Once Upon a Kiss

by Nora Roberts

  So it was that Erinn found herself shortly after in a guest chamber of the house. Stephen’s wife, a tiny reed of a woman with thick brown hair coiled around her head, came herself to see to her comfort, and after instructing a servant to bring a tub and heated water, she regarded Erinn with the same wariness as had her husband.

  “The servants will clean your clothing and your cloak, and I will bring such garments as may fit you.” Her voice sounded thin and raw as she took Erin’s cloak from her and folded it over her arm.

  “Thank you.” As the woman lingered, regarding her uncertainly and with a desperate longing in her eyes, Erinn spoke quietly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that your child is ill. Don’t tarry with me. Please feel free to tend to her.”

  “Yes, my little Eadgyth. She’s…only a babe,” Hetta whispered, her hands clutched so tightly before her that her knuckles whitened to the color of bleached bones.

  Seeing the pain and the fear in the woman’s face, Erinn couldn’t keep silent. “I heard that she has a fever. Have you tried camphor?” she asked quietly.

  “Yes, yes. It did not help. Nothing has helped.” The woman twisted her hands together, then suddenly spoke all in a rush. “I think it is meant that you are here today. I think you were sent here. To save her. I know that our peoples are at war, but you are a great witch. Surely you must know some way…some way to make her better.” Desperation shone in her eyes. “Could you…would you…help her? Please, can you make my child well?”

  Erinn’s chest was tight. If only she had true power, if only she indeed were a healer. But she wasn’t, and she couldn’t bear to give this woman false hope.

  “I am not a healer.” She took a deep breath. “My powers are not…of that sort. But…I know something of children. And of medicines. I will see her and try, if I am able, to help.”

  Hope flickered in Hetta’s eyes. Wild, heartrending hope. “Yes. Please.” She hurried to the door. “This way, I beg of you.”

  The baby lay tucked in a cradle in an alcove of her mother’s chamber. Her little body was wrapped tightly in a soft blue blanket. She was no more than a few months old, with wisps of soft red-gold curls framing a tiny face, a face that was flushed and hot with fever; and as she slept, she whimpered—pathetic, restless little cries that tore at Erinn’s heart.

  “How long has she had this fever?” she asked quickly, brushing a gentle finger along the baby’s hot cheek.

  “Five days now. She grows worse. And she has taken no milk. She cried at first all the time, cried loudly, pitifully, but since yesterday she is too weak to cry, except like this. And she is too weak to take nourishment.”

  The serving women all huddled together, motionless, and Erinn saw tears upon their cheeks.

  “We’ve tried milkwort and lavendry, but the fever only worsened.” Hetta’s face seemed to grow even grayer, the shadows under her eyes darker. “Please, is there no spell, no magic that will lift the fever?” she begged.

  Erinn was remembering something—one of the young village boys whose father had been killed in a battle. She’d visited the family with a basket of food and on the day she arrived, the boy—Ranulf—was sick with a fever and was believed to be near death. The midwife had come to treat him while Erinn was still there, and she had immediately prescribed a brew of myrrh and ginseng.

  Erinn had returned the next day and found that the fever was broken, the boy was sitting up on his pallet, able to take broth from a spoon and even to smile when she told him of the cake she would bring him as soon as he was well enough to eat it.

  “We must make a brew of myrrh and ginseng,” she told Hetta quickly. “Do you have these things?”

  “Yes, we have many herbs. But I never heard of this brew,” the woman replied, her eyes wide.

  “I have seen how it is made. I’ll help you to prepare it.” Erinn was already unwrapping the heavy blanket swaddling the child. The midwife also had instructed that such coverings were unhealthy for one with a fever, and since that time Erinn had more than once seen that she was right.

  “Quickly, we must gather the ingredients and bring them to a boil, along with goat’s milk and barley.”

  To her surprise, there was no hesitation, no doubt. The bond that flourished between women tending a sick child overcame every other consideration, and the women worked together with one single purpose in mind—a purpose stronger than hate or mistrust.

  Once the baby had been fed a dozen spoonfuls of the brew, there was nothing more to do but wait. Erinn returned to her chamber, and a servant brought heated water for her bath while one of the women who had been tending Eadgyth laid out upon the bed a clean gown of finely stitched linen. It was too wide for Erinn’s slender figure, but two servants set about sewing it to fit, and soon, having cleansed her hair and her skin, donned the soft pale-blue gown, and neatly plaited her fair hair down her back, threading it with a ribbon, she was led to the hall, where a long table had been laid and where Tynon of Bordmoor and Stephen waited.

  Both men stood as she approached them, and she saw Tynon’s gaze riveted upon her. His keen glance swept over her face, her plaited hair, the simple gown. She was conscious of the way the soft folds of the gown flowed over her curves. His expression was unreadable, but with a flicker of pleasure she saw a muscle clench in his jaw.

  “At last,” was all he said. She took her place beside him and said coolly, “You needn’t have waited for me.”

  “What, and have you tell everyone in Marlbury—should I allow you to return—that the llachlanders have no courtesy for their ladies?”

  “I am not your lady.”

  “I suppose I must thank the stars for that,” he said curtly.

  Stephen was watching the two of them uneasily. No doubt, Erinn thought, he feared that Tynon might provoke her into casting another horrific spell like the one that had claimed the keep.

  She tossed her head and took a seat upon the bench without another glance at Tynon. Deliberately, she focused her attention on the platters of food set before her. Yet though the sun was already bright in the sky and she had not yet broken her fast, she barely tasted the bread and butter and cheese, the slices of cold venison, or the jellied eggs and nuts and wafers.

  Tynon, she noted from the corner of her eye, didn’t share her disinterest. He attacked his food with relish and spoke all the while with Stephen. There was no sign of Lady Hetta. Erinn kept glancing toward the doorway, wishing she knew if Eadgyth’s fever was still high, if they had managed to give her more of the brew, if the little girl would recover.

  No sooner had the last course ended than Tynon was ready to leave.

  “We’re going back to the keep? So soon?” she asked as Stephen led them through the hall and a servant appeared with her cloak.

  “Of course. It’s my home. It’s where I belong. And where my messengers will come with their reports. Stephen has provided us with supplies that should last us until the keep is restored—”

  He broke off as Hetta came hurrying down the hall, her face beaming and wet with tears. In her arms was a bundle—Eadgyth, Erinn saw with a surge of hope. The baby’s eyes were closed, her breathing soft and even, and her cheeks no longer held the unhealthy flush of fever.

  “Hetta,” Stephen exclaimed, “what is it? The babe? She is better?”

  “Yes, yes. Only look—the fever has broken. She awakened and was hungry and no longer frets. Oh, how can I ever thank you enough?” she burst out, turning to Erinn with shining eyes.

  “I am glad—so glad.” Smiling, Erinn peered down at the peacefully sleeping child.

  “Are you saying that…a spell cured her?” Stephen stared at the pale-haired witch in his hallway. “I—I owe you my thanks then, lady…er, princess.”

  “No, no, it wasn’t a spell. It was only a brew I know of, from my work with the children at home. I learned it from—well, never mind.” She touched Hetta’s arm, her gaze still fixed tenderly upon the baby. “I am only happy to have helped little Eadgy
th,” she finished quietly.

  Tynon was staring at her. She refused to look at him, instead keeping her gaze upon the babe, only shifting it to Stephen and Hetta as they joyfully thanked her yet again.

  It wasn’t until she was sitting before him upon the black destrier once more that Tynon spoke, as the warm sun beat down upon their shoulders, bathing the spring day in softness. “You did a fine thing back there, healing the child,” he said slowly.

  “I did what I could. I would do the same for any child.”

  “One would not expect such gentle aid from—” He broke off. “Tell me the truth. Was it magic you used to cure the child?”

  “No. I told you already. I learned of this brew back home.”

  “How?”

  He had slowed the horse, and they were moving now at a leisurely trot. The day sparkled around them. She was surprised by how comfortable it felt to be here in the saddle with him, his arms around her as they rode. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought they were companions, part of a carefree group out for a picnic. But they weren’t. They were enemies, and she couldn’t forget that, not for a moment.

  “There is a midwife in our village back home,” she told him. “I have seen her prepare remedies for the children when they are sick. One day I happened to have brought a basket of food to the house of John, the silversmith and—”

  “Why would a princess do that?”

  “Bring food?” she asked in surprise. “Why not? My ladies and I frequently visit the homes of those who were lost in battle, trying to help the wives and the children. We have too many children like this—thanks to the brutality of the llachlanders—and I try to do what I can for them.”

  His arms tightened around her waist as he spurred the horse faster.

  “Our land is filled with orphans and fatherless children as well.”

  “Then why don’t you end the wars—surrender, call for a truce—and spare the lives of your people?” she flashed.

  “Your father could do the same. If he were not so bloodthirsty and greedy to take over our land—”

  “He is not! The war was started by the llachlanders—one hundred years ago and—”

  “Is that what they told you? The war was started by Marlbury. Your great-grandfather, witch, began this war and spilled the first blood.”

  She twisted around in the saddle, her cheeks flushed with anger. “You’re lying. I was told that your great-grandfather began the war!”

  “That is the lie,” he snorted. “And what reason was given to you for the start of the fighting?”

  Erinn stared at him. “Reason?”

  “Yes, the cause. What were you told?”

  “I was never told the cause.” Her voice faltered. The wind caught her hair, and a few glinting strands escaped the severe plait that bound it. “Were you?”

  “I asked my father. He told me no one remembers.”

  He frowned, and Erinn sensed that he was weighing whether to say more.

  “I thought that he might have remembered,” Tynon admitted. “But he chose not to talk about it.”

  For a moment their eyes met, held. Then Erinn broke the contact and turned around in the saddle once again. “What does it matter? We were not the ones to start it, though. Of that I am certain.”

  “When it comes to war, one cannot be certain of anything,” Tynon said grimly in her ear, and a shiver ran down her spine.

  He spoke like a man who knew all too well about war, a man who had no taste for it. But…he was the consummate warrior. She had seen him fight in the keep, and his battle prowess was acclaimed even by his enemies. Then she thought of the easy way Stephen and Hetta’s children had swarmed up to him, the concern he’d shown toward the baby, Eadgyth, and his gratitude for her help in making the child well.

  It suddenly occurred to her that he was far more than a warrior. He was a man who was at ease with children. A man who could be gentle. Decent. That had indeed been fear in his eyes when he’d thought those scoundrels would kill her—fear for her. Had it been only because she was useful to him? No, something told her he had done it because he was an honorable man. Though he might be at war with her people, he had defended her. She was under his protection while she was his prisoner, and he wouldn’t allow her death to be on his conscience.

  Like her father, like Cadur and Braden, he had a noble side. A gentle side. And a quiet decency. Something twisted painfully inside her chest, an ache that went deeper than any physical hurt.

  Suddenly she was more intensely aware than ever of his arms around her, of his powerful frame wedged against her back, of his presence, his strength, his warmth. Her heartbeat quickened, and the blood in her veins sizzled with a slow heat.

  No man had ever made her feel like this before.

  She took a long, shaky breath and decided that perhaps she would help him in earnest in getting his keep back—for the sooner he allowed her to return to Marlbury, to spare her family their worry and the possibility that they might walk into a trap, the better.

  Because she herself seemed on the brink of falling into a trap, another kind of trap—one that once would have been unthinkable to her. But she felt herself tottering dangerously on the edge and knew that she had to get away from Tynon of Bordmoor soon. The man was too handsome, too intriguing, too male.

  And too dangerous, by far.

  If she hadn’t known better, she’d have thought he was the one casting a spell—on her heart.

  6

  ERINN SPENT THE remainder of the morning exploring the ruined keep, going from chamber to chamber, roaming the corridors, trying to pick up some sense of who had cast the spell—and how—by gleaning what she could from within the enchanted walls. Tynon had wanted to accompany her, but she’d convinced him that he would only distract her from fully concentrating on what she was doing. So at last he’d relented, after demanding that she give her word she would neither hide from him nor try to run away.

  She shivered as she prowled the tower and the great hall and the solar, all dim ruins of what they must have been before the spell was cast. Once she heard a boy’s laughter, echoing faintly from the rafters, and wondered if that was Rhys. And what of the mysterious Marguerite?

  She had no sense of a woman’s presence, except once, as she returned to the chamber where she’d treated Tynon’s wound and saw the mirror on the wall. For an instant, as she approached, she thought she saw a ghostly flickering within the glass—a woman with midnight hair that floated around a tear-streaked face—and for one chilling moment Erinn thought she could hear the sound of weeping. Then it vanished, and so did the image in the mirror. She walked closer, her skin prickling, but she saw only her own reflection looking back at her.

  Thoughtfully, she returned to the sunlight to find Tynon conferring with a small group of soldiers beneath the shade of an acorn tree. The soldiers’ horses stood nearby, great beasts whose coats glistened in the sun.

  The men grew silent as she approached. All but Tynon regarded her with a mixture of distrust and dislike, much as she had seen at first in Stephen’s eyes.

  “So this is the infamous witch of Marlbury.” The barrel-chested soldier nearest Tynon spit the words out with contempt. “Who would have thought such a little thing could bring so much evil? My lady is trapped somewhere inside there,” he growled, jerking a thumb in the direction of the keep. “Should any harm come to her—”

  “None will,” Erinn said quickly.

  All of the men, including Tynon, stared at her.

  “So you say,” the solider responded after a moment, his eyes slitted with suspicion. “But who can trust a witch who kills boys of twelve? My cousin met his death at Dunck Wood when the lightning struck. Your doing! His blood is on your hands—”

  “Enough, Jared!” Tynon strode forward between the soldier and Erinn, his features taut. “Leave her be. You have your orders, all of you. Go now.”

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  Jared threw on
e last angry glance in her direction and turned away. Tynon waited until the men had all mounted their horses and ridden off over the greening ridge before he broke the silence.

  “He’s a good man, but he doesn’t know the truth. Don’t heed his words.”

  “I am sorry about his cousin,” she said quietly, thinking that at twelve the boy was still so very much a child, not much older than those she visited with treats and trinkets in the village of Marlbury. She could understand the soldier’s anger and grief—and his fears for his lady. She only wondered that Tynon hadn’t told him the truth about her. She’d expected he would revel in her ineptitude at magic and assure all of his men—indeed, all of his people—that there was no witchcraft to fear from Marlbury, that King Vort and his troops had no magical advantage. For Marlbury’s sake, she wanted to cling to her legend for as long as possible, but she’d expected Tynon to reveal its falsehood.

  Yet he hadn’t. Not to Stephen, and not to his men.

  “Why didn’t you tell him—any of them—about…me?” she couldn’t help asking.

  He gave her a long look, trying not to be distracted by the picture she made, a fresh, lovely picture on this golden spring day. “There will come a time for them to know. For everyone to know.” He shrugged. “For now, let’s just work on breaking the spell. Did you learn anything in the keep?”

  “I learned that the spell, whatever sort it is, is not evil. That’s why I could assure that soldier that no harm would come to his lady. Nowhere that I walked did I sense danger or evil. But…”

  She paused, trying to find the words to explain what she’d sensed. “Sadness was there. A long-ago sadness. It lingers in the air, clings to the very walls.”

  “Sadness.” Tynon shook his head, looking puzzled. “How does that help us?”

  “I’m not sure. I wish there was more. I feel so helpless,” she muttered. “I want to help you. So that I can go home,” she added quickly. “But all I get are bits and whispers, not full pictures. That’s all I’ve ever gotten.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.” The words rushed out, honest and unbidden. “I don’t know if my meager powers will be enough.”