The Changeling Bride

by Lisa Cach

  She felt lips on her forehead as Henry kissed her. “You look golden in the light,” he murmured. She reached up and touched her forehead where he had kissed her, brushing at a strand of damp hair. Her hairline was soaked with sweat. The touch of her own hand seemed to clear her mind even more. She put her whole hand to her forehead, trying to think, then ran her fingers back through her hair. Strangely, that seemed to help.

  She rested her hand on Henry’s muscled chest, staring absently at it while her mind woke up. He was right, she thought vaguely. She did look golden in the light. Her eyes narrowed on her hand, and she brought it closer to her face, turning it in the sunlight.

  There was a fine shimmer of gold on her skin, like she used to find on her hand if she touched her makeup when she wore certain powders. She brought her fingertips to her cheek, then looked at them again. Her fingertips had picked up a definite coating. Only, she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

  She quickly disengaged herself from Henry and sat up, her reddish hair falling in damp tendrils around her shoulders. With both hands she wiped at her face, staring in dawning horror at the glittering powder that was revealed on her palms, and then at Henry, lying so gloriously nude on his side, his member now limply nestled in his thatch of black hair. She could feel the sticky dampness from their lovemaking between her thighs.

  “Elle? What is it?” Henry’s deep voice asked, still replete with sexual satisfaction. She rose to her feet, ignoring him, and stumbled to the stream. She stepped into the frigid water, her feet finding purchase on small stones in the mud. The water reached only to her calves, but it was enough. She squatted down and splashed water on her face, on her breasts, over her arms.

  With each dousing of icy water her critical processes rose closer to the surface. She watched with wide eyes as the water swept downstream, its surface dusted with golden powder, as if a thousand moths had struggled on the surface.

  She closed her eyes and fell to her knees, oblivious to the water that now rose halfway up her buttocks as she sat on her heels. Images of the past hour played across the screen of her mind. The dreaminess. Her blatant invitation to Henry. His face between her legs. Her moans. Her begging. His climax within her. Not once, but twice. She couldn’t believe what she’d done.

  Her stomach sank and her legs went hollow at the thought that she might have just gotten herself pregnant. The sex had been a dream, but the nightmare was in waking up.

  “Elle?”

  She jerked her head over her shoulder, and saw him standing on the bank, a couple feet from her. Her shoulders hunched, and she brought her arms up to cover herself. She was shivering from the cold water, her teeth beginning to chatter. She’d been drugged, or enchanted, whatever she wanted to call it. Those damn fairy people had been messing with her mind again. That cloud of glimmering light on the path, that’s when this had started, when she had started to feel dreamy.

  She wanted to tell herself that the fairies had made her into the sex-starved woman who had just seduced Henry, but she knew it wasn’t true. Their magic had taken away the barriers in her mind, that was all.

  And what if, at this very moment, a fertilized egg was splitting and dividing, multiplying its cells exponentially, intent upon forming a child? She ducked her head down and shuddered, unwilling to believe she had taken such a risk. Seven years of sexual activity, and she had never once had unprotected sex. Here in the 1790s, there was no morning-after pill, no sterile room for an abortion, no way out if she got pregnant, except somehow finding her way back home.

  Henry splashed in beside her and pulled her up out of the water. “Elle, what’s wrong? Why don’t you answer me?”

  His body was warm, but it was a comfort she was not willing to take. She shoved her way out of his arms, putting several steps between them. “Don’t. Just don’t touch me.”

  “Elle—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” she cried, shaking her head wildly from side to side. She stumbled out of the stream and sat on the mossy ground, pulling her knees up in front of her, trying to cover herself. “I don’t do that. I’ve never done that. Oh, God, what have I done?”

  “Eleanor, stop it. You have done nothing wrong.” He retrieved his jacket and draped it around her shaking shoulders, then knelt down in front of her. “You are married now.”

  “As if that makes a difference.” She tried to scoot away from him, as if even being close to him would make her more fertile. “Doesn’t it bother you that I wasn’t a virgin?”

  He sat back. “You were not?”

  “Of course not.” She’d drive him away however she could. She’d committed the act she’d had nightmares about since she was twelve, and she would not do it again.

  “Who was it?” he asked quietly.

  “No, not a virgin,” she babbled unheedingly, vaguely aware she had lost control of herself. “Not eighteen years old, either. I’m twenty-five. Would you have guessed that? No? I’ve always looked young for my age,” she giggled, tears on her cheeks.

  “Eleanor, stop it. You are hysterical.”

  “Not Eleanor, Wilhelmina. You wouldn’t believe half of what I could tell you.” She glanced up at his striken face, worry deep in his eyes. He thought she was out of her head. Good. He wouldn’t want to sleep with a crazy woman. “Tatiana. Where’s Tatiana?” She crawled away and started gathering her clothes, and he did not try to stop her.

  From far above, hidden in the branches of a tree, the small unhappy face of Mossbottom looked down on the human figures. What had started so beautifully had gone terribly, terribly wrong. How could he have guessed that she would react this way, when the spell had worn off? He felt the distance between the two people growing even greater than it had been before he had sprinkled that cloud of fairy dust onto Elle.

  It wasn’t fair. He had only been trying to help.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elle dug through a pile of Henry’s breeches, pausing at a dark green pair. “No, they don’t like you to wear green,” she muttered to herself and kept digging. She pulled out an old turquoise pair and held them up to her hips with shaking hands. They would do.

  She picked up the shirt she had already filched and brought her loot back to her own dressing room. She shrugged off her robe and pulled the garments on over her bare skin, tugging for a moment to get the breeches up over her hips, afraid they would rip. Once on, they were looser than she had expected. She had thought for certain she was larger than Henry.

  His shirt hung down to her knees, her unbound breasts dimly visible through the thin linen. She slipped on her shoes and swung a cloak over the ensemble, checking the effect in the mirror. The cloak was almost long enough to hide her lack of skirts. With any luck, no one would be looking close enough to tell.

  She scooped up Folklore of the British Isles and two large scarves, and patted her thigh for Tatiana. The dog jumped off the foot of the bed and trotted over to join her as she peered into the hallway. All appeared quiet, and Marianne had obeyed her command to leave her alone until called for.

  She glanced back at the four-poster. She should draw the bed curtains. If Marianne glanced in to check on her, she would assume her mistress to be asleep.

  The task complete, Elle slipped into the hallway, Tatiana at her heels. Sweat filmed her body, her muscles feeling loose and disobedient as she tried to make her footsteps silent on the bare wood. She made her way to a set of back stairs and wound her way down and through a narrow hallway, emerging after several turns in the kitchen.

  Abigail was nowhere to be seen, but a girl was scrubbing dishes in a shallow stone sink. Elle gave a silent curse.

  “Milady!” the girl said, catching sight of her, and then dropped a curtsy.

  Elle inclined her head to the girl. “Could you do me a small favor?” Might as well make use of her.

  “My pleasure, milady.”

  “I should like a small jug of milk, a bowl, and a loaf of fresh bread. And a small pot of honey, if we have it.” She tried to co
py Henry’s look of cool composure.

  “Would you like me to bring them to you above stairs, then, milady?”

  “No. Just set them here on the table.”

  “Yes, milady.” The girl frowned a bit, puzzled but moved to do as directed.

  Elle watched her, wishing there had been no one in the kitchen in the first place. A scullery maid was better than Abigail, though, who might be more tempted to ask questions.

  She unfolded one of the scarves on the table top, placing the book in the center. The girl came back with the food, and Elle piled it on top of the book, then folded the corners of the cloth over the top and tied it all into a neat bundle.

  “Thank you . . .”

  “Betsy, milady.”

  “Thank you, Betsy. You’ve been very helpful.”

  The girl dipped in another curtsy and watched her as she left. With any luck, it would be some time before the news of this visit to the kitchens reached the ears of anyone who mattered.

  This next step was the most dangerous. She made her way to the stables, holding the cloak closed in front with one hand. It was late afternoon, and cool enough to warrant the garment.

  Once in the stable, she nodded to the boy who had helped her that morning, then quickly walked pass him before he could do more than pull at his forelock. There were not many horses at Brookhaven, and it was an easy task to find Belle in her stall.

  The mare put her head over the boards, whuffling and searching for treats. Elle gave her a soft pat on the nose and watched from the corner of her eye as the boy moved about his work. After several minutes he took his pitchfork and moved off to another part of the stables.

  Elle moved quickly down to where he had been and found the tack room. She grabbed a bridle from off the wall and hurried back to Belle. The door to the stall slid open with a low rumble of its runners, and Elle stepped into the thick straw on the ground.

  “Now, be a nice horsey, Belle,” Elle cooed. It had been at least eight years since she’d bridled a horse. She should have remembered to bring a carrot or apple.

  Belle submitted to the bridle without fuss, though. Elle took her second scarf and tied it to her bundle, making a strap that she slipped on across her chest, then led the mare out of the stall.

  She could hear the boy whistling somewhere in the stables and prayed he would stay busy with whatever he was doing. There was an old chair by the door of the tack room, and she led Belle over to it, the mare’s hooves clopping on the cobbled floor. Elle cringed with each step, but the boy whistled on, undisturbed.

  She used the chair as a mounting block, Henry’s breeches allowing her to sit astride with ease. She bent low over the mare’s neck and directed her out through the doorway and into the yard, and then kicked her into a trot heading for the wooded trail she had taken that morning with such disastrous results. Tatiana ran alongside them.

  Henry sat at his desk and tried in vain to concentrate on the surveyor’s map of Brookhaven and the surrounding countryside. He had already paid the fees for permission to enclose the land, and within the next week, work would begin on the planting of hedges to divide the fields and commons.

  He abruptly pushed away from the desk and stood, turning his back to the papers. He strode to the windows and stared out through their panes at the unkempt gardens beyond. They distracted him for only a moment, and then his thoughts slid back to where they had been all afternoon: Elle.

  Marriage had seemed like such a logical step. Find a wife whose income could help restore Brookhaven and who was healthy enough to provide heirs. In return, he would protect and care for her, ensuring that neither she nor their children should ever want. He had even privately vowed to be at all times civil to the woman.

  Marriage was proving anything but logical.

  The first time he had met Eleanor, he had disliked her. Vowing civility towards her had seemed almost magnanimous on his part. Now that first meeting seemed like the sanest moment of their relationship. At least then he had understood what was going on in her mind. Presently, he had no idea.

  Images of the morning played across his mind, as they had been doing all day. Her half-dressed body, silhouetted by the sun; the feel of her soft buttocks rubbing up against him; the way she’d thrown back her head when he’d suckled at her breasts; and, finally, the sound of her moans, and her voice begging him to take her.

  His body reacted to the images, growing into a hard state of readiness. He wanted to hunt her down, drag her into the nearest room, throw her on the floor, and take her again. And again and again, until he had drained this obsession from his mind, and proved to her and to himself that she was his wife and his alone.

  Someone had taught her such wanton behavior, someone had been with her before he had, as he had suspected before her display of maidenly reluctance on their wedding night had made him think otherwise. Perhaps that was why she had grown hysterical. She felt she had betrayed her lover. Jealous fury coursed through his blood, and he clenched his fists for a long moment until he could bring it under control.

  But that did not explain why she had claimed such outlandish assertions, like being older than she was and having a different name. He had not pressed her about it. Her behavior had unsettled him, frightened him even, and he had not known how to handle it.

  And at the time, he could not help feeling partially responsible for her deranged state. He had not been gentle with her. He had behaved like a satyr, treating her with the debauched lust a man would show a whore, not a gently bred wife. Perhaps he had pushed her over some edge of sanity.

  An ugly possibility appeared in his mind: It might even be possible that the real reason he had not seen her in the days preceding the wedding was that her family had hidden her. Maybe they’d been afraid he would sense some growing mental imbalance in her and call off the ceremony. Her father had been desperate to have an earl as a son-in-law. He already knew the man had lied about other things.

  He turned back to his desk, but the papers there only reminded him of other lives that depended upon decisions he made.

  Unbidden, the face of his great-grandmother came to mind. It had been too long since he had visited her. Even silent and senile as she was now—and she was silent and senile, no matter what stories Elle made up—her presence helped him to think more clearly. He strode from his office without another look at the pile of work on his desk.

  He paid little attention to his surroundings as he headed down to Lady Annalise’s rooms. He had learned as a boy that the easiest way to find her suite was to only pay attention with half his mind to where he was going. His feet seemed to follow the correct path only when his brain did not interfere. Ridiculous, really, that it could even be possible for him to make a wrong turn in his own home, but by long habit he kept his mind blank, and soon found himself at the heavily carved door with the fancifully wrought hinges and handle.

  The door was ajar, as it always was when he came to visit. As a boy he had assumed it meant that she knew when he was coming, and had half believed that she held some special power. Now, older and wiser, he thought it most likely that she left it ajar at all times.

  He rapped his knuckle against the wood, then pushed the door open. “Great-grandmother, ’tis Henry. May I come in?”

  She was seated next to a wood fire, bundled in layers of clothes, her head covered by a brocade cap that tied under her chin, with a bedraggled tassle hanging from the crown. He had never seen such a thing except in her possession. When he was little, half the magic of coming to see her was in discovering the odd bits and pieces in her rooms. When there were no unusual knickknacks on display, there were the tapestries on the walls to examine, and the tempera paintings on and between the wooden beams of the ceiling. He never failed to find something new each time he looked, and had sometimes imagined that the pictures moved.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. Her chin was resting on her chest. He bent and tilted his head, the better to see her, and saw that her eyes were closed. He sat i
n the chair across from her and waited, unsure whether or not to wake her.

  His problem was solved for him when she gave a sudden snore of sufficient volume to disturb her own rest. Her eyes fluttered open, started to close, then opened again as she saw him sitting in front of her.

  “Good morning,” he repeated. “How are you feeling today?”

  She stared at him, her eyes cloudy.

  Henry leaned forward and picked up one of her hands, dry and wrinkled, and as delicate as the wing of a bird. His thumb stroked across the back of her hand as he tried to look into her eyes, searching for some recognition. None came and he sighed, disappointed, and felt foolish for even hoping. He could not imagine what had prompted Elle to claim Lady Annalise had spoken to her, when it was evident that the woman was in no clearer a state of mind than she had been for years.

  “If only you could see how confused I am, would you have some way of helping?” he asked her. Her eyes stayed on his face, as if she were listening.

  “Marriage is proving a uniquely troublesome condition.” He paused, thinking. “I am not inexperienced with women, so I know how irrational they are by their very nature. I was prepared for that.” He turned his head and looked into the fire. “But Elle . . . I don’t understand her at all. I have even wondered if she is quite as stable mentally as she should be.”

  He looked back at Lady Annalise and imagined he saw a shadow of disapproval pass over her features.

  “She is a very unusual person, Great-grandmother. At times she seems quite intelligent. She has a sense of humor and has a sharp wit when arguing her point. On the other hand, to use her own words, she is ignorant on the most surprising of topics. At first I thought she was feigning ignorance, to annoy me and make me sorry I asked for this marriage. And now . . . I do not know.

  “True, ignorance does not imply mental weakness,” he countered against himself. “And she is also female, so her emotionality and inscrutability cannot be held against her. And certainly, I have no reason to believe myself an impartial judge of her behavior.”