Arto's Enchantress
Page 1
Kingdom of Kerban 2
Arto’s Enchantress
Forced to leave her quiet life for Kerban, Lady Cella didn’t count on handsome Duke Arto as her escort. Nor did she expect someone to want to cause her harm. She can’t allow herself to fall in love with the avowed bachelor, but he is constantly by her side, protecting her from harm. Will her body and her heart survive?
Duke Arto wasn’t impressed to be ordered to pick up Lady Cella. Expecting a spoiled bit of fluff, he is pleasantly surprised. She’s also beautiful, but he’s an avowed bachelor and needs to keep some distance between them. When harm threatens his charge, can he protect her? More importantly, why does he keep pulling her closer?
Genre: Fantasy, Historical
Length: 73,943 words
ARTO’S ENCHANTRESS
Kingdom of Kerban 2
Morgan Henry
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
ARTO’S ENCHANTRESS
Copyright © 2015 by Morgan Henry
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63259-179-1
First E-book Publication: April 2015
Cover design by Harris Channing
All art and logo copyright © 2015 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
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Letter to Readers
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DEDICATION
For my long-time friend Anne.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
About the Author
ARTO’S ENCHANTRESS
Kingdom of Kerban 2
MORGAN HENRY
Copyright © 2015
Chapter 1
From his vantage point near the front, Arto could see everything. The greenery was carefully arranged, with the few fall flowers still around adding colour. The God’s priestess arrayed in her red and black robes was standing in front of the crowd. To her right, his brother was clad not in his customary leathers for riding, but wearing silk over fine wool.
Arto looked on as the God’s priestess pronounced his brother and lady, husband and wife. The revellers applauded as the two kissed. Lady Aenid, Countess of Clawynd, smiled and coloured at the enthusiasm of the crowd. The attendees surged toward the couple to offer their congratulations personally and the respectful hush was replaced by dozens of conversations and the tinkling of glass.
Duke Arto de Ludo was happy for his brother, Merrin.
He was pleased his younger brother got what he wished—a beautiful wife Merrin was madly in love with and would move mountains to care for.
But Arto couldn’t understand that desire.
A beautiful woman, erotic and highly satisfying loving, was all well and good, but a permanent entanglement—never.
Arto was content with his life.
Being the Duke of the Duchy of Bridgend was never dull. His land stood on the most open border with Torquin, necessitating plenty of patrols and defence. There was always the chance of invasion by the Torquin bastards, raiding parties at irregular intervals, and the need to care for refugees fleeing that country.
Add to that his passion for horse breeding, and the occasional, part-time lover, and his life was full.
Having helped to quell the recent attempt by Torquin to invade, he hoped that the border would be quiet enough for the next few months. At least long enough for him to travel and pick up his new breeding stock from Jorval personally.
A trip across country, stopping to see some friends along the way, would be a welcome diversion from the recent fighting. Even if winter was approaching and the weather may be chancy.
The Duchy would be fine for a few months. His home was well fortified and managed superbly by his butler and housekeeper. His second, Sir Beris, could manage the border as well as Arto.
The thoughts of hard riding, hunting along the way, camping in the forest, interspersed with nights in manor homes, were enough to make him impatient to leave the celebration.
Yes, a trip would be fine indeed.
“They are well-matched.” King Graydon had slipped beside Arto while he was occupied with thoughts of travel.
“Aye, Your Majesty. Better him than me.” Arto raised his glass to the couple, mimicking the rest of the crowd.
King Graydon had travelled to Clawynd for the nuptial celebration, conferring a great honor on the two. Of course, they deserved it. Merrin, the King’s Champion and his now wife, Lady Aenid, had played a pivotal role in stopping the most recent invasion of Kerban by Torquin.
“Arto,” the king chided, “you will need an heir at some point.”
Trust
Graydon to be thinking ahead. He would want Bridgend stable so Torquin wouldn’t think to take advantage.
“I don’t need a wife for an heir,” Arto pointed out with a shudder.
And he didn’t. Many couples, or even trios, lived together as stable families without marriage. They lived as a unit for as long as they wished, sometimes permanently, sometimes not. Children were always cared for in some manner by both parents, by law and social convention, but a union did not have to be permanent.
A God-blessed and bound marriage like his brother’s, though, that was far more difficult to dissolve. Only the God could dissolve it, and He may choose not to. The thought of a permanent binding like that—horror.
“Arto, one day you will fall in love, and the women you have bedded so well, they will both laugh and weep.”
“May the God spare me.” Arto put his hand over his heart and pretended to swoon.
A low chuckle escaped from Graydon. “Come find me tomorrow. I have a proposition for you. One that involves a woman. But celebrate with your brother tonight.”
Graydon wandered off, working his way through the crowd. He went first to congratulate the happy couple, leaning down to kiss Aenid on the cheek. Arto laughed inwardly as Merrin glowered at his sovereign, the possessive husband already. Graydon laughed and clapped Merrin on the shoulder.
Graydon then began to speak to individuals in the crowd. The King spoke to all, not stinting his attention to the lower ranks and thanking the servants. He was respected for his unfailing loyalty to his people and he made sure to keep a tangible connection to them.
Arto made his own way through the crowd, threading through the throngs like a weaver’s shuttle. Finally he reached the lovely Countess Aenid.
“Countess, you have my sympathies.” He bowed and kissed her hand with an exaggerated court flourish.
“Your Grace,” murmured Aenid with a small curtsey. “May I ask why you are attempting to console me on this happy day?”
“Well”—Arto looked pointedly at Merrin—“you married my gerto of a brother.”
A gerto was a large ugly lizard, about a third the size of a horse. Aggressive and deadly, they were hunted as a delicacy.
Merrin said nothing to the bait offered by his brother. Instead, he kissed his wife’s new ring.
“My dear brother-in-law, I do believe I like that description. Merrin is certainly a strong predator.” Aenid leaned in and lowered her voice considerably. “And he is quite… tasty.”
Laughter flared in Arto’s chest and burst out, startling those around them.
“Merrin, I never doubted your choice of bride, only her sanity in marrying you. If marriage wasn’t involved, I might be jealous.”
“You should be jealous. One day, you will understand.” Merrin held up his hand to stall Arto’s protests. “Oh, I know you don’t believe it, but I would lay a hefty wager that you will.”
“I would take that bet, brother, but I have to go find a beauty to seduce. My Lady-sister.” Arto gave his newest family member a small bow and went off into the crowd.
The revelry went on well into the night, so it was late the next morning when Arto went in search of his King.
For all his talk, Arto spent the night alone. He would admit to himself that the endless conquests were starting to pale a little. Oh, he still bedded plenty of willing women, but not with the abandon he used to.
The King was in the library by a window, feet propped up with a book in his lap. The chair was full of his large frame and there was a mug of coffee by his side. Dressed in a plain tunic and breeches, it was not immediately obvious that he was the ruler of a strong and prosperous kingdom.
“Your Majesty,” Arto greeted the man with the respect he deserved.
“Your Grace.” The king was equally respectful but didn’t rise. “Please, join me. Do you need anything?”
Arto caught the footman’s eye and requested a coffee for himself and settled in the chair opposite Graydon. “You had a task for me, Sire?”
“A request.”
That was interesting. A sovereign’s request was hard to refuse, but likely something he wouldn’t be enthusiastic about.
“I know you are familiar with the malairte.”
“Aye, Sire.”
“Last year was not the, ah, rousing success of the past.”
That was putting it mildly. Jorval and Kerban were neighbouring kingdoms and had been on friendly terms for years. In order to keep relations between the two powers cordial, the malairte, an exchange of young nobles, took place. One, two or a few sons and daughters of the ranking nobility spent a year in the other country under supervision of a noble family. Friendships were forged, sometimes marriages.
The past year had been difficult. Only one young man from Kerban was sent to Jorval. Graydon had not met him prior to leaving, but he had been from a good family. It turned out he was a lazy, entitled, and rude lout, offending his host family to the point where they passed him to another family, with even less success.
He had managed to offend most of the Jorval nobility and some ambassadors from beyond Jorval. The exchange had ended early, much to the embarrassment of all concerned.
There was still respect between the two kingdoms, but Graydon and the rest of the council felt the mistake of last year keenly.
The young lady from Jorval had not been well liked, but fortunately her host family had realized her shortcomings and mitigated most of her damage.
“Jorval is still sending an exchange this year. A daughter, the niece of the Vizier.” Graydon took a sip of his coffee.
“That’s somewhat encouraging. At least they haven’t cancelled completely.” Arto mirrored his king’s actions.
“I have sent Sir Deris to represent us.”
An excellent choice, in Arto’s opinion. Sir Deris was one of Merrin’s protégés. He was an excellent fighter and was stable, intelligent, and courteous. A good young man to represent the best of Kerban.
“Not that you need my approval, Sire, but he’s a good choice.”
Graydon shut the book, the snap loud in the quiet library.
He leaned forward. “This niece that is coming—she needs to be safe and very well treated. We cannot afford to have tension between Kerban and Jorval. Torquin continues to be a thorn in our side and we can’t protect ourselves from Torquin if relations with Jorval tumble into the abyss.”
Torquin would always be a thorn in Kerban’s side. They decried the use of kerfios, the magical force that was wielded by the fortunate. They collared and cruelly used their mages, healers, and enchanters, condemning them to a life of slavery and torture. In Kerban kerfios users were free and valued for their talents.
“Dare I ask what this has to do with me, my King?” Arto could practically see the quicksand pit in front of him, the deadly mud looking oh-so-innocent.
“I hear you are heading to the Jorval border to pick up some breeding stock. I would request you meet this niece and ensure she is safely escorted to Kerfaen Keep.” The King’s dark eyes rested expectantly upon Arto. “There are few I would trust with this task.”
Arto managed not to sigh. In fact, he was quite proud he kept the scowl off his face.
Picking up a little bit of Jorval fluff did not fit with his plans of riding, hunting, and male comradeship.
Of course he understood Graydon’s concerns. Arto was a member of the King’s Council, the inner circle privy to the running of the Kingdom. It was vital that this niece be protected, he knew that. Acting like a child who didn’t get his way would serve no purpose here.
“I would be delighted to escort the Lady to your Keep, Sire.” Arto unfolded his long, sinewy body from the chair and bowed his obedience.
Graydon gave a bark of laughter. “Liar. But thank you. And seeing how the task would have fallen to Merrin had you refused, you better get him to thank you as well.”
Though Arto would never have allowed his little brother to be separated from his new wife in their first
days together, he wouldn’t admit it.
“I’ll be sure to hold that over him for some time to come, Sire.”
* * * *
Lady Cella Vallant hurried down the hall to the Vizier’s receiving room.
Though she was niece to the Vizier, she rarely went to court. She spent her time in the Lithalla, the Enchanters’ Guild hall that housed and trained its students. She had been there from a very young age and lived a much simpler life than at court.
If she had lived with her parents in the family home, she would have had a ladies’ maid and been at court most of the time with its politics and plots, fashion and gossip. She had been too long away from it to be practised at the art of the cutting phrase and the speaking of half-truths while being graceful and beautiful.
She much preferred to work hard and discuss the concepts and facts of enchantments. True, there was always gossip and politics among students, but nothing like court.
Her chest was tight despite the knowledge that she had done nothing to deserve the Vizier’s displeasure. That knowledge couldn’t entirely relieve her anxiety about a summons to court. There would still be too many people, too much talking, and she would surely do something clumsy. And what if, unknowingly, she had done something wrong?
She tapped lightly on the door and entered when bidden. She stopped just inside. There were only the Vizier and her parents present.
Finally remembering her manners, she dropped into a deep curtsey, spreading the skirt of her gown wide, and held it until greeted by her uncle. She then gave each of her parents a light kiss on the cheek.
“Please, Lady Vallant, be seated.” Though delivered as a soft invitation, there was no mistaking the power in her uncle, the Vizier’s, voice.