Magic in the Kiss

by Shari Anton

  "I fail to see why King Stephen's wishes should affect your decision."

  Nicole tossed a frustrated hand in the air. "I am the king's ward! I have no choice but to do his bidding!"

  "I hear the Norman in you speaking. What says the Welsh?" His amber-flecked eyes narrowed. "Or have you abandoned the better half of your heritage? You are of Pendragon, Nicole, and yet you bow to the wishes of an English king. I should think your lineage sets you far above his whims."

  How dare Rhodri reproach her for disregarding a lineage that had not earned her or her sisters a dram of sympathy or regard?

  "When my father was killed, the king gave Camelen to Alberic of Chester, who forced Gwendolyn to marry him. Also on the king's order, Emma was sent to court and forced to marry Darian of Bruges. I was sent here to await my fate, which will also be decided by the English king! What good is the Pendragon blood if no one gives it reverence?"

  "I do," he said softly, sincerely, bursting her bubble of anger over how heartlessly she and her sisters had been treated after her father's death.

  In Rhodri's expression she saw respect for her Pen-dragon lineage, a thing she'd never witnessed from any other person save one—Rhys, also a Welsh bard, who resided at Camelen.

  'Twas Rhys the bard who'd honored Nicole's mother's wishes by singing the ancient tales, telling stories of valiant kings and honorable knights, of King Arthur, keeping their Welsh heritage alive for all the de Leon children.

  Naturally, Rhodri had heard those same tales from his father, then learned to relate them to others from a revered pencerdd.

  Still, his respect for her lineage did her no good.

  "I cannot leave Bledloe Abbey. Were I to take refuge in Wales, my sisters' families might suffer for my audacity. I will not bring the mallet of royal ire down on their heads."

  He huffed. "Right now Stephen can barely lift a mallet, much less wield it. Have you heard of his heir's death?" At Nicole's nod, he continued. "Stephen is far more concerned with keeping hold of his crown and throne than with the whereabouts of one Nicole de Leon. Nor, I believe, would your sisters suffer. From what I have heard of Alberic and Darian, I dare say both would make powerful adversaries, and Stephen is needful of all the good will and allies he can convince to remain his supporters." He stepped forward, a hand outstretched, palm up in an offer of succor. "Think on it, Nicole. The time for you to escape is now, when your absence will barely be noticed. By the time King Stephen is aware you are gone, you will be safely in Wales."

  The door swung open and Sister Claire burst into the chamber, her eyes wide with concern. "I heard shouting! Nicole, have you been harmed?"

  With Rhodri's reasoning swirling in her head, Nicole absently shook her head at the distressed nun. "I beg pardon for my outburst, Sister Claire. I did not mean to disturb you or the vigil."

  Sister Claire took a calming breath. "Well, then, if you are finished, you may again take your place at vigil and I will accompany your visitor to the door."

  Except Nicole didn't want Rhodri to leave just yet.

  Could he be right? Could she leave Bledloe Abbey without worrying over what the king might do to her or her family? Could she escape a marriage that might not be to her liking?

  Dare she take the risk?

  She needed more time to further ponder her uncle's unexpected and wickedly tempting offer of refuge. Nor could she abandon Mother Abbess in these last hours before her death.

  But how to keep Sister Claire from banishing Rhodri from the abbey until she could further ponder Connor's offer?

  The answer to Nicole's dilemma popped forth and rolled off her tongue before she could question its wisdom.

  "Sister Claire, Rhodri ap Dafydd is a bard. Might he be allowed to play his harp for Mother Abbess?" She spun to again face Rhodri, not caring if he saw through her ploy to gain more time. "Mother Abbess weakens hourly, and I doubt that in all of her life she has heard an accomplished bard play the harp. Would you do us the honor, Rhodri?"

  His answer was immediate, his graciousness genuine. "I would be most pleased to play for all who care to listen."

  The nun chewed on her lip in indecision. "This is a most uncommon request, Nicole. Men are not allowed within the depths of the abbey."

  "For the past sennight we have allowed men into the infirmary to visit Mother Abbess."

  "Two priests and a bishop who came to give comfort and say final prayers. One can hardly compare the circumstances!"

  "Rhodri's music can also give comfort," Nicole countered. "I know my request is unusual, but consider the joy you could give Mother Abbess in her final hours. I beg of thee, Sister, give her this one last gift."

  Nicole held her breath while Sister Claire hesitated before relenting.

  "You must leave your sword behind," she ordered Rhodri before leaving the chamber, no doubt headed for the infirmary to warn the other nuns that she'd broken one of the abbey's rules.

  Delighted, Nicole let loose her breath.

  Rhodri laid his sword and scabbard on the bench and unsheathed the beautiful harp. The sliver strings caught bits of light and flung them throughout the room, like tiny stars whirling brightly in the night sky. The harp's music would sparkle as brightly. Oh, how she'd missed a harp's music!

  "Sister Claire must have been very near the door if she heard you shouting at me," Rhodri commented.

  Nicole couldn't remember ever shouting since entering Bledloe Abbey. Embarrassed at her lapse of good manners, she explained, "Loud sounds carry far down stone passageways. Surely she heard me from the infirmary."

  "Or she hovered outside the door to spy on you."

  The very idea that Sister Claire had lingered outside the door apurpose, to overhear Nicole's conversation with Rhodri, was preposterous.

  "Sister Claire is to be the next abbess. Never would she do such a thing."

  "So you say."

  "You have a most suspicious nature, Rhodri ap Dafydd."

  He smiled without a hint of humor. "Then that is to my advantage. A good trait in a warrior, is it not?"

  Nicole conceded the point. "Then I should be suspicious of your purpose, should I not?"

  Now he laughed. "Be assured, my lady. Had not Connor sent me to convey his offer, I would not have stepped foot on English soil, much less journeyed so far into enemy lands."

  That she could believe. He'd risked his neck by playing messenger for Connor. Did that make Rhodri brave, or a fool?

  Brave, she decided. Welsh bards weren't fools.

  * * *

  Rhodri had never before played his harp for a group of nuns, one of whom lay prone on a narrow cot, beads in her frail hands.

  He sat on a stool near the head of the cot, delighted the merry melody he'd chosen to play brought a soft smile to the abbess's thin lips.

  The power of music, whether to calm an upset child or stir men into battle frenzy, had always intrigued Rhodri. As a boy, he'd sat at his father's feet, watched those nimble fingers pluck at the strings, and felt the force of each song played.

  He'd craved that power and learned his craft well. When playing the harp he'd inherited from his father, Rhodri was confident in his ability to stir whatever emotion he chose to draw forth in whatever audience he played for.

  Today was no different. As he intended, Mother Abbess smiled, and the nuns kneeling on the floor had given up their praying and listened, enthralled, to the music.

  Except Nicole de Leon.

  She stood on the other side of the cot, paying him utterly no heed, her gaze steadfastly fixed on Mother Abbess. Rhodri doubted Nicole heard a note but blamed her lack of enchantment on her concern for the abbess and her familiarity with harp music. Unlike the other women, whom he now held in thrall, Nicole had spent her childhood in a household blessed with its own bard, so the music wasn't new to her.

  He hoped she also pondered his suggestion that she should take refuge in Wales. Nicole had declared the offer impossible to accept, but while still in the receiving chamber, h
e'd sensed her plea for a bit more time to decide.

  And now, in the infirmary, Rhodri saw who truly bound Nicole to Bledloe Abbey. Mother Abbess. No royal command, nor religious conviction, could bind her as thoroughly as her devotion to the dying nun. Nicole would balk at leaving the abbey while Mother Abbess yet breathed.

  Nicole's loyalty might be commendable, but he hoped the abbess wouldn't take much longer in her dying. A day's delay in removing Nicole from the abbey he could countenance. But longer?

  Rhodri plucked the song's final note, allowing it to fade before beginning a gentler, softer tune. His heart beat a little faster when Nicole turned her head slightly to reward him with an approving smile. The glint in her large brown eyes confirmed that he played a favorite song.

  A man could become entranced by those lovely eyes, lose all sense of time and whereabouts. They'd fascinated him as a youth and held no less appeal for him now.

  When Nicole entered the receiving chamber, he'd been briefly stunned to see how the adorable little girl had bloomed into a beautiful young woman.

  Not even the black of Nicole's robe could dim the ivory-hued glow of her heart-shaped face. Nor could the unshapely garment completely conceal the allure of her up-tilted, firm breasts or her nicely rounded hips.

  And when, as now, her rosy mouth blessed him with a smile, he felt a tug on his innards he thought he'd possessed more wisdom than to feel.

  Even as he attempted to pay more heed to the harp than the temptation to further notice Nicole's charms, he conceded that if they weren't deep in an abbey at the bedside of a dying woman, he might well be tempted to play a different sort of song.

  One of seduction.

  Nicole's body was made for a man's hands to caress. Her mouth fair begged kissing.

  Even as his loins stirred, Rhodri acknowledged the danger of luring this particular captivating woman into his bed. Nicole de Leon was the object of his mission—and he couldn't fail in his task.

  Best to think of her as the petulant little girl who'd kicked him in the shins and caused him three long months' worth of punishment, not ponder overlong on her womanly enticements or on the benevolent smile she turned his way. Except she was no longer a little girl, nor violently petulant, nor utterly selfish.

  Mother Abbess's hand shifted. Nicole was quick to notice. She covered the nun's hand with her own soft-skinned, delicate fingers, bending low to hear whatever the nun whispered.

  Giving him yet another perspective from which to contemplate the jut of her bosom beneath the habit. He almost groaned aloud in pain, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to reach over and take the weight of a breast in his hand.

  When she straightened, Nicole's eyes sparkled with amusement. "You play so beautifully, Mother Abbess believes you must be an archangel sent to ease her way heavenward."

  He'd been called many things in his life. Stalwart, brave, and loyal by his friends. Dangerous, a conniving cur, or debased devil by his enemies. Charming, wonderful, and talented by his previous lovers.

  No one ever had compared him to one of the heavenly host. If the nun only knew how the bulge in his pants urged him to commit unholy decadence, she'd be shooing him off to hell.

  "I am no angel, Mother Abbess, though I would appreciate your recommending me to Michael or Gabriel should you happen to meet up with them."

  Nicole's smile teased him, charming him so completely his fingers almost fumbled on the strings. "I could tell Mother Abbess a tale or two to disabuse her of her mistaken notion."

  What tales could Nicole tell of his not-so-angelic nature? She'd certainly been too young to remember much of what had happened during her visit to Wales. But then, she might have heard stories from her sisters or her brother, William. Tales he certainly didn't want a nun to hear.

  "You could," he allowed. "But then I would have to tell a tale or two of my own, would I not?"

  Her smile faltered but didn't disappear. "Mother Abbess already knows I am no angel."

  Rhodri could have sworn he heard a snicker from one of the flock of nuns kneeling on the floor.

  During his journey to fetch Nicole, he'd given brief thought to the Tightness of taking Nicole away from the abbey, wondering if perhaps he'd be tearing her away from a true calling to the Church. Not that her calling mattered to Connor, or to Rhodri, who was duty bound to follow Connor's orders. Still, he gladly set his mind at ease that Nicole didn't belong to the Church and that at least one nun in the crowd agreed with him.

  Rhodri refused to feel guilty that Nicole still looked a bit worried that he might inform Mother Abbess of just how unangelic Nicole could be. Instead, he revealed his own devilish tendencies with his harp.

  The song was a common one, heard at every hall, tavern, or campfire where men downed ale. Out of respect for where he was, he didn't sing the words, but he drew expected reactions all the same.

  From the flock he heard soft gasps and saw a few disapprovingly arched eyebrows. Mother Abbess breathed a soft "Oh" before gracing him with a beatific smile.

  And Nicole—she crossed her arms under her sweet breasts. Her reproachful look failed. Then her boot tapped the rapid beat against the plank floor.

  Her decorum suffered further when she began to mouth the words, even the bawdy ones.

  Sister Claire stood, her expression thunderous, her intent clear. Rhodri stared at her hard and played on, willing her not to interrupt the song he'd chosen with deliberate care.

  She blinked when he finally sang.

  "The journey is upon us."

  Nicole joined him, in a clear, sweet voice too angelic for his peace of mind.

  "To faithful fellows farewell,"

  His eyes locked with Nicole's, and he surrendered the lead to provide harmony.

  "Until next we raise an ale.

  All hail! All hail! All hail!"

  Sister Claire's thunder never rumbled. Tears streaming down her face, she sank back down to her knees and bowed her head. Others softly sobbed while still others worked their prayer beads faster.

  "All hail," Mother Abbess said, her voice thready and faint, and Rhodri inwardly breathed a sigh of relief that for this woman, at least, he'd chosen his song correctly.

  Nicole's chin rose, her gaze peering over his shoulder, her stare so intense one would think someone stood behind him. Her lips parted slightly; her eyes welled with tears. With a mixture of sadness and an emotion he couldn't quite identify, Nicole uncrossed her arms and bent toward the abbess.

  What Nicole urgently whispered into the nun's ear he couldn't understand. He merely noted a look of surprise and—concern?—on the old woman's face.

  "Oh, Nicole," the abbess whispered.

  Nicole mustered a smile. "'Tis true. You will see."

  "But how—"

  "You will know all soon. Be at peace, dearest Abbess. Heaven and friends await you."

  Which didn't sound like a platitude to him. The confidence in Nicole's voice said she knew for certain what awaited the nun on the other side of life.

  "Oh, my. Praise… the Lord." And with the words on her lips, the nun's eyes closed for what Rhodri was certain was the last time.

  Nicole kissed the abbess's forehead and arranged the prayer beads around still hands. When satisfied, she turned those beautiful, moist eyes his way. He saw resignation and grief, but there was also peace and, somehow, joy.

  "Pray, one more song, Rhodri," she requested, then took her place among the kneeling nuns.

  Rhodri swallowed the lump threatening to close his throat and again chose his music carefully. Not for this nun a mournful tune, but one of victory, triumph, and celebration.

  Near the end, he noted the abbess's chest failed to rise and fall. He played on to the glorious end, then quietly left the room to allow the nuns to mourn privately and prepare the body for burial.

  To his surprise, several of the nuns followed him out, two of them rushing off down a long passageway. Nicole wiped away tears on her wide black sleeve as she approached him. For
the briefest of moments he considered spreading his arms to offer her comfort, invite her to cry on his shoulder. But her tears were gone by the time she reached him.

  "My thanks, Rhodri," she said, her voice steady. "You so impressed Sister Claire she invites you to evening meal and asks if you will play at the burial on the morn."

  Oddly disappointed Nicole didn't require the use of his shoulder, Rhodri would far rather have grabbed hold of her hand and removed her from the abbey. But she'd fight him, and as much as he wanted to be away, he reasoned that waiting one more day wouldn't matter. As a bard, he also knew Sister Claire awarded him a singular honor.

  "I would be most pleased to play at the burial. Is there aught else I can do to be of service?"

  "Nay, I can think of nothing…"

  Her voice trailed off as she stopped to listen to the deep, mournful drone of the chapel bell, announcing the abbey's sad news to the countryside.

  After a deep breath, she continued, "Let us gather your belongings, and I will point out the priest's hut, where you may spend the night."

  Chapter Three

  Nicole's knees ached from kneeling on rough, cold stone. The air in the abbey's chapel had become both stale and odoriferous, a result of Sister Claire's bad judgment, in Nicole's opinion.

  Last eve, not long after the tolling of the bell, people from leagues around had swarmed the abbey. So many pleaded with Sister Claire for a last glimpse of Mother Abbess that the doors were thrown open and all allowed to enter. Mon dieu, Sister Claire had decided to completely ignore the ban on males within the abbey, and so entire families were given free rein. Too many mourners spent the night in vigil with the nuns, and so too many prayers had been accompanied by the harsh rasp of snoring.

  Nicole truly couldn't blame the tenant farmers and villagers for wishing to bid farewell to one of the most fair and compassionate overlords they might ever know. Nor could she hold these simple people to the same rules of suitable behaviour that she'd learned as a child in a noble household, the same rules practiced here in the abbey.