhere else but here, and with no other woman but you. What of you? Are you truly content?”

  “I would not have said so if I were not. I hated the reason why you came, and all the heartache. But now I cannot imagine my life without you here with me.”

  From far off she heard the sound of church bells pealing the hour of matins. Midnight. The time between, the time of magic.

  Alberic wrapped her in his arms again and bent his head, his mouth hovering next to her ear, his breath warm and soft. “I love you, Gwen. With all my heart and soul, I love you. With each breath I love you more, and vow that at my dying breath I shall love you most of all.”

  Joyous tears welled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. This time when she turned he didn’t stop her. On her knees, fingers threaded into his hair, she tried to swallow the lump in her throat so she could tell him she loved him, too. But couldn’t. So she ravaged his mouth, willing him to know what she couldn’t say yet.

  Then speaking proved impossible. Coherent thought became hopeless. Alberic’s roving hands demanded more than kisses, more than vows. She surrendered up body and soul to the searing heat he ignited between her legs, the slow stroke of his fingers driving her wild. She arched back when he hungrily sought a nipple on which to suckle, feeling more alive, and beautiful, and loved than she’d ever felt before.

  Ravenous for the joining, one at a time she spread her legs farther apart, placing them outside Alberic’s. He knew what she craved, and with hands on her hips guided her to that which she sought. With the brief thought that she’d never taken her turn to look and taste and touch, she lowered onto him with the intent of just sitting there, joined to the hilt, then caress whatever other parts of him she could reach.

  Except he scooted forward, sloshing water, moving her legs so they circled around him.

  She hadn’t known a man’s penis could pierce so deeply, or with the slickness of soapy water to aid him, all Alberic need do was contract a few muscles to set her to squirming. Gwendolyn tightened a few muscles of her own, encouraging him to continue. He pumped faster. She spurred him onward.

  His lips pursed, his green eyes closed.

  Gwendolyn tilted her pelvis, changing the angle of his thrusts and increasing the depth and breadth of each stroke. She bloomed in a sharp burst, the petals of her spirit opening to greet the new day in a riot of vivid color and heady triumph. Alberic shuddered beneath her, his release accompanied by a low, satisfied groan.

  She collapsed against him, her heart thudding against his, vowing there would be more midnight baths in their future.

  Between heavy breaths she managed to utter, “I love you, Alberic. I love you. I love you.”

  He almost crushed her with an embrace. “Who would have thought we would come to this? When I chose you as my wife the most I dared hope for was an accord, that we could find a way to get along.”

  “I dare say we did!”

  He laughed lightly. “I dare say you are right.”

  The next kiss was the sweetest they’d ever shared. A vow to each other that nothing could ruin the love they’d found.

  “You kept your word,” she told him when coming up for air. “I did not notice the water had cooled until we were done.”

  “’Tis finally comfortable.”

  “Then enjoy.”

  After a long parting kiss, Gwendolyn climbed out of the tub to find water all over the floor and the towels soaked through. She used her chemise to dry off, took the pins from her hair, and climbed into bed.

  Alberic didn’t remain in the water. He, too, used her chemise, then blew out all but one candle. He grabbed the jar of balm before he sank onto the mattress, and soon his hand was circling on the bruised hip she’d forgotten he’d promised to tend.

  She closed her eyes, enjoying the tending.

  “Feels good,” she whispered.

 
His failure to answer prodded her eyes open again. Alberic stared at her hip, frowning deeply.

  “Truly, Alberic, it does not hurt much.”

  He acknowledged with a nod of his head. “I was considering what you said this morn, before ap Idwal made his last appearance in our lives. I gather you believe the magic will ensure we remain attracted. Is that what our love is, an obligation for the convenience of an ancient legacy?”

  Would she have fallen in love with Alberic if he didn’t wear the ring? Had Alberic given her his heart because the magic compelled him to love the guardian of the legacy?

  She hated to think that might be so.

  “I know not,” she confessed.

  He smiled wryly. “Perhaps ’twas not such a foolish notion to rid myself of the ring by chopping off the finger.”

  “You had best not!”

  “Then how will we ever know for certain if we love of our own free will or are compelled by a magical spell?”

  How, indeed? Gwendolyn thought back on all she knew of the legacy, which Alberic no longer denied as nonsense. She should be glad he acknowledged the existence of magic, but he now had questions she’d never thought to ask and wasn’t sure she wanted answered.

  “We may never know for certain, but I believe the legacy requires the partners to love each other before the spell can be cast, not that it can compel the partners to love.”

  “Perhaps,” he said before he put the jar on the night table then lay down so she could cuddle up against him.

  Gwendolyn lay awake a long time, listening to the beat of his heart that now belonged to her, hoping it was given freely.

  The following morning, shortly after they broke fast, Alberic shocked her with a startling, unreasonable, impossible request.

  “No one is to know of the legacy except the partners,” she argued against his plan.

  “Except neither of us knows what is expected of us. You once told me you believed Rhys had come to Camelen with your mother against the possibility she may need his help. We both know the bard is trustworthy. I say we show him the scroll and let him tell us what it says if he can.”

  She understood his reasons, truly she did, but her parents’ warnings to maintain secrecy yet whispered in her ear.

  “What if I am wrong and telling Rhys voids the spell?”

  “I am quite willing to take the risk. Tell me true, Gwen. Let us say we never decide that England has come to its most dire moment, and the time comes to pass the artifacts on to our daughter. You have lived with questions and doubts since your mother gave the artifacts to you without explaining their use fully. Do you wish the next guardian to endure the same?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Nay, she didn’t wish those fears and uncertainties on anyone, much less her own daughter. And without having her uncertainties answered, she couldn’t help the next guardian.

  Alberic continued, “After reading Merlin’s prophecies I am convinced that if we try to invoke the spell without knowing the consequences, we could summon one of the dragons, or giants, or even the Ass of Wickedness instead of King Arthur.”

  That surprised her. “You read the prophecies?”

  He nodded. “The night before we left Chester.”

  The night they’d argued and she challenged him to take off the ring. Obviously Alberic had given the matter a great deal of thought since. And perhaps he was right to delve further into the mystery, which she’d never had the courage to do. Perhaps that time was now.

  Still she heard her parents’ warnings.

  “On one condition. We do not tell Rhys beforehand what we wish to know. If he can read the scroll, then fine. But if not, we come away no worse than before.”

  “Agreed.”

  Not long after, Gwendolyn’s stomach in knots, the scroll secreted away in her cloak, she and Alberic approached the bard’s cottage. Harp music wafted through the air, a sound she usually found soothing. Not today.

  Rhys opened the door to Alberic’s knock.

  The bard raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I am honored, my lord, my lady. What brings you to my humble hut?”

  “We ask a boon,” Alberic answered. “We are in possession of a scroll neither of us can read. We should like you to try.”

  Rhys smiled. “I should be pleased to be of service. Pray enter.”

  Gwendolyn pulled out the scroll, and with shaking hands offered it to the bard.

  For tortuous moments he stared at the unrolled parchment, saying nothing. When he looked up, he seemed confused.

  “May I ask how this came into your possession, my lady?”

  Gwendolyn almost refused to give him any information, but not yet knowing if he could read it and out of courtesy to a revered Welsh bard, she answered, “’Twas among my mother’s belongings.”

  “How odd. This is written in no language I can name. Were I to guess, I would say it was that of the Moors. I wonder how your mother came by it?”

  The Moors?

  Stunned, she looked to Alberic, who circled behind Rhys to look at the scroll. His brow furrowed, likely as puzzled by Rhys’s statement as she. ’Twasn’t possible for her and Alberic to recognize the writing as some form of Welsh and for Rhys to see another language altogether. She could think of no explanation for his error other than failing eyesight.

  “’Tis no wonder why we cannot read it then.” Alberic held out his hand for the scroll, which Rhys promptly handed over. “We thank you for looking.”

  “If you wish, I could inquire of other bards—”

  “Not necessary,” Alberic answered abruptly. “When I am called to the king’s court, I may make inquiries.”

  Rhys bowed his head in acquiescence. “As you say, my lord.”

  With his hand in the middle of her back, Alberic urged her toward the door. She knew she should obey without hesitation, but for most of her life she’d believed Rhys had come to Camelen with her mother as an aid to the legacy. With that notion now shattered, another question nagged.

  “I have always wondered why a Welsh bard settled on England’s soil. What brought you to Camelen?”

  His smile was soft. “Your mother. She worried her children might grow up too Norman. She asked that I come to keep the Welsh traditions alive for you and your siblings. When a Welsh princess asks, one relents.”

  So simple an answer.

  “And will you stay for my children?”

  The bard’s smile widened. “If my lady wishes.”

  “She does. Good day to you, Master Bard.”

  Finally outside, her attention again turned to the scroll, and her frustration increased.

  “Moorish. That makes no sense at all. I fear Rhys’s vison fails him.”

  Alberic slowed, and Gwendolyn realized he’d led her to the middle of a field, not in a straight path to the keep.

  “Have you looked at this of late?”

  The tone of his question stopped her, and a quiver tingled along her spine.

  “I had no reason to since showing it to you.”

  His hand shook as he handed her the scroll. “Tell me what you see.”

  She still saw ancient Welsh, but could read more. And what she read nearly buckled her knees.

  Faithful hearts, honorably bound.

  Then she understood why Alberic’s hand shook.

  “You can read it, too.”

  “Though the whole of it still appears to be in Welsh, I can now see whatever you see in Norman-French.”

  Welsh. Moorish. Norman-French. All on the same parchment? Three people seeing three different languages?

  “Not possible.”

  “I swear to you, I see two phrases in Norman-French. Perhaps Rhys truly sees Moorish. Consider. The legacy was devised by Merlin, a mighty sorcerer. He gave the artifacts into the guardianship of the women descended from the line of Pendragon, whom he trusted to keep the legacy secret. But knowing the failing of humans, he must also have known that the artifacts could fall into untrustworthy hands. ’Twould be
meet to place a spell on the scroll so those who are not supposed to read it cannot.”

  How very sensible and safe. Except for one thing.

  Gwendolyn flung a hand in the air. “But until now you were not able to read a word of it despite being chosen by the ring.”

  “By the ring, perhaps, but until of late I did not believe in magic, nor was I accepted as partner by the guardian. It needed for you to love me first, Gwen. And that, I vow, is a magic unto itself.”

  Gwendolyn melted into the arms of the man with whom she shared a magical love. And if his conjecture was right, then she also had to admire Merlin’s genius.

  “So as time passes, the scroll will tell us what we need to know. And when the time is right to issue the summons, whoever is meant to invoke the spell will be able to read all.”

  “I believe so, and I would be most pleased to pass through this life never being able to read the whole. What say we put this away and not take it out for, say . . . fifty years.”

  Gwendolyn sat on their bed, watching Alberic inspect the lid of her mother’s trunk, looking for evidence of a hiding place for the scroll and pendant.

  Faithful hearts, honorably bound.

  Comforting words, for surely that meant the magic hadn’t forced her and Alberic to love each other. She silently thanked Merlin for putting the doubt to rest, even though she was irked he hadn’t done so sooner.

  But she shouldn’t be surprised by the unusual way of revelation. One had only to look at Merlin’s prophecies; every one of them written in an unclear manner. Such, she supposed, was the way of sorcerers.

  At least now she could put the artifacts away and not worry over them.

  “Any luck as yet?” she asked.

  He grunted, then asked, “Do you still wish to visit Nicole?”

  Letters from both Nicole and Emma had arrived while she and Alberic were at Chester. Both disturbed her, especially Nicole’s. She’d been ready to leave for Bledloe Abbey right then, but after having time to reread the letter, had changed her mind.

  “Nay. I suppose I should accept that Nicole has truly made peace with her fate and not interfere. My going to visit her may disrupt her contentment.”

  “Nicole does seem to enjoy her time in the infirmary. She showed no interest in herb lore before, did she?”