Faery Weddings

by Jo Beverley

  He touched her cheek. "I like that bit. But then maybe I don't. You've been driving me mad, you know. I haven't been able to stop thinking of you for weeks. My heart pounds when you come into a room. I want to kiss you and strip you naked."

  Gwen couldn't help but smile. "Did you want to strip Cecily naked?"

  A look of anger flashed over his face, but then he laughed. "No, damn you. I wanted her because she was safe. She didn't drive me wild. I knew as soon as I saw you again that my father was right, that the faeries had come to trap me." He rolled on top of her. "I was determined not to be trapped. I wanted to drive you away."

  His kiss was both snare and surrender and Gwen surrendered to it enthusiastically.

  She had something to say, though, and struggled free to say it. "The pearl," she assured him earnestly. "It was an inheritance from my grandmother."

  "What pearl?" He was fumbling with the hooks of her dress.

  "The one I wore at the ball! The one you kept staring at."

  He laughed, halting his attempt to disrobe her. "Gad, Gwennie, I was staring at your bosom. And having astonishingly lewd thoughts. Which I would put into action now if I could only get your damned dress loose."

  "But why have you been so horrid since we came home?"

  He pulled her into his arms, just a comforting embrace. "I'm sorry, love. But no man likes to feel trapped, by a woman or by magic. I was determined not to give in, but all the time, I longed to find you and be with you. You've been driving me demented."

  "As you have me! What about all the years you stayed away?"

  "I wanted to come home. I wanted to come home to you. But I was afraid. You see before you a dreadful coward."

  She laughed against his chest. "Not you, Drew. You joined the army. I saw you..."

  He pushed her away a little. "That dream? You had it too?"

  Gwen nodded. "If it was a dream. That was when I realized I truly loved you, loved the man not the memory of the friend I'd grown up with."

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, he pulled something out of his pocket. A gray garter. "I had this to tell me it wasn't a dream. My old beliefs came back and I guessed what was in hand. I tried to fight it, though. I thought I could."

  "I did, too." She told him about the duchess's invitation and the lottery win.

  They both laughed shakily. "No one can thwart Faery, it would seem," she said.

  "I was abominably rude to you."

  "Yes. And it almost worked to drive me away."

  "Why didn't it?"

  "Because I realized you could be in danger."

  He frowned slightly. "Doesn't it worry you that Faery is so ruthless?"

  "Why worry about something we cannot change? Is life in the dale not good? Perhaps the power does spread out from here to make the whole land better. And Faery is offering us a chance of true happiness." Gwen told him what her father had said about the magic of love.

  "So," Drew said in the end, gently stroking her shoulder, "we may have been ensorcelled from birth, but what I feel is normal" -- he dropped a gentle kiss on her cheek -- "human" -- then on her lips -- "adoration."

  "And desire," she whispered, her lips soft and ready when he deepened it....

  Someone cleared a throat.

  "Damn it to Hades!" Drew exclaimed as they both looked up.

  Gwen's father was there again, lips twitching. "Unwelcome though I suspect it may be, it is my honor to lead you to your wedding, my children."

  "We're already wed," Drew said. "Go away."

  "By the laws of humans, perhaps, but not by the laws of Faery."

  Drew rolled to lean on his elbows. "Are you trying to tell me my father took part in any such rite?"

  "No. And there, perhaps, lay an error. The Lord of Elphindale has not made his vows before Faery for many of your generations. Your father went so far as to marry out of dale, and thus was lost to us."

  "He was lost long before that. Did you kill my mother?"

  Suddenly frightened, Gwen reached out to grasp his sleeve. "Drew..."

  "Yes," said her father. "It was as good a death as we could give her."

  "Drew..."

  Drew covered Gwen's hand with his, but his somber eyes did not leave her father. "I should hate you for that."

  Merlon inclined his head. "Indeed, by the ways of humans, perhaps you should. But the fault was not in the death, but in the centuries we had let pass which weakened the blood. It will not be so again."

  "Perhaps we don't want Faery meddling in our lives, in our children's lives."

  "Don't you?"

  Gwen bit her lip, wanting to intervene, but knowing this was something Drew must decide for himself.

  Silence ran, then Drew turned to look at her. "Faery has given me Gwen, and the dale. And the faery bond perhaps offers more to all humanity. Very well." He leaped to his feet and held out a hand to her. "Come along, Kerrigwen. Let's plight our troth before Faery, and then perhaps they'll leave us to finally, finally, consummate our bond."

  Hand in hand, they followed a sparkling path to the magic glade Gwen had visited before, where the Lady presided. There, in the hearing of Faery, and perhaps of all of nature, they made a simple vow, to be true to each other, and to preserve the dale.

  The Lady embraced them, like sunlight and starlight all around, then led them -- one hand each -- back to their rose-strewn bower.

  A trailing finger drifted sparkling glamour all around. "Here you will make the next Lord, my children, and make all safe for the next thousand years."

  "Willingly," said Drew, drawing Gwen firmly into his arms, "if you will only go away."

  And the Lady laughed. "Oh, you humans! I will never understand you." Her silver eyes swept over them. "Serve me well. That's all I ask. Serve me well, and I will bless you all your days."

  Then she held out her hand to Merlon, and dancing, led the Faery Court on their way.

  The warmth, the light, and the glamour lingered when they'd gone.

  "Well?" Drew asked. "Shall we defy her and go back to our waiting marriage bed?"

  Suddenly shy, Gwen shook her head. "I don't want to delay."

  "By heaven," he groaned, "neither do I!"

  His fingers were swift now, stripping her of her garments, though he paused to laugh when he saw the one gray garter. She told him why the other stocking was held up by a pink silk ribbon.

  "When I woke in the tent," he said, sliding her silk stockings all the way off, "it was all I could do not to rush back to the dale, to discover if you were really as I'd seen you. To finish that seduction. To claim you. If I hadn't had my duties I might have done it." He raised her foot and kissed the arch. "I want to kiss every inch of you. Every inch, every day...."

  Gwen, in nothing but her shift, rose up and hastened his undressing, and did her best to kiss every inch of him, wondering at him, and at herself. Slave to wild desire, she even stroked his stiff, jutting manhood. She went further. She kissed it.

  That seemed to drive him wild. He pinned her down in their fragrant bed of roses and their wild desire grew wilder. Wilder and more focused there between her legs where he joined with her slowly and carefully at first, and then thoroughly, making her his wife, his lady, the Lady of Elphindale. If Gwen had not believed in magic before, she believed it then.

  "Oh my!" she gasped when she had breath back.

  "Oh my, indeed!" He laughed as he gathered her into his arms, showering her tingling skin with kisses.

  "Magic...." she murmured, incapable even of a coherent sentence

  "If you like. But that, beloved, was magic of the most human kind."

  Gwen settled into the luxury of his naked embrace. "Mmmmmm. Care to teach me more about human magic then, oh mighty Lord of Elphindale."

  "With pleasure, my Lady Kerrigwen, my faery bride."

  And so he did. And they taught each other and learned from each other, both human and magic, throughout that long flower-strew night.

  In the heart of the woods, in the heart
of a dale, somewhere in the heart of England.

  And there you have the end of the second story in this book. Next, a virtuous married lady becomes entangled with a faery feast where she loses her heart to a stranger and is favoured by Titania. Her marriage is unhappy, but can even faery magic make all right?

  Titania’s Gift

  Chapter One

  Maberley Hall, Oxfordshire, 24th March, 1813

  Sarah, Lady Jardine stood at the window of her bedroom in Maberley Hall watching banners of flame fly up from the bonfire in the village, casting golden sparkles into the night sky. Silhouettes danced around the blaze in so wild a way she could only think them pagan. She could hardly believe such a wild festivity was allowed on the estate of elegant Maberley Hall, or by her ambitious hosts.

  Sir Jacob and Lady Stoneycroft made no secret of having gained their wealth through trade, nor of intending to rise as high as possible. Sarah saw nothing wrong with that. She'd rather consort with clever, hardworking people than with idle fools, but they must want to make a good impression on their guests.

  Maberley Hall impressed. Sir Jacob had purchased the estate when the Maberley family had been ruined by three generations of debauchery and gaming. After their arrival this afternoon Sarah and her husband had been shown pictures of the decrepit mess that had been torn down to make way for the new.

  The new house had been designed by a student of Robert Adams and was admirable in every respect. The gardens had been remade in the modern naturalist style, though the traditional rose garden and parterre close to the house had been kept.

  "Keep the best and improve the rest," cheerful Lady Stoneycroft had said as she'd shown Sarah round the gardens. "I confess to a fondness for the old when it's in good repair. I shouldn't have kept this sundial," she said, pausing to touch the top of a worn stone pillar. "A sundial's no use these days, is it, and any design carved in the stone has long gone, but it feels rooted here." She laughed. "Sir Jacob is grateful the old place was beyond repair, or I'd have probably tried to preserve it. Parts went back six hundred years."

  Sarah had been surprised to fall into an easy relationship with her sturdy hostess, for Amanda Stoneycroft was from a merchant background and twice her age. She had a married daughter only two years younger than Sarah, and two sons engaged in the family business in London. All the same, Sarah had instantly liked the lady, and honestly admired her work on the house and estate.

  Beyond the old formal gardens lay perfection. A lake with a treed island showing a glimpse of a Grecian temple; a sweep of trees of various shapes and hues; and an expanse of grass cropped by dainty deer. Many landowners who'd achieved similar elegance had moved villages that offended their aesthetic, but the Stoneycrofts had left an ancient village in place, complete with a squat church tower.

  That fondness for the old? It wasn't a particularly pretty sight.

  She'd asked, "Were you not tempted to move it?"

  "Mayfield? Such an upheaval for the people there and inconvenient for those who come up daily to work. But I confess," Lady Stoneycroft added, "I simply like to see it there. It seems right."

  "Perhaps it's a rough note that emphasizes the beauty of the rest."

  "Perhaps, but I go with how I feel."

  The rambling village was tucked at the base of a wooded ridge. There were some evergreens, but in March many of the trees were bare-branched. It might be pretty in summer, and in autumn when many trees would turn gold, but now it was another blemish.

  "Have you not thought of planting the hill entirely with evergreens?" Sarah asked.

  "I like the seasons and I'm told there are trees up there that date back to Queen Elizabeth and perhaps older. Anyway, it's a working wood. The villagers coppice some trees, and collect fallen wood and leaf mold and all manner of other things. They'd be upset at a drastic change. They even have some sort of ancient charter about it. They're certainly not short of local lore and traditions."

  "Which all point to their benefit, perhaps?" Sarah said as they turned and strolled on. Perhaps Amanda Stoneycroft needed a warning. Local people would take advantage of newcomers if they could.

  But Amanda chuckled. "Of course, but they're genial people and good workers. Why rock the boat? The village is in the Domesday Book with the hill down as Mab Hill, and I've heard some wonderful stories about witches, goblins and fairies. The best ones are about Mab, queen of Faery. They say the hill was once Mab's Hill and the village Mab's Field."

  Sarah chuckled. "People do like their tales. Where I grew up there's a fairy well which is supposed to bring every lass the lad of her dreams. Alas, there are always spinsters there."

  "Perhaps they don't ask help of the well."

  Sarah stared. "You're a believer?"

  "No, but if I were desperate to wed and getting beyond my last prayers, I'd try it out. What's the cost?"

  "It's pagan."

  Now Sarah remembered using that word.

  It was one thing to leave a shambling village in place, but quite another to permit a pagan rite within sight of the house. Especially tonight, when the Stoneycrofts were hosting a select but significant gathering of Tory politicians.

  Lady Stoneycroft had apologized to them all at dinner time. "I'm afraid that after dinner the service might not be quite as normal. Sir Jacob and I like to respect traditions and the villagers have celebrated Lady Day Eve with a bonfire and revels forever. It seems the servants who come from local families consider it a right to attend."

  "Extraordinary," Lord Barmouth had said, clearly meaning "Disgraceful."

  But Miranda Hoyt-Grenville had exclaimed, "How wonderful! Can we go?"

  She was the youngest guest -- the very new, very pretty, very vivacious wife of Sir Launceston Hoyt-Grenville. He was old enough to know better, but when did aging men ever become wise in these matters?

  Sir Launceston had placed a hand over hers and said, "I doubt they'd welcome intruders, my dear, at an ancient, rural rite."

  Miranda had accepted the admonition charmingly, but added, "Ancient rite? It does sound delicious. Don't you think, Lady Jardine?"

  Sarah had been taken aback. "I doubt it would be pleasant."

  Miranda had rolled her eyes. Perhaps she'd thought that the two youngest ladies present would be in accord. That could make the next three days trying. They were both in their twenties, but where Sarah had tipped toward thirty, Miranda had only just entered the decade, and they had nothing in common at all.

  Ostensibly the house party was to enjoy a small local race meeting in which some of Sir Jacob's horses were to take part. In reality, the gentlemen were a political cabal. There were divisions within the Tory party, and plots and plans abounded.

  The seven gentlemen were all over forty and serious-minded. Their wives were expected to keep one another company and promote their husband's interests in whatever way possible.

  Sarah had observed Miranda throughout dinner. Had she ever been like that? No, for she'd always known what was expected of her and had married with that in mind. Her Edward was a steady, conscientious gentleman of forty who was progressing well in his political career. He might become Prime Minister one day.

  After dinner the ladies had left the gentlemen to their port, brandy and the true purpose of the gathering, and settled with undisguised relief into the comforts of the drawing room. Coffee and cakes were provided, and also ratafia.

  Sarah had never been sure why ratafia was considered a suitable drink for ladies, except in being sweet. It was always alcoholic, and as the recipe was variable, could be very potent. A sip told her that Amanda Stoneycroft's was strong so she put it aside. Some of the other ladies enjoyed it enthusiastically. Even so, she felt the tone of the conversation could be laid more at Miranda Hoyt-Grenville's door than at alcoholic spirits.

  To begin with the talk was of the usual sort -- of households, servants, children and the domestic arts. Sarah never enjoyed such sessions, for she always felt as if her childless state was avoided with excruciat
ing care. She'd welcome an entirely now topic, but was shocked when it was the marriage bed.

  Miranda began it, tripping carelessly from talk of mattresses to their importance for marital pleasures -- which she clearly enjoyed. With surprising subtlety, Amanda Stoneycroft agreed that a comfortable marriage bed was the most delightful thing possible, leaving her precise meaning open. Pandora's Box had been opened, however.

  After a sip of ratafia, stiff-rumped Lady Barmouth said, "For my part, I'm glad to have my family and be done with it."

  "Oh, yes," Lady Goostrey said, rather pink in the face. "Goostrey set up a mistress two years ago and we go along so much better now."

  Lucky lady, Sarah thought, but alas her Edward was far too virtuous to take that path. She didn't contribute that to the discussion, however, and hoped the topic would fade away.

  Pale, blond Mrs. Tillyard had hardly spoken a word all evening, but she must have been enjoying the drink. There could be no other explanation for her saying, "I wish my husband would come more frequently to my bed."

  Color flared in her cheeks and she took another gulp of ratafia, but she seemed relieved to have let it out.

  Sarah wondered what portion of the nation's wives delighted in their marital duties, and how many resented them or were relieved to be free of them at last. Ah, but she'd forgotten the poor neglected part. She'd never imagined that condition.

  She'd avoided the ratafia, but she still had a terrible temptation to say, "My husband doesn't neglect me. He is scrupulous in his attentions and courteous about them, too. But I wish he'd stop, because in five years I've never conceived and so I probably never will and his persistence underlines my failing."

  If she started, she might go on to tell them that Edward came to her bed three times a week -- Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. Only her courses were allowed to break the regimen. She and Edward were considered a most devoted couple because they were never apart for more than a night or two, but failure ran like a bitter river beneath their apparent content. Nevertheless, Edward persisted and she now dreaded his scrupulous attempts to plant his seed. And tomorrow was Wednesday.