Bride Enchanted (21 page)

Malcolm rocked back and forth on his heels, trying to hide his smile. “I do, my boy, I certainly
have heard of such, at least. I myself married when I was his age, and often wondered…” He coughed. “That's water over the bridge or under it, however they say it. You will keep an eye on the lad, though, won't you?”

“I've promised Eve that I would,” Aubrey said. “And so I shall.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm said. “Well, not such a problem then, was it? You shouldn't have been leery of telling me, Eve. We're all grown up here now, aren't we? And thank you for relieving my mind. What a rascal the boy turned out to be, eh?” he chuckled to himself. “Now you two go get some rest, doubtless it was a hard journey. I'll see you at dinner, shall I? And if not, then at breakfast tomorrow. I know how travel can knock one around, which is why I dislike moving once I get somewhere.”

“Indeed, it was a long journey, and thank you, sir,” Aubrey said, taking Eve's arm.

She looked dazed as she left her father's study and went up the long stair to their guest room. When they got to the room, Eve dismissed her maid. She sank to the bed, and sat and stared, un-seeing, into the air in front of her. She felt a large warm hand on the back of her neck.

“You didn't entirely believe me until just now?” Aubrey asked as he settled beside her.

She shook her head.

“And yet, you stayed with me. Or is that why you tried to run away?”

This time she nodded.

“And so now, what do you think?”

She turned to him. Her eyes were damp. She shrugged one shoulder. “You are what you said you were. It will take me a while to accept that. I don't know whether to be frightened or glad. At least you're not mad. But you're not precisely human.”

“Does it matter that much to you? Have I ever done you harm? Do I mean you any harm? Do you think I'd ever do you any?”

Her eyes were large and dark as they searched his. “You've never wounded me in any way,” she said seriously. “But if all of it is true: that you are centuries old, that you do magic; that you and your people think yourselves superior to us—then why do you love me? Or rather, how? As a man loves a good dog? As a man loves a child? Surely you can't think of me as on the same plane as yourself and your people.”

He sighed. “The answer to that is that I don't know. I do love you. Not as a man loves a pet or a child, but rather I love you as a mortal man would, I think. My kind do not love other beings in that fashion, so I can't be sure.”

“And when I grow old and finally die, and you
are still young, you will still remember me and mourn for me? Not long, I think. You'll go on and love again, and again.”

“You think a mortal man would not?”

She shook her head. “True, true.”

“As would you, if you outlived me,” he said, placing a light kiss on her ear.

She turned and fixed him with a steady look. “You believe so? It's not a thing we can prove, at any rate.” Her voice hardened. “I think, Aubrey, that if you care for me at all, it's because you believe I can end your sterility.”

He sat back. “Oof! And how can I disprove that? By loving you even if you don't have a child? Again, that's not a thing we can prove now, is it?”

Her expression was still, her voice still curt. “You know better than that, Aubrey. I believe you've known my secret from the moment it began. Your sister did.”

His eyes opened wider. “And so if I love you even more for what you'll give to me, where is the harm in that?”

She closed her lips on words she almost spoke. Instead, she cocked her head to the side and regarded him coolly. “What do you really look like, Aubrey? You're not so perfect as the folk I met in your land. I like that, but I begin to wonder if that's so.”

“You rate me on a scale now,” he murmured. “You see me without affection in your eyes.”

“Do you want to bespell me to ensure it?”

His eyebrows rose. “That,” he breathed. “That is what has always singled you out. I can't, or won't, bespell you.”

“You enchanted me,” she said, “however you did it. Can't you let me see what it is you really are?”

He rose from the bed in one swift movement. “I look much the same here or there,” he said. “I think what you mean is how can I appear to be, should I choose to?”

“Yes,” she said.

He stood still, and then he smiled down at her where she sat, waiting for him to change to something else. “Is it a snake you anticipate?” he asked. “A bear? A wolf? Here then, see.”

The light around Aubrey blurred, and then began to scintillate. And then it glowed. Aubrey stood in the center of the nimbus of light. His jet hair was gone, replaced by brazen gold tresses that streamed behind him. His eyes were silvery gray. His face was exactly the same, as was his form, but he seemed almost godlike in his power and beauty.

“I was fair-haired when I pretended to be my father,” he said. “So I had to be dark, when I be
came his son. Just as I was when I was being my grandfather. Mortals note the family resemblance; color always confuses them. A good hound wouldn't be fooled. But such a little thing makes me a new man every time in mortal minds. I'm grateful for it. And that's all. This is who and what I am, Eve.”

She stared at him, and it seemed to her that the longer she looked, the less he glowed. Until, at last, she was looking only at her husband, but it seemed that he wore a golden wig. “I like dark men better,” she said.

“That's not what you told me when we met,” he said, smiling. He sat on the bed beside her. He was the man she had known again. He looked at her curiously. “I can't confuse you for long. I only hope I can still enchant you.”

He waited a moment, and then he took her in his arms and kissed her. For a moment, she lay lax, in his arms. And then her mouth quivered against his, and her arms went around his neck, and she pressed herself close to him.

“This gown,” he said, after a moment, “is certainly in the way.”

“Not so much as your neckcloth and your shirt,” she whispered.

They were out of their clothes in moments, and a moment after, they sank to the bed together.

“This,” Aubrey said, his mouth against her breast, “is what we have, Eve. Mortal or not, of the Folk or the humans, there is no spell or magic that can do better.”

She didn't speak. She only gave herself up to him. She held him close and when she lay back to let him love her, she stroked his back all the while. She ran her hands through his raven hair and over his hard body as though she were trying to memorize it to keep in her heart forever. When they joined at last, she clung to him, and when they reached ecstasy together, she wept. Because it was so powerful and beautiful, and because she knew she'd have to let him go, as soon as she could, and forever.

Instead of lying down with her as he usually did as their bodies cooled, he sat up and took her in his arms. He rocked her back and forth and stroked her back. They sat in the dark a long while in silence.

“You're going to leave me, aren't you?” he eventually asked.

“It will be easier from here. Are you going to let me?” she asked as answer.

“Why are you going?”

“I have to think a while, without you near. I have a life to think about, and not just my own.”

“Ah,” he said. “But you know I can always find you.”

He felt her head nodding agreement.

“And you know I will always love you.”

“No,” she said softly. “Because you won't. I have to become used to that. I have to accept reality, many realities, even if they aren't realities I ever knew.”

“I see,” he said. “Then go. But know that you will come back to me.”

“You promise you won't make me?” she asked.

“That you ask is an insult,” he said. “You will be back.”

They sat quietly together, until, exhausted, they lay down at last. They turned on their sides and slept, but not facing together, and not together in any way, not this night.

T
hey left her father's house together.

“No sense in upsetting him,” Eve had said.

And they parted when they got around the corner.

They stood a moment, together. They made a pretty picture, and passerby smiled to see them. The tall, lean, dark-haired gentleman, his many-caped greatcoat adding to the impression he gave of height, power, and elegance, standing bent protectively toward a small, charming-looking young woman in a blue pelisse, a jaunty hat settled on her wind-rumpled curls. He held her gloved hand in his. They looked like a sentimental silhouette, the sort that lovers had cut and framed as keep-sakes.

All Eve wanted to do was to fling herself into Aubrey's arms, and stay there forever. But she remembered that he was the only one who knew
what forever was, or at least, he had a better idea than she did. He was more than a compelling gentleman. He was of another breed entirely, and his impression of superiority was well merited.

“I'll be safe, and I'll be comfortable,” Eve told him. “My friend has a manor house in the countryside and is thrilled to know I'm coming to visit for a spell. Her husband is in the navy, and at sea. She's enceinte and can't go anywhere. Expectant ladies' lives are circumscribed. No one knows my condition yet, and won't for months, I hope, so I'm still free. I'm happy to see her again. We'll talk of old times, and I'll have time to think.” But she didn't look at him as she said it. She hadn't really looked at him since that night they'd last made love. She'd looked in his vicinity, but never into his eyes.

“Have you enough money?” he asked. “You may always draw on your account if you need more.”

“I do, but thank you. I won't need a great deal at first.”

“Let us hope there is no more than an ‘at first.'”

“You do understand?” she asked.

“I do. I lament it. But I do.”

“You'll look out for Sheridan?”

“Of course.”

They stood speechless for a moment.

“If you need me, you have just to call me,” he said.

“Is that true? Your sister said I had just to wish.”

“Both are so. I'll know,” he said.

She nodded as she looked at the pavement. “I expect you will. That's what I must get used to, if I chose to. Aubrey,” she said, raising her gaze and looking directly at him for the first time in a long time, “How many more years do you have?”

He checked. Then he tilted his head to the side. “If a pillar falls on my head in half an hour, then, half an hour. Barring accident? Another few hundred years, perhaps. I am at my middle years.”

“I thought so. How can you say you love me when you have lived so long and known so much love? At least, be honest with me on that.”

“At least?” His smile was crooked. “I won't lie to you, Eve. I feel differently toward you than toward any being I've ever known, in all my long years. That is true. Is that love? My kind doesn't love, not as you do, so how should I know? I don't want you to leave me. I don't want to be without you. I will suffer. But surely, love is more than that? Or else your people wouldn't carry on so about it; change your lives, sacrifice yourselves, even give
your lives for the sake of love, would you? Your literature is based on love, your art is too, even your worship is. Love is what makes your short spans bearable, I think. But I cannot give you more than my idea of love, and my promise of total faithfulness and service to you for the rest of your life. I wish I could, but I cannot. I won't promise what I can't supply.”

“I know,” she said. “But tell me one more thing, please. How often must you return to your people and your land before the deleterious effects of my world begin to claim you?”

“Every year, at least,” he said. “And that visit must be for months of your time. Think of it as half a year here, and half there. Like going to Spain for the winter, or to the Alps in the summer. Other mortals do that. You can come with me. I wish you would. But I must have that time there in order to keep my remaining years. And so may your son.”

“Even you don't know that yet,” she said.

“True,” he said. “But I have my dreams.”

“As do I,” she said. “I know what you want most of all. But consider me. I'd hate to be the mayfly spending my only hours flitting around your long and happy lives. I don't know how long love can withstand such cruel envy. That's only
one of the things I must find out.” She slipped her hand from his. “Good-bye, Aubrey. You've given me much to think about.”

“You've given me much,” he said. “I'll wait for you.”

He helped her up the stair to the carriage waiting for her. She settled inside, and looked out the window at him. Her smile trembled. “Adieu, Aubrey,” she called. “I hope you understand.”

He bowed. “I try,” he said. “Safe journey, and safe return, my heart.”

He stood watching her carriage roll away down the street, and frowned. “My heart”? Where had that come from? He'd never said that before. But so, he thought, as he walked in the opposite direction, so she was. And so she carried with her his heart, and the heart of his race: their future.

Aubrey walked a long time that evening. He paced down London's streets without seeing them. He walked through the parks until their gates closed without realizing where he was, until the wardens asked him to please leave. He didn't return to his father-in-law's house. He'd had his bags taken to his own town house. It was the one he'd used whenever he'd gone to London, through the years. Then he sat in a chair by his hearth until his servants had finished feeding the fire, and left
him alone. Aubrey put his head back and closed his eyes.

He'd bought this town house when he'd first come of age. London had been a green place then, surrounded by fresh clean rivers and seas. Since then, he'd known generations of men, and women too, of course. He'd loved the pleasure he'd had with humankind. They amused him and puzzled him, and in time, they enchanted him. Some had great minds, some great skills: he'd always felt pity for them, having so much, having so little time.

His own people didn't think very much of humanity, except as sport. But as the humans kept coming and increasing in numbers, his folk slowly withdrew from the cities to their own lands again. They said it was because they were bored with humankind. Aubrey began in time to think it was because of something else.

The walls around London had been made of stone when he'd first come to it. There had been gates here and there, but a clever fellow could find his way through the city without ever touching iron. Now the city was falling in love with progress and human progress meant iron and steel being everywhere. It didn't kill. But it wasn't pleasant. His people loved pleasure.

And then there was envy. While short-lived,
humble, foolish humanity grew in numbers and wisdom, his people grew fewer every century. The women didn't produce children. Their men didn't either. When he saw that, he began to do more than toy with human women. He made love to many, and married some, and some, he liked very well. But it made no difference. The word that had made him wince when Eve had said it had been true, at least, until he'd met her. He'd been sterile. As were his people, with each other and with humankind. But now there was Eve.

He had no soul, it was said. He'd never missed it. He worshiped no gods. They'd never helped him. But he thought that he'd changed over the years, and he didn't know how. All he knew was that now he hurt. He missed Eve. If he missed her this badly now, how would he feel when she eventually died? He didn't want to think about it. She believed she'd go on, in some form, when she was gone from the earth. He didn't know about that. He'd never bothered to think about it. He did now.

She would bear his son. Whether the boy was of his kind, or hers, or a combination of both, he didn't yet know. But she would have the child, and he would take it from her. They both knew that. So he couldn't blame her for her brief try at freedom. She'd never be free of him. The problem
was that now he wondered if he'd ever be free of her. Because he realized he'd be without her for a long, long time, even after she came back to him.

The next day Aubrey walked the city again. The next night he prowled the streets. He went to a play; he visited a gaming hall. He didn't sleep much, but his kind didn't need much sleep. He went to the menagerie at the Tower the next day, and communed with the animals, withstanding the bone-deep ache in the bars of their cages in order to step close and give them some comfort: dreams of green vistas, peace, and freedom. He did all the usual things he did when he was in Town.

But he didn't go near any females. He'd given his word. And it seemed he had really given his heart, as well as his desires. He wanted no woman but Eve. That didn't mean he didn't see them. Or they, him. But most of the time it was simply business as usual for the ladies of the night. They propositioned them, he refused, they moved on. He never bought a woman, never had to, and never would.

One night, as he wandered the streets deep in thought, a young woman approached him. Many had, as the hour grew later. But for some reason this one wasn't easily discouraged.

“Oh, c'mon, Guv, 'ave a treat,” she cooed, wink
ing one kohl-smeared eye. He looked more closely at her. She wore the usual uniform of a street-walker's tawdry splendor, but her face was fair, and her hair was the impossibly bright gold of his own people. It wasn't natural, of course, but it caught his eye, and made him remember. And for that memory, and because it was cold out, and she was, after all, young and fair under all her paint, he reached into his pocket.

He handed her coins, and dismissed her. “Go, be good to yourself tonight,” he said.

She took the money, eyes wide. He didn't have to see the reflections in them to know what was happening. He heard her two heavy companions coming up behind him. Annoyed, and even so, glad of the distraction, Aubrey wheeled around. He raised a hand. As their hands tightened on their weapons and they raised them, he muttered a few words.

They dropped their cudgels and fell to their knees in terror, and groveled in the dirt at his feet. He stared down at them. “Go now,” he said in an ominous tone, “to a church, confess all, and ask forgiveness.”

They scrambled backward and then rose to their feet, turned and fled. Well, he thought, there were worse places he could have sent them. The girl stood, rooted to the spot, shaking.

“Mister,” she said, “What d'ya want?”

“Nothing you can give me,” he said. “Go now.”

There was no one he wanted to make love to but Eve. There was no one he wanted to talk to but her. Not even his own people, not even if he could find any here.

There had been a time when his people had lived in the heaths near London, in the fields beyond it, on the grassy strands by the great river, in the very parklands. There were none now. He remembered them as though in a dream: his merry, beautiful folk as they danced in the moonlight and laughed through their days. Gone.

Even the other folk, not of his kind, but not of mankind: the shy and busy little brown nation who lived in holes in the earth; those creatures who had lived in the very river itself: the ugly and the lovely, they were all gone. From the smallest to the giants, even the tiny sparkling winged creatures who played at the foot of unsuspecting human's gardens were no longer there. He didn't regret the absence of those vicious, spiteful things. The only good they'd ever done him was the amusement he felt when Eve had asked if he had wings.

He didn't know where any of those folk had gone to, nor did he seek them. They had left; their day was over. The nights were emptier, except for the humans. And he didn't have anything to
say to them right now. London depressed Aubrey more and more. But he stayed. She'd be back soon. He knew it.

He rode through the parks on his best horses. He sat by the banks of the Serpentine and watched the humans at play. Whenever he saw anyone who might know him, he became someone else. He was safe from criminals and well-wishers. He was in the largest city in Europe: invisible, alone, and deep in thought through each night, and all through the days. Waiting.

 

Eve sat in the sunny parlor and tried to read her book. Her friend was upstairs, napping. The household was quiet. Eve put down her book; she couldn't read. The sun poured through the window and glinted on the words on the page as it did on the snow on the ground outside, and it blinded her. Yet she couldn't bear to close the drapes to dim the room. It had been so gloomy for so long.

Days had turned to weeks; soon it would be months since she'd seen Aubrey. She began to realize that she wouldn't see him again, not until the baby was born in the spring, she supposed, and not even then if it was a mere mortal. Who knew where Aubrey had gone? Not her father, because there was no word of him in his letters. Her
father believed they were still together. And she'd no word of Sheridan either.

If it weren't so cold and the roads so icy she might consider going to see her brother, and that way, maybe finding out where Aubrey was as well. Or so she thought until it thawed for a day and she realized she didn't want to travel now, and didn't want to chance seeing Aubrey again. Doubtless, he'd be with another female. Of what breed, she couldn't guess. But a man—a being—who'd lived so long and loved so often wouldn't go without lovemaking for very long.

She'd served her purpose. If she put a hand on the tight swelling in her newly forming belly she could sometimes feel the slightest fluttering now. She would have the babe; that was certain. The thing now was to stop grieving, and start planning. Because the longer she sat alone with this silent new life, the less willing she was to give it up.

It didn't matter what his father was. He'd said he was from another world, a different people. She hadn't believed it, now she did. What difference did it make? She was not a brood mare. She was a person. A human being, and that was not an inconsiderable thing. There was no saying that Aubrey and his sister were better because they were different kinds of beings. This was her world, and it would be her son's world in whole or in part. If
it chanced that he wanted to go with his father when he grew older, so be it. But he would not be taken from her at birth. Women had very little choice in the matter of their children's upbringings in any world. But clever ones might.