Midnight Magic (10 page)

When he sat, his smile was so self-satisfied she could have tossed her wine in his face. “Now, my dear, did you have a pleasant supper?”

She had, until he ruined it. The food and wine had been wonderful, and Alberic had been charming and attentive until he’d made his announcement and reminded her of what else she must accomplish this eve.

“Very pleasant. Lord Alberic, will my sisters be allowed to stay for the wedding?”

He thought that over. “The king ordered me where to send them, but did not say when. I see no reason why they cannot be present for our nuptials.”

Then only one more task remained before retiring for the night. Except she didn’t want to approach him about the ring in the hall. Too many ears around to overhear.

She put on what she hoped was her most charming smile. “Since you are in such an agreeable mood, I have yet another boon to ask, but not here. Perhaps . . . have you seen the garden?”

“Aye, but I am sure the garden will be much nicer when you show it to me.”

More gallant flattery. Ye gods, the man surely had no trouble turning unwary women’s hearts . . . heads . . . whatever he wished to turn.

He held out his hand to help her rise. Since they were supposed to be betrothed, everyone would be aghast if she refused. Besides, she wasn’t sure of the steadiness of her legs.

His hand was large, and warm, and encompassing. Heat snaked up her arm and down her torso, pooling in the depths of her woman’s places. Her reaction to his touch was most unwelcome, and she blamed her body’s response on the amount of wine she’d consumed. Surely, if she were dead sober she would be repulsed.

They passed Odell on the way out, and Alberic gave him a small hand signal to remain where he was, so they would be completely alone. Perfect for her purpose.

The night air proved chilly, but the garden, graced by moonlight, had always been one of her favorite places no matter the season. Quiet and secluded, it would soon be green and lush with leaves, and then flowers. This spring she wouldn’t be here to watch the blooms open.

Alberic led her to a bench near the grapevines before finally letting go of her hand. Unfortunately, he sat down next to her, so close their arms touched. She had to get this over with before she completely lost her reason.

“I know you are very fond of my father’s ring, and I think I know why. However, I think you should know it has not been handed down from baron to baron as a symbol of lordship over Camelen, but was merely a gift from my mother to father.”

“If one is to judge by the woman’s lovely daughters, then your mother must have been a beauty.”

Not the comment she expected.

“She was.” Lovely and fragile. Too fragile to have borne four children, one of them long after she thought her childbearing years done. “She died three days after Nicole’s birth.”

“You lost your mother young, too.”

“Ten. The same age as Nicole is now.”

Gwendolyn tried to stop the memories from flooding in and a single tear from falling, but failed.

Alberic put an arm around her shoulders. “You still miss her. I beg pardon, Gwendolyn. I did not mean to make you cry.”

She missed her mother, and father, and brother, and she didn’t bother to move away, taking the comfort offered. She hadn’t been held in so very long, and the solace felt too good to give up quickly.

She did notice, however, that he sought to distract her from talking about the ring. ’Twas bad of her, she knew, but perhaps her unexpected tears would serve to soften his heart further.

“The ring is an heirloom, passed down from mother to daughter. My father should not have worn it to Wallingford where it might be lost. I should like to put it away where it will be safe for my daughter.”

He was silent for a moment, then asked, “Should the ring not go to Emma, the eldest, for her daughter?”

Gwendolyn realized her mistake. She’d given him too much information and must be more careful.

“The ring goes to the daughter of the mother’s choosing. In any event, it should be put away.”

“For your daughter’s husband to wear.”

“Only if she wishes him to wear it.”

He pulled her closer, and Gwendolyn didn’t object.

“Truth to tell, I knew about the ring,” he said softly. “When King Stephen bade me put it on, he said your father wore the seal of the dragon in honor of his wife, a Welsh princess. Was she truly of the house of Pendragon?”

Oh, worse and worse! How had the king known the name of the ring? Her father must have bragged at some point.
Damn.

“So her family claims.”

“Then is it not fortunate that you and I are to be married, so I can wear the ring in honor of my Welsh princess, just as your father did? We will be good together, Gwendolyn, for Camelen and for us. I feel it in my bones.”

He gave her no time to protest. With a finger under her chin, he tilted her head back and kissed her.

His moist lips claimed hers, and the heat in her nether regions burst into flame. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, and didn’t care. Everything she’d heard about a man’s kiss paled in the face of the reality.

Gwendolyn leaned into the passion she’d not known existed, kissing him back and hoping she did it right, not wanting to give up the exquisite sensation of being fully alive and utterly female.

A niggling voice warned her of her folly, that such desire induced otherwise sensible women to go astray. Sweet mercy, at the moment she was willing to be led, to follow wherever he wanted to go.

Alberic took a big gulp of air as he backed away, leaving her bereft and shaking with the enormity of what she’d allowed.

“Come,” he said, his voice none too steady. “I do not want you to catch a chill.”

She was so warm she might never again be cold.

He led her into the hall and on to the stairs, where he stopped. “Pleasant dreams, my dear,” he whispered, and released her hand.

With what little dignity she could muster, her hand sliding along the stone wall, Gwendolyn climbed the narrow circular stairs to the upper floor and the safety of her bedchamber.

Between the effects of the wine and the kiss, her head spun.

But she knew her plan had failed miserably. All she’d done was give Alberic further excuse to wear the ring and to claim her as his wife—neither of which she could allow.

Nor dare she try again to wheedle the ring from him. After Alberic returned from Shrewsbury she would have to steal it. A daunting task, but the only choice left to her.

Then she must find Madog ap Idwal and sample his kiss. Surely her betrothed’s kiss could wipe out the taste of Alberic on her lips.

She touched a mouth warm and swollen.

Admittedly, it would have to be one very powerful kiss to overcome the taste of Alberic.

Chapter Six

F
OUR NIGHTS LATER
, Gwendolyn lay in bed, muscles taut and innards churning.

Tonight she would steal the ring and be on her way to Wales.

She’d done all she could to ensure her success, carefully planning both the theft and her escape route. What few possessions she intended to take with her were packed in a satchel and hung on a peg beneath her cloak.

All was ready. All she need do was wait for the sleeping potion she’d added to Alberic’s and Odell’s ale to take effect before she snuck down the passageway to Alberic’s bedchamber.

Only one thing yet bothered her about leaving—not being able to say farewell to her sisters and tell them where she was bound and why. But her mother had been most insistent on the need for silence, and over the years her father had supported her mother’s instruction. Beyond those intimately involved—the couple who wore the ring and pendant, and ultimately their daughter—no one must learn of the legacy. The risk of abuse by the unscrupulous was too great.

She felt guilty about abandoning Emma to deal with Alberic and the king’s orders, but then, Emma wasn’t dull-witted. She could capably handle any situation when her head didn’t hurt, and Gwendolyn prayed for Emma’s good health for many weeks to come.

Alberic would demand a search, of course. Not because he wanted her as his wife but for the ring he valued so highly. She never doubted he would know who had stolen it, especially when he learned she’d fled the castle.

She planned to be well into Wales and out of his reach before he even thought to look in that direction.

When he couldn’t find her, would he then decide to take Emma as his wife, ruining her chance to attend court? Would Emma care about attending court after experiencing the nearly overpowering force of Alberic’s kisses?

Gwendolyn would have groaned aloud if she didn’t think she would wake Emma, sleeping soundly next to her, or Nicole on her pallet on the floor at the foot of the bed.

For four days Gwendolyn had done battle with her reaction to Alberic’s kiss. She might have drank more wine that eve than she usually consumed, and thus become overly susceptible to his advances. But an abundance of wine usually dulled her senses, and the force of his kiss had been far from unmemorable.

She warmed every time she thought about his kiss, and she thought about the disturbing melding of mouths far too often. Worse, the kiss aroused her curiosity about coupling, and even worse, she feared coupling with Alberic would prove more tempestuous than his kiss. If she stayed, became his wife . . . but she couldn’t stay.

Gwendolyn eased over onto her side, facing the wall, bringing up her knees in a vain effort to ease the ache low in her belly, to banish the unwanted desire for a man she dare not soften toward even though Alberic had done much to wheedle his way into her affections.

He’d returned from Shrewsbury yesterday, and ever since had insisted she sit next to him at meals where he served her the choice pieces of meat and avoided figs. He kept the conversation lively, and employed flattery, making an obvious effort to be likable.

While he may have done all he said he needed to do in Shrewsbury, he’d also visited the merchants. Alberic had first presented her with a handful of lovely hair ribbons. Then this morning he’d gifted her with the softest, most beautifully fitting kidskin gloves she’d ever worn. Naturally, she’d smiled and thanked him kindly as a betrothed wife should, not having to pretend her delight at the gifts.

She’d never been courted before and, heaven help her, she liked it. Madog had never seen fit to court her, never sent her a gift. She excused the lapse as unnecessary because they were already betrothed.

But she wouldn’t take the ribbons with her, for fear of crushing and thus ruining them. The gloves, however, she wouldn’t leave behind. Not only were they wonderful, but practical. She saw no harm in being practical.

At last she heard the signal she waited for: the bell in the village church ringing matins. Midnight. The sleeping potion should have taken full effect by now.

Gwendolyn eased out of bed and, by the light of the night candle, slipped on the linen chemise she’d earlier hidden under her bolster. Emma never moved; Nicole rolled onto her stomach and then went still.

Her purpose uppermost in her mind, Gwendolyn slowly opened the chamber door far enough to peer down the hall. In the dim light provided by a single rush torch at the top of the stairway, she could see Odell sitting on the floor near Alberic’s door, his head tilted back against the wall, his eyes closed.

Gwendolyn took a fortifying breath, closed her bedchamber door behind her, and padded down the passageway.

Odell seemed sound asleep, so she slowly lifted the latch and pulled, wincing when the leather hinges creaked.

She held her breath and stood very still for several moments. When Odell didn’t move, she peeked inside the bedchamber. She saw the bed, and the large form of a man under the coverlet. Alberic hadn’t heard, either.

Relieved, she quietly entered and shut the door.

The flickering night candle cast eerie shadows throughout the room, the silence almost deafening. Her heartbeat sped up, her breath became loud enough for her to hear. Chiding herself for foolish unease, Gwendolyn headed for the table.

She circled the chair on which Alberic had tossed his breeches and one of his new tunics, this one the color of the deep green of a summer forest. On the large oak table sat a flagon and a goblet, and beside them lay the leather girdle that wrapped so snugly around Alberic’s trim waist. Next to the girdle rested his chatelaine, the small pouch in which he kept his eating knife and a few coins. And a ring?

Gwendolyn patted the leather pouch, feeling the edges of the knife and coins. No ring. Damn. She’d been hoping he took it off at night as her father had done in later years.

Which meant the ring was on his finger.

Disappointed but undaunted, Gwendolyn reasoned that if she was quiet and very careful, she should be able to get the ring off his finger without him being any the wiser.

Alberic slept in the middle of the bed, facing her, his handsome visage in peaceful repose, his breath even and soundless. His right arm was tucked up under the bolster, but his left lay atop the coverlet in front of him, the ring in plain sight.

She tried not to notice how the candlelight fluttered along the width of his bare shoulders and hair-sprinkled chest, and danced along the length of his muscled upper arms. The temptation to follow the light’s path, to rake her fingers through his chest hair . . . she swallowed hard, steeling her determination to see this night’s mission through.

Standing at the edge of the mattress, careful not to bump it, her attention flickering between his closed eyes and the ring, Gwendolyn reached out to snare the prize.

Beginning to sweat, her pulse pounding in her ears, with thumb and forefinger she squeezed the gold dragon claws on each side of the ring. Slowly, gently, she worked the ring to his knuckle, where the skin bunched and hindered further progress.

“Pull harder.”

Gwendolyn yelped as she leaped away. With her hand covering her thundering heart, she stood motionless, her sudden fright giving over to rising panic.

Caught. Run!
Except she couldn’t move, frozen in place by wide-open green eyes that held no hint of sleep.