Magick by Moonrise

by Laura Navarre

  A moment later Beltran strode into view, brow furrowed, reins gripped in a gloved fist. As he glimpsed her kneeling form, his grim features eased. Loosing his stallion with a friendly slap, he circled the inlet, closing the distance between them. She tingled with anticipation.

  He’d resumed the stark black garments of an almost-priest, severe and foreboding, the double-handed sword jutting over his shoulder. A stray shaft of sunlight pierced the thick-woven branches to blaze in his tawny hair. Fire flashed on the gold-and-steel medallion against his heart—his badge of service, token of his holy vow.

  What was it worth to him, that emblem of militant Christianity? Enough to see her burn for it?

  From his towering height, he frowned down on her, gaze inscrutable as he searched her upturned features.

  “Are you well?” he said abruptly.

  Not precisely. She managed a shaky laugh. “Pray do not trouble thyself. Thou art not my keeper.”

  “The hell I’m not, at this court,” he said grimly. “What’s amiss?”

  “’Tis nothing.” She swept a hand outward, a shadow of her usual imperious self. “Return to thine own kind, my lord. While my business at this court remains undone, thou need not fear I’ll fly from it.”

  Or from you, badly though I might yearn to.

  An involuntary shiver raced through her, raising goosebumps on her skin. His tawny brows drew together.

  “Rhiannon, what did the Queen say to you?”

  “Rather I might ask what the Spanish Ambassador said to thee,” she countered, rash and heedless with unstrung nerves. “Some new command from thy holy stronghold at San Miguel? Thou wished to be in London, and here thou art—or nearly so. Why trouble me any further when thine Inquisition beckons?”

  In part, she said it to draw him out. He’d never said precisely what brought him, save that it concerned the Queen’s closest counselor, the Archbishop. And he’d thrown around easily enough the name of Bloody Bonner, the Archbishop’s lackey who did the Inquisition’s burning.

  “I’ve spoken to the Archbishop, and I’ll dispatch a note to Bonner before dinner. It’s Inquisition business.” Irritably he shrugged that aside, dropping to his knees beside her. “The Queen—has she ruled against you?”

  “That would please thee, would it not?” she flashed. “Nay, she is undecided, and not inclined to rush to judgment until May Day, three day hence. She continues to insist I must persuade thee. If I loved my people even a little less, cared even a little less for peace, I would quite have given up on thee—”

  To her shame, her voice cracked. Eyes stinging, she bit her lip and ordered her tongue silent. In a moment she’d be weeping, and that her pride would not tolerate.

  Despite her resolve, a single traitorous tear spilled from her brimming eyes.

  “Rhiannon,” he murmured, more tender than was his wont. Hunkered on one knee, he gripped her chin gently. “Let us have a moment’s peace. For once, let’s not talk about my God or your Faeries.”

  “In that case, I suppose we must be silent.” Fiercely she blinked the tears back.

  Through her blurred vision, she saw not the Blade of God’s strong-hewn features—marked by the slow hand of time—but the brooding tenderness of the Presence, stern and beautiful, shadowy wings curved over them.

  “What else have we to discuss, my lord?” she asked both of them—this hard-faced warrior of unflinching duty, and the celestial Being that was somehow part of him.

  One finger caught her defiant tear as it spilled, his leather glove brushing her skin so soft it made her shiver.

  “You know what lies between us.” Eyes hooded by gold-tipped lashes, he raised the sparkling tear to his lips. “Don’t you?”

  She knew what he made her feel, this alarming and contradictory creature, marriage of mortal and divine. He made her flesh weaken, her heart flutter, her body burn beneath his touch. If she surrendered she was lost...her immortality, her dream of belonging somewhere, anywhere. But surely there was no harm in touching him, brushing the crisp golden stubble that glittered against his hard jaw.

  At the touch, his eyes flashed open, summer-blue. She was drowning in them. Casting aside caution with both hands, she reached for him, arms winding around his neck.

  “I crave thee like a very wanton,” she whispered, astonished by her own boldness. “I’ve never known anything like thee—despite everything in me that warns me away. Wilt thou kiss me once?”

  He uttered a laugh, a groan of despair, she hardly knew what. His arms closed around her, strong and certain, hauling her hard against him. Then he kissed her as he’d done before, his mouth hot and fierce and hungry. Senses reeling, her mouth flooded with rich claret and tart red apples.

  Ah, what was it about apples...?

  The thought slid away as she yielded to the seductive lure of him. Like a blind woman her hands sought the bulging power of his muscled shoulders, flexing under smooth brocade. The short spikes of his hair curled around her fingers, the hot skin of his nape burned her. He made quick work of her hood, plucked the pins from her hair until it tumbled down around them in a cloud of violet scent.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for days,” he muttered, cradling her head, plunging his hard warrior’s hands into the heavy tendrils. “You should never wear it up.”

  She gasped a little laugh. “That would hardly be convenient.”

  Oh, this was more, much more than she’d dreamed, more than she knew was prudent. As she gasped for breath, his lips found her throat, rough whiskers rasping against tender skin. His kisses made her shiver with a strange fever.

  Surely that was why she didn’t protest—silent for just a moment longer, one moment more of this swooning pleasure—as he eased her to the earth. The fresh scent of spring rose around them, mingled with frankincense from his hair and clothing. A bulwark of solid earth lay under her, steadied her. Yet she was drunk from his breath and lips and tongue plundering the fragile hollow of her throat, his hard length pressing into her.

  When his hands found her breasts, her eyes fluttered open. The stiffened busk of her English bodice was a carapace between them; she could hardly feel his touch. She could have wept with frustration. Her breasts ached for him to touch her, really touch her.

  The deft tug of his fingers loosened her laces. A voice of caution whispered in her brain.

  “Dear Goddess,” she breathed, clinging to his shoulders, anchoring herself as the world revolved around them. “I never expected this.”

  “I’ll never harm you, I swear it,” he said huskily, lips moving against the upper swell of her breast. Heat ignited along her skin. “If you knew how I’ve dreamed of this. Let me see you, princess.”

  Nay, we mustn’t, because...But she couldn’t quite recall why they mustn’t. While he dealt with her laces, she thrilled and tingled. The shell of her bodice opened, cool air raising shivers on her skin. The sleeves slid from her shoulders as he brushed aside layers of velvet and muslin, baring her body to his touch.

  At last his hands were on her breasts—the hard calloused hands that had once saved her life. She was melting and tingling and floating all at once. The wet heat of his mouth...merciful Goddess, his tongue...teased her exquisitely sensitive nipples. As he nuzzled and tasted, heat pooled between her thighs.

  No doubt a Christian maid would have blushed and hidden her face. But Rhiannon felt no shame in her woman’s body or her passio
n, new and wondrous as it was.

  When she hoisted her heavy lids, her breath escaped in a rush. For it was he—the Presence—light spilling like water from his cobalt eyes, silver locks streaming in the astral wind, opal-and-garnet wings unfurled to shelter them.

  “So beautiful,” she marveled. Those eyes of light, like wheels of fire, seared into her. “Who art thou?”

  The Being’s lips brushed her brow. He whispered something—a word—

  But she heard nothing save a thunderous hiss, like liquid sizzling against hot stones, as a massive dark shape erupted from the mossy inlet beside them.

  * * *

  Beltran’s world narrowed to the woman who lay beneath him—at last!—on the leaf-carpeted earth. As he wrestled with the impenetrable armor of her thrice-damned bodice, he thought his head would explode with frustration. Finally, he managed to unlace her. God’s fury, she was everything he’d imagined and more.

  Creamy skin flawless as damask, flushed with passion from his touch. Breasts pert and perfect as ripe peaches, just enough to fill a man’s hand. Any more would be wasted. Pale pink nipples jutting under his hungry gaze. Her sighs and murmurs had him aching behind his codpiece, longing to tear the damn thing off.

  When he tasted her at last, teasing her nipples, suckling them to hardened buds between his lips, her soft cries nearly drove him mad.

  Christ on the Cross, did she even realize the way she was moving under him, thighs parting beneath her velvet skirts, letting him lodge so sweetly between them? He should give her more time—if he could stand it—before he eased his hands under her skirts, past the ribboned garters around her thighs to stroke her virgin-soft skin.

  The thought of Rhiannon, warm and willing for his touch, beckoned him like a dream of Heaven. This very hour, he’d stake his claim and make her his.

  And then he’d take her...somewhere...away from the poisonous intrigue of the Tudor court, the odious instruments of torture the Church would wield against her tender flesh. To a cozy little inn by the sea perhaps, someplace her safety would be assured—

  Suddenly a rattling hiss split the air. A jet of water fountained beside them, a geyser erupting from the placid pond. Moving on instinct, he spun free of Rhiannon and thrust her behind him. Then he was rolling to his feet.

  Beneath his hand, the sword of Judgment cleared his sheath. He stationed himself before Rhiannon and slanted it defensively before them. Then he gaped at the nightmare rearing from the depths.

  It towered above them like a demon vomited from the pit of Hell—long neck thick and muscled under obsidian scales, horse’s head ropy with black mane, slitted eyes glaring red. The rest of the creature was submerged, water bubbling and smoking around it. The muzzle split to reveal wicked fangs and a forked tongue as the thing hissed.

  “Lady preserve us!” Rhiannon cried, somewhere behind him. “’Tis a dragon.”

  “Nonsense,” he muttered. “There’s no such creature. Stand back, Rhiannon!”

  The head was snaking down, striking at him with serpentine swiftness.

  “God and St. Michael!” Fiercely Beltran swung his blade, cleaving sideways in a two-handed stroke. His sword bit into the mighty neck and glanced off the scaled armor.

  Rearing back, the creature screamed, venom dripping from its jaws to spatter the earth. Where each droplet struck, leaves curled and blackened, steam rising from the acid.

  Beltran risked a glance behind him and cursed. Rhiannon huddled desperately on the ground, hands pressed to her ears as she grimaced in pain. Beyond, their panicked horses were vanishing in the trees—their fastest means of escape now forfeit.

  “Christ,” he roared at her. “If you love life, run!”

  Another rattling hiss from the weaving serpent drowned out his command. Rhiannon writhed on the ground. He stared between them, uncomprehending.

  “The Name of thy God,” she gasped. “It wounds both of us! ’Tis a Faerie creature.”

  A flicker of movement made him leap aside as the beast struck like a monstrous adder. His sword screamed through the air to deflect, slashing open the snarling muzzle. Steaming ichor sprayed from the wound.

  Skirts flashing, Rhiannon scrambled back from the deadly rain. The snakelike head tracked her, an impossible length of scaled body uncoiling from the depths. Wildly Beltran wondered if its length was endless, spiraling down and down into the Abyss. Its gyrations drove Rhiannon fleeing down the spit of land between the inlet and the Thames—a refuge too narrow to offer shelter.

  “Not that way,” he shouted, despairing.

  “There’s no other way!” Rhiannon cried. “Invoke thy Deity.”

  The creature was still uncoiling, arrowing after her with a speed no human could match. Beltran pelted after them, hacking at the sinuous column as he ran. Harmlessly, his blows glanced off the onyx scales.

  Barely believing it would help, he bellowed, “The power of Christ compels you. Begone!”

  The thing erupted into an agony of thrashing coils, whipping to and fro. Beltran flung himself flat, the head striking him a glancing blow that made pain explode across his back. Rhiannon dropped and curled tight, arms wrapped around her head—a heartbeat from those lethal jaws.

  His back was on fire, but Beltran hardly felt it. He gathered his limbs beneath him and launched toward her, pelting hard, screaming words of warning he knew came too late.

  Then his skin began to smoke. His blood turned to fire in his veins; the world went red around him. Despair and exultation whirled through his brain—the holy madness he’d fought all his life. He loathed and dreaded it. Yet it might be the only thing that could save her.

  And he must save her. He knew that beyond question, beyond the flicker of a doubt.

  Barely in time, Rhiannon scrambled to her feet. She raced along the shore, light-footed as a young deer, silver curls streaming behind her. But she could never outrun the maddened monster that streaked after her.

  Beltran felt his jaws stretch wide, voicing a deafening howl of anguish. Gold-and-white flames ignited along his sword. Fueled by the fearsome might of his holy rage, he brought the flaming sword hurtling down like a meteor against the iron-hard coils.

  Green ichor exploded as the blade bit deep. A spray of smoking acid arced through the air to splatter him. Scorched holes opened in his doublet, droplets stinging his skin like hornets. Now the infernal beast was turning on him—

  A rippling note, like a harp touched by God, reverberated through the air. Beltran faltered, blinking. The red fog of rage receded. In midlunge the serpent froze, its onyx coils quivering.

  Beyond the evil head, Rhiannon stood with arms outflung, her slim hands spread, fearlessly touching the wicked scales. And Beltran knew that resonant melody arose from her.

  As he watched, astonished, silver light flared around her. It limned her slight frame, streamed through her like the Blessed Virgin or the pagan moon-Goddess. The light flowed through her fingers into the shuddering monster, spread like water over its armored form.

  Rhiannon whispered words in an unknown tongue. Somehow his soul grasped their essence:

  “Ease thy rage, great serpent, Father of Dragons. Cool the fire of thy wounds in the watery depths. This mortal world is not thy place. Return thee hence to Faerie in peace, peace, peace...”

  The serpent shivered along its length, ichor seeping from its
wounds. The savage jaws parted to emit a low croon that was almost a purr.

  As Beltran stared in disbelief, the creature began to withdraw, coils sliding into the mossy inlet. Under his breath he prayed, adding his voice to hers. Down and down beneath their mingled words the serpent sank, until the hideous head with its slitted eyes sank beneath the waves. The waters stilled. Silence settled upon the wood.

  Rhiannon heaved a shuddering sigh and crumpled to the earth. Her pure silver light dimmed and vanished. Gradually Beltran felt his killing rage evaporate, the world resuming its everyday hues of green and brown and gold.

  He crouched on hands and knees, panting and drained, muscles burning with fatigue.

  His brain reeled, scrambling to make sense of what he’d seen. A creature of legend risen from the tame waters of Hampton Court? And she...Rhiannon...that maddening, impossible girl he burned to bed, who could bring everything the Church strove to accomplish in England crashing down around his ears.

  That healing light had poured from her like a miracle. Yet she was no saint, no God-fearing Christian.

  The voice of recognition whispered through his shocked brain.

  She’s telling the truth. All of it—the Faerie Queene, this mystical Convergence, her pagan magick and the danger that threatens.

  The world was nothing he’d believed it to be, no orderly realm of sinful souls queuing for Hell or Heaven or Purgatory, their deeds weighed by God, shepherded by a stern omniscient Church.

  And if that world was illusion, his entire life was based upon a fallacy.

  Blindly he pushed to his feet, tortured muscles screaming in protest. Absently he fingered the smoking holes in his doublet. His wounds still smarted, but the white flare of pain had faded. He was already healing, as he ever did, with the uncanny swiftness he’d attributed to divine favor—God’s reward to his faithful servant for suffering in His name.