Midnight Magic (21 page)

This wasn’t how she’d envisioned Alberic’s homecoming. After two days of heart-wrenching sadness and nigh unbearable loneliness, she’d hoped for a bit of peace and a chance to get to know better the man the ring clung to so tenaciously, thus deciding the course of her life.

Not that she’d planned to bathe with him, and was rather shocked at how much the idea appealed.

Gwendolyn looked over the array of supplies on the table. Towels, French-milled soap, a small vial of scented oil. She’d dug clean garments out of his trunk and placed them on the bed.

Everything was ready. All she lacked was the man who’d ordered the bath, and the courage to close the door and slide into the tub to await him.

She’d faced the prospect of a siege with less trepidation. But sieges she knew about. How Alberic might view such a brazen action, she couldn’t guess. Still, the water tempted, and the thought of the two of them naked and slick in the small tub enticed her even more.

His voice coming from the stairway brought her back to her senses. His appearance in the doorway ended her silly fantasy. Alberic’s big body would barely fit into the tub all by itself, so she’d been wise to resist temptation.

He closed the door, and temptation took a different form when he immediately drew his tunic over his head to reveal the sprinkling of chest hair she remembered so well from their wedding night.

Desperate for a distraction, she turned toward the tub and again tested the wonderfully hot water, and searched for a safer subject than her disappointment in the tub’s size.

“You spoke to Thomas and Roger?”

She heard the ropes holding the mattress groan beneath his weight.

“They are assigning every grown male in the castle to take a turn on the battlements. Many will not have a notion of what to do with a weapon, but right now the appearance of a fully armed garrison is more important than the reality.”

She heard his boots hit the floor; one, then the other. She fussed with a towel.

“Do you believe Madog will attack before dawn?”

“’Twould not surprise me. He knows damn well I am not about to give in to his demands.”

“Then you had best hurry and wash before you are needed.”

He sighed, the sound telling her he’d padded silently over to the tub. “Aye, I suppose . . . Saint Stephen’s bones, that is hot!”

His protest turned her around to view a truly admirable rump, which she promptly ignored the moment she saw his right side.

“Ye gods, Alberic. What did you do?”

“I stuck my hand in the water to test the heat and—”

“You have a large, ugly bruise on your side and back!”

He raised his elbow to glance beneath it at his side. “Oh, that. I fell. ’Tis nothing.”

An absurdly male denial.

Irritated, she asked, “Truly?” Then she touched the bruise, making him hiss. “No pain at all, you say?”

“Well, you were none too gentle!”

“I barely touched you.”

He glanced around the room. “Is there no cool water to add to the tub?”

“Nay. How far did you fall to bruise so deeply?”

“Off a horse. Gwendolyn, this water is too hot.”

“’Tis perfect. Was the horse moving?”

“Rather quickly. I wish to bathe, not boil in my skin.”

“If the water is not hot at the start, ’twill be cold long before you finish. I gather recovering your horses did not go without incident.”

“We dodged a few arrows. This water will stay hot for so long that—” He smiled, an utterly wicked, self-satisfied upturn of his mouth. “You had planned for the two of us to make scandalous, leisurely use of water and soap, did you not?”

Gwendolyn bit her bottom lip and crossed her arms. “The tub is too small. I suppose I should rejoice that you were merely bruised and not pierced.”

“Would that upset you?”

Yes, damn his bare-assed, seductive hide. “I dislike seeing any living thing suffer. Take your bath while I fetch a balm for your bruises.”

In the blink of an eye his expression melted to one of concern. “Gwendolyn, where did you sleep last night?”

The abrupt change of direction confused her, but she saw no reason to not tell him the truth. “In here.”

“In our bed.”

Our bed.
She supposed it was. What had once belonged to her parents now belonged to her and Alberic. They’d made it theirs on their wedding night.

“I could not sleep in the chamber I shared with my sisters. ’Tis . . . too empty. Better I spent the night in here than in the bed where I feared I would cry my eyes out for missing them.”

He cupped her cheeks in his warm, encompassing hands. “Did you miss me?”

“I missed my sisters. We buried two soldiers yesterday. ’Twould have been nice to . . . have you hold me afterward.”

“Ah, sweetling.” His arms came around her, and Gwendolyn sank into the embrace she hadn’t realized she needed desperately. “I am sorry you had to deal with so much upset and sorrow alone.”

The simple acknowledgment of understanding nudged forth tears, so she closed her eyes against them, rested her cheek on his not-so-sweet-smelling chest, and absorbed the offered comfort. After several moments, her composure returning, she knew she should pull away.

Alberic
did
need to bathe. And she must fetch the balm for his bruise. But she was loath to seek release, and he didn’t seem to mind indulging her in a moment of weakness.

“Gwendolyn?” he prodded softly.

“Hmmm?”

“My arse grows cold.”

She couldn’t help but smile at what she sensed was false distress. After a brief squeeze, more gently on his right side so she wouldn’t hurt him, she backed up a step. “Then put your arse in the tub and I will fetch the salve.”

He stuck a hand in the water. “It does not bite so hard anymore. What say, when we are rid of ap Idwal, we have the cooper fashion us a larger tub?”

“As you say.”

He got in and sank down with a pleasured groan, his legs bent so sharply his knees nearly touched his chest. The comical sight widened her smile as she left the bedchamber and hurried down the hallway to her old room.

With her sisters gone, the chamber the three of them had shared felt empty, too silent. As she’d admitted to Alberic, trying to sleep in here last night had proved impossible. So she sought respite in the bed she’d considered her parents’ until now.

Our bed.

’Twas only a bed, after all. A thick, comfortable, feather-filled mattress supported by strong ropes fastened to sturdy planks. The four corner posters were neither as big around nor as highly decorated as some she’d seen in other castles, but stoutly supported the rods holding velvet draperies. When let down, the draperies shielded the bed’s inhabitants from drafts and created a cozy, private refuge.

If she intended to take advantage of that refuge, then it made no sense to leave her trunk and other belongings in here.

Gwendolyn took a deep breath, realizing the implications of the move she contemplated. Sleeping with Alberic, supervising his baths, eating her meals at the dais—those were all wifely duties expected of her no matter how she felt about the man. To give up her bedchamber and fully occupy his would be taken by many as an indication of affection for him, not just a move for convenience’s sake.

She’d surprised herself when she defended Alberic’s actions to Nicole. She’d expected to be thoroughly wroth with him on the day of her sisters’ departure. Instead, she’d placed blame where it rightfully belonged: on the whim of a king who hadn’t considered, or cared, what suffering his orders would cause.

If she were to be completely truthful, her father bore a part of the burden, too, for his single-minded and foolhardy attack on the earl of Chester. As for William, he’d always been a follower, not a leader. Perhaps given time and guidance her brother would have made a fine lord of Camelen, but as it was, he’d followed his father to his death on the point of Alberic’s sword.

Admitting Alberic hadn’t been at total fault for William’s death came hard. Knees weak, Gwendolyn sat down on the bed.

Both Garrett and Emma had tried to convince her that Alberic shouldn’t bear responsibility for what had happened at Wallingford. That he’d been as much a victim of the king’s whim as the de Leon sisters.

Gwendolyn wiped aside a grief-induced tear, banishing with it her stubborn refusal to fully admit William’s faults. Nor did she have the right to bear ill will toward Alberic for merely defending himself.

Or did she grasp for excuses to soften toward Alberic? To justify her preference for him as her husband and legacy partner over Madog.

Since his arrival, Alberic had done all he could to ensure Camelen prospered and to shield its people from harm. He’d proved both generous of heart and willing to fight for his possessions. Though she’d been miffed that he’d likened her to his horses, she’d understood the meaning behind his words. Alberic considered her valuable, would protect her to his dying breath.

He cared for her and all she cared for, which was more than she could say for her former betrothed.

Madog intended to do Camelen grievous harm if his ridiculous demands weren’t met. The surest way to force any besieged lord into the field was to burn a village hut or two, or harass the people.

’Twas hardly the way to win her respect or affection or cooperation.

But then, this siege truly wasn’t about her, but about power. About who possessed her and a few horses.

And no matter which man she might prefer, Alberic wore the ring and so with him she must remain.

Shaking her head over the absurdity of the situation, Gwendolyn rose and fetched the jar of salve from the table. Alberic should be near finished with his bath. She’d rub some salve on his bruise before sending him back to the battlements to figure out how to thwart Madog. And while he was occupied, she would move her trunk and other possessions into the lord’s bedchamber.

The artifacts, too?

There must be someplace in the lord’s bedchamber to conceal them where they would be safe and out of sight.

Alberic surely didn’t want to see them again anytime soon.

Could he be right about the legacy? Had her parents been fooled into believing in magic, making the claim of the power to recall King Arthur nothing more than fantasy?

She didn’t believe it possible. Her parents hadn’t been stupid people. And the ring stubbornly clung to Alberic as it had to her father. Alberic could deny the existence of magic all he wished, but until the ring slid off she had to believe some power greater than any lord’s, any king’s, ruled the ring.

Magic. Sorcery. Whatever one wished to call the force behind the legacy, it existed.

Proving that to Alberic, however, would be a daunting task.

The only way to know for certain was to conduct a test. A small test. Sweet mercy, she truly didn’t want King Arthur to suddenly appear in the hall!

There must be a way to determine if the legacy was true or false. But how?

Wishing her mother had lived but a few hours longer, enough to give her a bit of training in the artifacts’ use, Gwendolyn headed back to the lord’s bedchamber, mulling over what very little she knew about magical spells.

Chapter Thirteen

T
HE ONLY TEST GWENDOLYN
could think of was to put on the pendant and see what happened, if anything.

She held it in the palm of her hand, thinking the strip of gold shaped into a simple trefoil design, akin to a shamrock, was both heavier and sturdier than it looked.

The trefoil symbolized the number three, sacred to the pagan Celts and believed to hold power. ’Twas not surprising that Merlin the Sorcerer, who some thought to be among the first of the Druids, had used the trefoil in the workings of what might be his most powerful spell.

She’d never seen her mother wear the pendant. Indeed, she hadn’t known it existed until a few hours before her mother’s death. Not knowing what else to do with it, she’d obeyed the command to keep it hidden away behind the loose brick in the hearth. Only twice in those ten years had she taken it out to look at it and ponder its mysteries.

Her father became upset whenever her curiosity prodded her to ask about the legacy, so she’d stopped asking, aware that when she married and the ring must be passed on, he would be forced to explain. But now her father had died without divulging whatever knowledge he possessed.

Faced with Alberic’s certainty that the spell wouldn’t work because no magic existed, Gwendolyn wanted some sign that her parents hadn’t been fooled.

She didn’t think they had been, because the seal of the dragon clung as stubbornly to Alberic as it had to her father. But some other sign that she was right about the legacy, and Alberic wrong, would be welcome.

Conducting the test was one thing. Having Alberic know she did so was another.

Gwendolyn slid the delicate gold chain over her head and slipped the pendant beneath her chemise. The trefoil settled against her breastbone, the bottom circles touching the uppermost swell of her breasts. She placed her palm over the pendant, pressing the smooth gold against her skin, surprised at how lightly it pulled at the chain around her neck.

Lightning didn’t strike her dead. Time didn’t cease to pass. King Arthur didn’t appear in the bedchamber—not that the possibility had worried her. Surely Merlin wouldn’t have been so careless as to make the process so simple. Certes, there must be words uttered in a set order, in a ceremony performed involving certain actions, possibly to take place at a specific time. All of which were probably spelled out on the scroll she couldn’t read and so couldn’t inadvertently set the spell in motion.

Still, she stood motionless for several minutes, taking deep, measured breaths, opening her mind and senses to any subtle change in herself or her surroundings.

She noticed nothing unusual, confirming her reasoning that merely wearing the pendant wouldn’t usher forth magical events.

The test would come when she got close to Alberic. True, the pendant and the ring had been near to each other before, but then she hadn’t been wearing the trefoil.

Would she feel a stirring in the air? Perhaps the pendant would grow warm or cold. Or Alberic’s ring might glow, which would likely frighten him again, but then, at the least, he would be forced to admit that the spell might work if they could determine what was written on the scroll.