Bewitched

by Sandra Schwab

  “Yes. Yes.” Gripping her a little bit higher against his chest, he straightened. “So be it.”

  For a moment he closed his eyes to breathe deeply and let the cold winter air flow through him. With each breath, the tension inside him ebbed away, and as he opened his eyes once more, a strange calmness had settled on him.

  And so it begins…

  With measured steps he walked toward the stones and then stepped through the circle of light into the darkness within. It was not bleak or utterly black, but a shifting, living thing, created from shadows and flickers of light.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Fox could discern the thick bed of furs and blankets that had been prepared for them—and the four pots with candles at the cardinal points that waited to be lit.

  Once more panic gripped him, chased all the confidence away. “The candles! We’ve got nothing to light the candles!”

  “Hush.” Cold, trembling fingers found his mouth. “Hush,” Amy repeated weakly. “Put me down on the blankets. Don’t worry about the candles.”

  “But—”

  “Hush. My head has to face east.”

  Trembling and shivering, he put her down as she directed. Why, oh why had he not thought of the candles? He should have brought a tinder box, should have…

  “Hush,” she murmured again, as if she could hear his thoughts. Her fingers stroked from his mouth down to his chin, and further down his throat. He reached up to undo the scarf he was wearing, so that her fingers could trail unhindered over his skin, all the way to the hollow of his throat, where she pressed a little until his blood pulsed against the tips of her fingers.

  “Close your eyes,” she murmured. “Imagine the circle of light that surrounds us, closes us in. A perfect, unbroken circle of light.”

  His brows furrowed a little, but it was an easy thing to do, what with the round of torches complementing the circle of stones. He could easily imagine the flames of the torches fusing together until they formed a golden-red band.

  “Perfect and unbroken,” he whispered.

  “Yes.” There was a smile in her voice. “Now go and invoke the powers of the East.”

  That he could do, too. The Bournes had told him all about this, had made him memorize the words. He opened his eyes, rose and walked past Amy to the outer boundary of their circle.

  “You powers of the East…” Awkwardly he cleared his throat. No, this didn’t feel right. He turned. “Amy?”

  “Do it joyfully.” Her whisper came out of the dimness. “Imagine… the lark that rises over the fields… in the morning. This is where… everything begins…” Her voice trailed away.

  Joyfully? Fox grimaced. How was he supposed to be joyful?

  Imagine the lark…

  He closed his eyes, breathed deeply. And from the deepest recesses of his mind sprang a memory: how he and Richard had stolen outside one morning in spring when they had been hardly older than his nephews were now. Frost had covered the ground, had crunched underneath their boots as they trotted through the gardens and the park all the way to the outer wall, where they slipped through a small door. Richard had reached for his hand and had urged him to walk faster until they had reached the wide field. There they had waited, had watched the sky turn from gray to pink, had listened to nature awakening all around them—the hustling and bustling of small animals, the still feeble chirps of birds. And then the sun had risen over the horizon, a fiery ball, and had filled their boyish hearts with elation. And beside them a lark had risen high into the sky and had sung, brilliantly, joyfully, and Fox had felt as if he could fly himself. Laughing, he had flung his arms around his brother…

  A laugh bubbled up in his throat. Fox flung his arms wide. “Hail thee, you powers of the East!” His voice was strong and sure, was reflected and increased in intensity by the stones around them. “Hail to the winds, the small breezes, and the birds that ride them weightlessly! Hail thee, Aurora, Goddess of the Morning, of rebirth and all beginnings. Be with us tonight!”

  “Yes, ” Amy whispered behind him. He felt a small push between his shoulder blades, and when he looked down, a flame grew at the wick of the candle. It had worked! Oh, thank goodness, it was working!

  “And now on to the South,” Amy murmured, and with wonder in his heart, he stepped to the next terra-cotta pot.

  “Hail thee, you powers of the South, where fire burns hotly. Hail to Vesta, Goddess Guardian of the Fire. Guard us tonight.”

  Again he felt Amy’s power like a push against his back, and the next moment a flame rose from the candle at his feet.

  “And to the West.”

  Another few steps. His skin started to prickle. “Hail thee, you powers of the West. Hail to the waters, the rivers and the oceans, which bring forth new life. Hail to Aphrodite! Let us swim in your waters tonight in order to be reborn.”

  The candle flamed.

  “And to the North.” Amy’s voice was almost inaudible.

  Three more steps. “Hail thee, you powers of the North. Hail thee, Goddess of the Earth, great Demeter! Guard us in your womb tonight!”

  He braced himself for the push. It seemed feebler this time, but still the candle was lit.

  “And now… back to the East… to complete the circle,” Amy breathed.

  And thus he went to where he had started.

  “Seal it… seal it with a kiss.”

  Closing his eyes, he leaned forward, pressed his mouth against the rock. Cool and smooth it touched his lips—the kiss of the Earth Goddess, the Lady of the Land.

  Slowly, he turned. Amy lay spread before him in a web of light and shadow. Her skin was as white as the snow itself. As white as marble, as the blossoms of lily of the valley. For a moment, fear for her closed his throat. But this was not the time for fear.

  Have a little faith, he heard the voice of his mother in his mind.

  He stepped around Amy until he stood at her feet. Her eyes had been closed, but now she opened them, two dark, shimmering pools in her pale face. She watched him as he slipped out of his coat, his jacket, his waistcoat. Watched him as he pulled the shirttails out of his trousers, opened the fastenings at his throat and wrists, and pulled the shirt over his head. The coldness bit at his skin, but he hardly noticed, for he only had eyes for Amy. The Lady of the Land.

  The discarded shirt fluttered down onto the pile of clothes behind him. He bent and retrieved a small jackknife from the pocket of his coat. He let it spring open. Keeping his gaze trained on Amy, he raised the knife and drew the blade along his thumb. The skin slid open, blood welled up.

  Imagine…

  Blood to blood.

  Very slowly, he drew his bloody thumb across his forehead.

  Look, the Stag King is here.

  He walked toward Amy, his steps in time with the heavy beating of his heart. Right before her he bent down, sank to his knees, straddled her. “My lady,” he whispered. “Your consort has arrived.”

  “Yes,” she breathed. With visible effort she took the knife from him and cut into her own thumb. Her arm trembled as she lifted it toward Fox’s face. He leaned down.

  With a touch as light as a feather, she drew her thumb across his forehead, mixing her blood with his. Warmth seeped from her finger and flowed through him. With a heavy sigh, she let her arm fall to her side. Her eyes closed.

  Fox swallowed hard. She was so weak. How was he supposed to…? Dear God, he couldn’t. Surely, he couldn’t!

  Her lips moved. “Kiss… me…”

  Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward, braced his weight on his hands next to her head, and touched his lips to hers. They were cold. As cold as the stone he had kissed. A sob caught in his throat.

  Desperately he opened his mouth over hers and, once started, he couldn’t seem to stop. He gave her feverish, fervent kisses, felt his passion for her rise in him. My love, my love, my love.

  “Yes,” Amy whispered.

  He drew back.

  Her eyes were still closed, but the ghost
of a smile played around her lips. “Look… look at the stones.”

  He looked—and the breath caught in his throat. He stared, slack jawed.

  The stones glowed. They did not only reflect the firelight, they glowed from within.

  “Undress… me,” Amy said softly.

  His gaze snapped back to her face. “But the cold—”

  Her smile deepened. “Don’t you… feel it?” Her eyes opened: deepest blue, as deep as the ocean. As deep as the sky. Deep enough to drown in forever. “Feel it…” They drifted shut again.

  And only then did he become aware that the air inside the circle had warmed. It hummed with faint, deep vibrations.

  “Undress me… Undress… the Lady of the Land.”

  Fox looked down at her. She seemed so delicate, so horribly frail.

  Have faith in your love.

  He sank back on his haunches and, with hands that shook, drew aside the blankets that were wrapped around her to unbutton her long gray coat. Underneath, she wore a white dress.

  The virgin sacrifice.

  Yet she was no longer a virgin, as he should well know.

  Gently he turned her around so he could undo the lacings of her dress and stays. He rolled her onto her back and with infinite care removed her boots, dress, petticoats, and stays until she lay before him clad only in a thin chemise.

  He bent to capture her mouth with his and kissed her deeply, while his hands stroked over her body, reacquainting themselves with her flesh. The tips of his fingers tingled. How he had missed her.

  He drew his mouth over her soft cheek, down the vulnerable line of her throat, and kissed the curve of her shoulder. Deeply, he inhaled her scent. It was different than before, had been affected by the weeks of illness, yet he would still have recognized it as hers among a thousand others.

  His hand cupped one of her breasts, and his lips closed over the tip. He remembered this, too. Oh, how he remembered.

  The memory of what they had shared cramped his stomach and made him groan. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he suckled her nipple, felt it harden against his tongue.

  The softest whimper. A small hand coming to rest on his head, trembling like a small bird. Fox looked up. Her throat was stretched taut, her lips slightly opened.

  “Mmmm.”

  He caressed her throat with a long lick, then kissed her briefly before he focused his attention on her other breast. He fondled and suckled it until the nipple, now as hard as its twin, pressed against the wet material of her chemise.

  He sat back. In a long, sweeping caress he drew his hands from her breasts to her waist and rested them on her stomach.

  Amy sighed. A rosy hue had appeared on her pale cheeks.

  Slowly Fox stood and unfastened his trousers. He stepped out of them and kicked them away. For a moment he stood silent and gazed down at Amy.

  Imagine…

  You are the Stag King.

  The line of blood they had drawn across his forehead pulsed faintly.

  Imagine…

  His back proudly straightened. His erection hardened, pulsed in time with the mark on his forehead. Could he really see the shimmering form of a stag just beyond the stones? Believe it.

  The humming around him increased.

  He lowered himself over Amy. “Look, beloved, your consort is here, your champion and lover,” he whispered into her ear. “He’s here to serve you, to pay homage to the Lady of the Land.”

  His fingers fisted on the neckline of her chemise. The muscles in his arm bulged, and then he ripped the flimsy material apart.

  A distant, civilized part in him was appalled at his actions. Never before had Sebastian Stapleton, suave, cool man about Town, ripped a lady’s chemise. But the thought was fleeting, and was easily pushed away. He had never before lain naked in a circle of glowing stones, either. And never before had he felt so wild and powerful.

  Skin rubbed over naked skin. Soft breasts pressed against his chest; his penis twitched against her belly. Fox groaned. “Are you ready to receive me, my lady?”

  She was. He slipped between her thighs and inside her, easily, all the way until his hip met hers. He hissed with pleasure. Her eyes shot open; her fingers twined with his, clutched, while her body arched like a bow. Warmth flowed between them, a powerful stream from her body into his.

  And the stones…

  The stones shone like beacons in the night.

  “Stay,” Amy whispered when he would have moved. “Stay. You must send out the power.”

  “How—”

  “Look.”

  The shimmering stag pranced beyond their circle of light.

  Far away, that civilized part of him quaked with fright, protested against the evidence of his eyes. But—

  Have a little faith in your love.

  And the wildness inside him easily overran all fear and disbelief.

  Amy sighed. “Send it out.” Her eyes closed. Her hips moved against his. “Let me… ride on it.”

  Fox looked at the stag. It was beautiful and terrible, bigger than any stag he had ever seen. The antlers loomed wide and massive.

  Go, he told it silently. Run wherever she wishes you to go. He shut his eyes, moved inside his beloved with long, measured strokes. Go.

  “Yesss.” Her breaths turned to little gasps. “Yes.”

  And even though his eyes were still closed, he could see the stag running, leaping across the night-darkened country. First to the north…

  “Across the wash… into the wold… to the stones at the river…” Amy gasped.

  Another beacon of light was lit far away from them.

  The stag raced farther.

  “On to the moors… to the long stone on the heath…”

  A moan shuddered through her as another stone blazed up in the night. From there, she sent the stag south, to burrows and henges, and with each new light her movements became more frantic. She writhed against Fox, rotated her hips, threw her head from side to side.

  Fox gritted his teeth. The breath rattled in his chest, but he somehow understood that his strokes must remain even, to anchor her and to drive the stag on. Sweat ran down his temple, slickened his body. Specks of light danced around them, flickered against his closed eyelids.

  On and on the stag ran, all the way to the Salisbury Plain, the spiritual heart of Britannia. And then the great stones themselves blazed up the night with a mighty roar.

  Amy’s half-smothered shriek echoed from the stones, making Fox tremble with the effort to hold back. Her legs rose to grip his hips. The heels of her naked feet dug into his thighs. “Now, bring it home…” she cried. “Ohhhh!”

  He opened his eyes to look down at her. Heavy-lidded pansy-blue irises met his gaze. Shining with passion. Indeed, her whole body was radiant, glowing a healthy pink.

  “Bring it home.” Smiled and pushed against him. “Bring it home, beloved.” She licked her lips.

  And he did. On and on he drove their stag; faster and faster he pumped into her, slapped against the cradle of her hips. Her sighs and moans drove him wild. His muscles quivered with the strain to hold back.

  …on and on…

  He gasped.

  …on and on…

  Her nails bit into the back of his hands.

  …on and on…

  Fiery circles appeared in front of his eyes. He thought his heart would burst. Amy whimpered, shuddered, but not yet—no, not yet…

  …on and on…

  And then the stag was there, appeared out of the darkness like a gleaming meteor. Amy’s triumphant laugh turned into a whimper. Her body shuddered, and his—dear God, his was in flames. Surely it was too much, too—

  With a powerful leap, the stag jumped into their circle—and around them the world exploded into light.

  Amy’s high-pitched scream of delight mingled with Fox’s roar as he reared back. Power pulsed up from her core, surged through his body. A stream of brilliant, pure light shot high into the sky at the same time as his seed pumped
into her body.

  …on and on…

  And then…

  Nothing.

  Epilogue

  Birdsong woke them, the sweet tones of a red-breasted robin, which eyed them curiously as they lay huddled among the furs and blankets in a tight tangle of arms and legs. Fox blinked, muttered an oath as a ray of sunlight pierced his eyes.

  Beside him, Amy giggled. Sleepily she rubbed her nose against his cheek. “Good morning, grumpy.” A puff of air grazed his flesh as she yawned.

  His eyes shot open. His heart beating hard and fast, he turned his head to look at her. “Are you…?”

  Her sweet face crunched tight as she wrinkled her nose at him. “Fit as a fiddle.” Her eyes twinkled. “And sore in places I didn’t know existed!”

  With a deep, relieved laugh, he hugged her to him and kissed the crown of her head. For a moment they lay quietly.

  “I am sorry,” he finally said, his voice fierce, his heart heavy. “I am sorry I was such a muttonhead and didn’t understand.”

  For a heartbeat or two she was quiet. He listened to her breaths, which suddenly turned into a chuckle. “I think I might forgive you. You’re the only man who has ever made snowdrops and crocuses bloom for me in December.”

  Frowning, he drew back a little so that he could look at her. “What?”

  “Look around you, Fox.” She trailed a hand over his cheek. Her lips curved. “Look what we wrought last night.” She exerted gentle pressure until he turned his head.

  What he saw made his eyes widen. “How—”

  “Magic,” she said with obvious and intense satisfaction. She stretched out an arm, wriggled her hand. “Oh yes, it’s all back.”

  Around them the delicate green stems of snowdrops mingled with sturdy crocuses, white mixed with yellow, lilac, and blue.

  Suddenly, she chuckled. “To imagine that the man who gave me a lecture on the importance of rational thought drove a ghost stag across the country—oh, it’s too delicious!” She smothered her merriment against his chest.

  Fox blinked. He took in a deep breath. Well, he supposed he’d better get used to it all, since it seemed he would be married to a modern-day witch after all. Grinning, he lay back and slipped an arm around her shoulder. “So tell me, now that I’ve joined with the Lady of the Land…”