One Knight Enchanted: A Medieval Romance (Rogues & Angels Book 1)

by Claire Delacroix

  Rolfe averted his gaze, for he knew his own manners had been decidedly lacking.

  Even if there were extenuating circumstances. The wind riffled through his new tail as though to remind him of the precise nature of those circumstances.

  “I do apologize,” he said. “I have never encountered a djinn before, much less two in rapid succession.”

  “Of course not,” the djinn replied. “We are somewhat rare, although I have always been burdened with an inexplicable affection for mortals.”

  Rolfe did not miss her slight emphasis. He felt himself color and decided his charm had picked a poor time to desert him. “I apologize for my earlier manner...” he began, trying to make matters right.

  The djinn, however, seemed to have forgotten his presence. “Let me see...” she mused. She tapped one fingertip against her lips, clearly thinking.

  Suddenly, Rolfe’s ears felt odd. He lifted one hand, hoping that he would not find what he feared, but fur greeted his touch. His ears were pointed and covered with fur.

  The djinn did not appear to notice, and frustration filled Rolfe.

  Was he to be no more than a pawn in these djinns’ foolish games?

  What had he done to merit such a fate?

  “God’s wounds, woman!” Rolfe cried in his impatience. She jumped in a most satisfactory way. “Think if you must, but do it quickly! I will be all wolf before you are done!”

  The djinn’s gaze landed on him and her eyes widened in surprise. “How very quickly she works,” she murmured. She pursed her lips, looking all of six summers old as she concentrated.

  “Powers above and powers below,

  attend my words as never befo’e.

  Cursed by day is enough to pay...”

  She hesitated and nibbled on her bottom lip as she clearly fought to make a rhyme.

  It said something about Rolfe’s fortune that the malicious djinn had possessed a greater gift with words.

  “Befo’e?” he echoed.

  The djinn shot him a hostile glance. “Spells are not my greatest talent,” she informed him archly. She closed her eyes before Rolfe could respond. “Now, I have forgotten where I was.” She frowned, and he did not dare interrupt again.

  “Alakazam, by night be a man.”

  She nodded with satisfaction at her own conclusion.

  Rolfe caught his breath.

  He waited.

  He watched.

  Nothing changed.

  If anything, his tail seemed a little more thick.

  This djinn’s powers were apparently less than compelling.

  And little wonder, given the quality of her rhymes.

  “Alakazam,” Rolfe repeated under his breath. “Now there is a spell.” He rolled his eyes, then was took such a blow to the shoulder that he nearly fell to his knees. Rolfe staggered to regain his balance and glanced about himself. There was no one behind him.

  The djinn smiled at him with such serenity that he knew she had somehow struck him without moving.

  “A completely inexplicable affection,” she reminded him. Any urge Rolfe might have felt to apologize was swept away by her next words. “But quite a nice spell, I think, all the same.”

  “That is all? You intend to do no more?” Rolfe was astonished. “What manner of solution is that? Being a wolf by day is little better than being one all of the time! With all respect, I must say that I had hoped for more!”

  The djinn rose to her feet. “I told you that I could not undo the charm,” she said. “In truth, for spontaneous work, I thought it was not at all bad.” She eyed him, as if this situation were all his own fault. “My best work is not performed under duress.”

  Rolfe fought to maintain his temper. Half his time as a wolf was better than all the time.

  Maybe she could do better yet, if his manner was sweeter than it had been so far. His charm had brought him good fortune in the past, if not the grace of more than one maiden’s favors. He might do well to spare some of his charisma for this djinn.

  Mindful that he could easily make his situation worse, Rolfe bowed to the djinn. “You have indeed outdone yourself in aiding me on such short notice.”

  The djinn eyed him, clearly skeptical of his change of tone, and Rolfe spared her his most winning smile. She thawed a little, though her gaze flicked away. The feminine gesture was familiar and fed Rolfe’s confidence as nothing else could.

  It was reassuring that djinns and mortal women were not that dissimilar.

  “Make no mistake, madame,” he continued. “I do appreciate your endeavors. Undoubtedly, the shock of this change made me speak in haste.” Rolfe held her gaze when she turned to him, and deliberately let his voice deepen. “I would thank you with all my heart for your assistance.”

  The djinn granted him a smile. “I could try again,” she offered.

  “You cannot imagine how greatly I would appreciate your efforts,” Rolfe said. Encouraged by her offer, he dared to suggest once more, “Perhaps we could remove the entire curse?”

  “Oh, no.” The djinn dismissed his suggestion without giving it the consideration Rolfe thought it deserved. “It is not the way. You must earn your salvation with the conditions you have been granted. I cannot change that, but I can grant another point in your favor.”

  “Earn?” His temper flared. “I did nothing to earn this curse!”

  A tingling sensation halted his protest. Rolfe looked down to find silver fur sprouting all over his flesh. He gasped aloud, but his voice sounded more like a muffled yelp.

  He appealed to the djinn, but she only shrugged.

  She shook a finger beneath Rolfe’s nose, which he was alarmed to see had turned black. “You opened the bottle,” she explained. “Do you not see? That deed earned you this.”

  “But can you not do something? I beg of you, madame, help me however you can!”

  “Well, perhaps a little more,” the djinn mused, her expression considering.

  “Then hurry! Please!”

  “I told you that I do not like to be pressured.”

  Rolfe was going to interrupt her, but his voice was a bark this time. Panic flooded through him, but the djinn merely closed her eyes again.

  “Though when cursed by day,

  in the garden he cannot play,

  let him in at night

  to avoid the forest’s plight.

  And whether he feel good or ill,

  the palace shall reflect his will.

  Finally, by grace of the powers above,

  let this curse be broken by the blessing of love.”

  She opened her eyes and smiled with satisfaction. “That was rather a good one, was it not?”

  Rolfe could not confess to be in the least pleased by the djinn’s intervention. He thought he had won her assistance! Forest’s plight? Blessing of love?

  What manner of solution was this?

  He did not believe in love. That was a whimsy favored by women, and truly not a condition for his release that would suffice.

  There was a shimmer beside him and Mephistopheles disappeared. Rolfe had been deprived of his possessions, after all.

  He barked in frustration, but it was too late. He ran upon all fours in the snow around the djinn. He could see that the sun was sinking and the shadows were growing longer.

  How could that be? What about her spell? Night was falling and he was still a wolf. Rolfe howled deliberately at the stars overhead, then fixed the djinn with an accusing glance.

  The djinn’s lips twisted as she considered the hue of the sky overhead. “It is just a question of timing,” she assured Rolfe but he knew he was not the only one who was not convinced. “That is far and away the most complicated part of casting spells.”

  Rolfe had thought it was the rhymes she found troubling, but he could hardly argue with her.

  He heard his destrier nicker from inside the walls of the palace, then the stallion kicked the gates from the other side. How did the palace reflect his will if his horse was inside
and he was outside?

  The djinn smiled tentatively. “He is safe from wolves,” she suggested.

  The palfrey neighed then, the sound also coming from inside the walls. He had been robbed of both of his steeds.

  The djinn shrugged. “Both safe,” she offered. “You wanted a home.” She smiled. “We do advise that one should be careful of making wishes.”

  Rolfe snarled for the first time and liked the feel of it.

  He enjoyed the way the djinn jumped when he did it. She retreated behind her bottle, as if that small vessel could defend her, and watched him warily.

  “You know, it is not very fitting to have her flying freely,” she said. “There was a reason why she was confined to this bottle in the first place, as you can well imagine. It might be wise to see her thus confined again. You could help...”

  That was enough. Rolfe was finished with djinns and their curses. He could see no benefit to furthering their association.

  There was one good way to express his opinion.

  He lunged toward the djinn and bared his teeth. He snapped, and though his jaws closed on empty air, he was convinced he had made his feelings clear.

  “Well, well.” The djinn sniffed from several feet away. “I see I shall have to find someone else to assist me. It is a most inexplicable affection.” She snatched up the bottle she had vacated, then pivoted and stalked off into the forest. The red balls on her hat bounced indignantly as she walked. Her footsteps left no mark upon the surface of the snow, and in the twinkling of an eye, she had disappeared completely.

  Rolfe was left alone in the forest outside the first djinn’s palace.

  Were it not for his changed form and the palace wall behind him, the entire incident might not have happened.

  Wolves howled again, although they were closer, and Rolfe felt a primal urge to lift his voice along with theirs. The forest was more alien to him than it had ever been. He was snared and he was cursed.

  Marcus had been wrong. This was a far cry from making his dreams come true.

  Although Rolfe was uncertain what he could do about it.

  And the knowledge that he was powerless in this situation was what bothered him most of all.

  Chapter 2

  December—Beauvoir Keep

  Annelise’s worst nightmare was unfolding before her very eyes and, worse, there was little she could do about it. She had already been chided once for not paying attention to her embroidery.

  “Yves, the most sensible course would be to wed your sister to Hildegarde’s son.” Bertrand de Beauvoir clapped Annelise’s younger brother on the shoulder as if they were comrades. Though his manner was friendly—more friendly than he had ever been to Yves in the past—Annelise wondered why the old mercenary was so certain what choice Yves should make.

  She was not certain that Bertrand had ever before spoken directly to Yves before. Her younger brother was a bastard, true enough, but their father had let him be raised within the walls of Château Sayerne.

  Indeed, Jerome de Sayerne had not been without his own motives in that choice or any other. It had been her own father who had taught Annelise to look behind a man’s smooth words to the truth of his intentions.

  What would Bertrand gain from this proposed match?

  “I am not certain Annelise should wed a man I know so little about,” Yves replied calmly.

  Annelise cast him a look but he ignored her. Why would he not ask her opinion? She parted her lips to protest but Bertrand’s wife shushed her.

  Again.

  That woman’s agitation convinced Annelise to be silent. She had a good idea why the other woman might fear her husband and had no desire to make trouble.

  Was it so unreasonable to want to wed for love or not at all?

  With their father deceased, Yves was all the family she had left. It was annoying that a half-brother, who had not seen her in years, would be asked to decide her fate while she would not be permitted to comment. Indeed, it seemed the place of women in the wider world was not so different from that of the convent. Frustration roiled within Annelise.

  She had a legitimate brother, Quinn, though she had never met him. Quinn had left Sayerne to earn his own way before Annelise had even been conceived. No one was certain of his location and Annelise was glad of it. She would never forget the tales her father had told of the cruelty of his first-born.

  Considering the source, Quinn was not a man she ever wanted to encounter.

  That was why they were at Beauvoir. She knew they had been right to leave Château Sayerne when they had heard that Quinn would soon return home again. It suited Annelise’s sense of justice to leave the man who had inherited her father’s cruelty a second worthless legacy.

  Château Sayerne, the traditional holding of Annelise’s family, might once have been a prize but was so no longer. Jerome had let the estate fall into neglect and, with his death, the last of Sayerne’s tenants had fled. This past year, not a single seed had been sown in Sayerne’s fields. The holding had declined so greatly from its original state that Annelise and Yves had not even needed to discuss the merit of leaving once they learned of Quinn’s pending return.

  Neither of them had looked back.

  Beauvoir was, in marked contrast to Sayerne, a comfortable keep, despite its remote location. Bertrand, the new Lord de Beauvoir, had been entrusted with the strategic task of guarding the Beauvoir Pass by their overlord, Lord de Tulley. At this pass, the old Roman road passed out of Lord de Tulley’s holdings on its route south to Rome. Château Beauvoir was perched on the apex of the pass and built across the road itself. No one could cross the mountains without paying the toll.

  Beauvoir’s tower was as narrow as a needle, like a finger pointed to heaven, its construction having been restricted by the rocky terrain on all sides. There were windows only at the very top of the tower, in Bertrand’s solar and the guard’s watch above. To say that the keep was heavily garrisoned would have been an understatement. It was the most military keep in all of Tulley’s holdings, which said much about its strategic location.

  On this night, Annelise and Bertrand’s wife were the only women to be found within the walls. Annelise had been keenly aware of the soldiers’ gazes following her every move and could not wait to leave Beauvoir behind. She felt like prey or like a prize to be seized.

  The question was where she and Yves would ride.

  The chamber that Bertrand used to administer his holding was adjacent to the great hall. It was a sparsely furnished room, although the pieces there were fine ones. A merry fire burned in the brazier and the air was smoky but warm.

  Silver-haired Bertrand sat in a high-backed oak chair that faced the fire, its wooden arms worn to a smooth patina. The lines on his face were etched into a severe expression, and he looked every inch the experienced commander that he was.

  His wife perched closer to the fire on a three-legged stool, much like the one Annelise used, although the lady had a cushion of wool dyed richly red. A mousy woman with almost no color in her complexion, Bertrand’s wife bent over her embroidery, her shoulders rounded, her demeanor meek. Annelise had yet to hear her speak a word unbidden.

  The way she looked at her husband was enough to chill Annelise’s heart.

  Annelise, in contrast, was seldom so quiet. Her outspoken nature had been the greatest challenge of her time at the convent dedicated to Ste. Radegund and their vow of silence had been one reason she had so despised her time there.

  The golden light from the fire cast what was a tense discussion in a falsely warm glow of intimacy. The light burnished Yves’ mail to silver and cast mysterious shadows in the secret corners of the room.

  “She must wed, though,” Bertrand said to Yves as if Annelise was not even present. “A man cannot make his way dragging a sister by his side.” The older man’s silver brows drew together sternly. “You did ask me for advice, after all, and this is the only option that makes good sense. I know of no other suitable men seeking a bride at
this time.”

  “Perhaps someone might ask my opinion,” Annelise murmured. “After all, it is my future that you discuss.” Bertrand’s wife shot a warning glance in her direction, but both men continued as though she had not spoken.

  Yves tapped his toe. “Perhaps the Lord de Tulley should be consulted about this match,” he mused. “I would not want to offend him by taking the matter into my own hands.”

  Since their father’s demise, Yves had shown a decisive side that Annelise had barely glimpsed before. She did not really care for this aspect of her half-brother, for it reminded her of her father’s determination.

  Annelise was forced to acknowledge that she truly did not know Yves that well. She had returned to Sayerne from the convent only a year before Jerome’s death, after all.

  “Nonsense!” Bertrand dismissed Yves’ comment. “Tulley has too much on his board these days to trifle with the match of a noblewoman without a dowry. You must make a match where you can and see the matter resolved with haste.”

  Annelise felt her color rise at being discussed like some baggage to be forced on another.

  “But who is this Hildegarde?” Yves asked, only the first of many questions Annelise had.

  “Hildegarde de Viandin, an old family friend. Her husband, Millard, and I trained together. Sadly, Millard passed away some years ago.”

  Annelise licked a thread and fed the floss through the eye of the needle. A lady should hold her tongue. She repeated the nuns’ admonition to herself silently.

  Bertrand cleared his throat. “She wrote last summer to ask whether I knew of a suitable young woman to marry her second son. The eldest, of course, is the heir, but Hildegarde might be persuaded to ensure that the younger son be granted a small holding.”

  Yves said nothing, and Bertrand continued. “Annelise cannot expect to do much better, you know, given her lack of dowry. And everyone knows about the curse of her forthright manner.” He fired a glance at Annelise that kept her from protesting the accusation.