Powerful Magic (19 page)

          
She rounded a corner and ran smack dab into the very man who'd plagued her thoughts all day.
 
Kenric.

          
If she'd thought she cleaned up well...
 
man, oh man, looking at him took her breath away.
 
He wore a fresh tunic of some rich golden material that looked like crushed velvet.
 
His leggings were grey, the same slate color as his eyes, and outlined his muscular legs.
 
Hurriedly, she looked away, focusing her eyes on the center of his impossibly broad chest.

          
"Megan?"
 
He sounded as stunned as she.
 
One giant hand came under her chin, cupping it, caressing it, lifting her face to look up at him.

          
God help her, she felt as shy as a schoolgirl with a crush on a rock star.

          
His velvet gaze traveled over her, disbelief warring with approval.
 

          
"You are…"
 
He cleared his throat, his eyes darkening, "absolutely beautiful."

          
Because he said so, she believed him.
 
For one perfect instant, gazing into his silver eyes, she felt pretty for the first time in her life.
 

          
"Thanks."
 
She managed, her throat tight.
 
She wished she could find the courage to say the same words back to him.
 

          
"You look nice too."
 
She said instead, unable to control the tremor in her voice.
 
Nice was a major understatement.

          
Kenric held out his arm for her to take.
 
"Now I might almost believe your claim to be a Princess."
 
He told her, low voiced, his breath tickling her ear.

          
She started, taking his arm with a nervousness that surprised her.
 
"I'd forgotten about that.
 
Remember, I told you I was only joking -er, jesting with you."
 
She'd also managed to forget the simple fact that Kenric, with his sister the Queen of Faeries,
was
a genuine Prince.
 
Straight from a dream.
 
He even had the white horse.

          
Dangerous thinking.
 
She had to concentrate on getting home.

          
"Remember, this is only temporary."
 
Kenric's stern voice contained a warning.

          
She gasped.
 
"Do you read minds?"
 

          
His short bark of laughter contained no humor.
 
"Nay.
 
Despite my sister, I claim no magical skills.
 
Tis in your face, Megan of Dallas.
 
The childlike wonderment at what you see here.
 
Do not let the enchantment beguile you, for we ride away from this place at first light."

CHAPTER SEVEN

          
With a stiff, mocking bow, Kenric turned and led her down a long, marble hallway.
 
The tantalizing scent of roasting vegetables grew stronger.
 
Her stomach growled, reminding her that she was starving.
 

          
She shot a glance up at Kenric from under her lashes.
 
Once again, the cold, formidable warrior stood next to her.
 

          
They rounded a corner and found themselves surrounded by people - or faeries - whichever the case may be.
 
Row after row of tables, made of some type of crystalline glass, filled the room, though the faeries were not seated.
 
Rather, they stood around in groups, laughing and chattering, like some North Dallas cocktail party.
 
Except for the clothes.
 
Megan had never seen such colors, such variety except on television when watching the Grammy awards.
 

          
Kenric stopped, the expression on his handsome face unreadable.
 
As the room took notice of them, all conversation came to an immediate halt.

          
Kenric cursed under his breath.
 
Megan could feel the sudden tension in the corded muscles of his arm.
 

          
He glanced at her, a bold, appraising look, then nodded.
 
“Are you ready?"

          
In answer she squeezed his arm.
 
Oddly, having him at her side made her feel protected, cosseted even, though she knew these people, er faeries, surely meant her no harm.

          
Right now however, the silence seemed deafening.
 

          
As soon as Kenric began to move into the room, the assembled crowd resumed their conversations.

          
They headed straight for the banquet table, Kenric

murmuring niceties but not stopping to make polite small talk as she would have.
 
Megan tried not to gawk, but good Lord it was difficult.
 
All of the women were stunning, exquisite.
 
She felt like a drab robin among peacocks.
 

          
And the men, oh the men put even Mel Gibson to shame.
 
Whether blond or dark haired, blue-eyed or brown, there was not a balding, paunchy man in the crowd.
 
They were all tall, all slender, some with wide shoulders, others more lean.
 
She saw muscular men and wiry men, young men and men the age of Sean Connery.
 
All in all, there were more gorgeous men in the room than gracing the pages of any Chippendales calendar.
 

          
But none, she admitted reluctantly, could hold a candle to Kenric.
 
It was an odd sort of irony this, that the best looking man in the room was with the most plain woman.
 

          
Ah well, she reminded herself.
 
She was only human, while they were magical beings who, no doubt could use magic to choose exactly how they wished to appear to others.
 

          
The thought cheered her immensely.
 
She was in the most divine fantasy land she could ever imagine, escorted by a gorgeous man, wearing a dress that made her appear prettier than she ever had before.
 
And the food - the array of delicacies spread out on the buffet table made her mouth water.

          
To top it all off, Kenric had called her beautiful.
 

          
Her stomach growled, reminding her.
 
She felt like she could eat a horse.

          
Grinning, Kenric handed her a plate.
 
Normally, she would have taken time to examine the patterns etched in the sparkling crystal.
 
Maybe she would, later.
 
But for now Megan moved down the table, heaping helping after helping of food on her plate.
 
She didn't recognize some of the dishes, though they looked to be some sort of gourmet fruit and or vegetable casseroles.
 
She felt confident they'd taste wonderful.
 
Anything would have tasted wonderful after the limited diet of dried beef and hard bread she and Kenric had shared.
 
Though there was no meat - were Faeries vegetarians - there were so many wonderful dishes that she knew she'd be stuffed.
 
Especially if she went back for seconds.

          
"Is that for both of us?"

          
The amusement in Kenric's deep voice made her grin.
 
She glanced down at her plate, then at his.
 
While he had a large portion, fit for a man of his size, hers was easily twice that.

          
"Maybe."
 
She answered, batting her eyelashes facetiously.
 
“Either that, or my eyes are bigger than my stomach.”

          
His husky laugh warmed her heart.
 
And more.
 

          
"Come, wench."
 
Hand in the small of her back, he escorted her to a table.
 
"I will enjoy watching you attempt to eat all of that."

          
Taking a seat in the chair he pulled out for her, Megan felt truly content for the first time in years.
 
Ever since she'd finished high school, through college and then after, she'd felt this knawing sense of emptiness, an ache that nothing and no one seemed to appease.
 

          
For a time, she'd thought Roger would fill it, until she'd agreed to marry him.
 
It had started in small ways after that, a disparaging remark, a direct order then, the first time she'd displeased him, he'd slapped her across the face. Hard.

          
It had progressed from that, such a smooth slide into hell that she'd never even realized she'd arrived.
 
When she found herself driving to the emergency room, her arm wrenched from its socket, she'd realized she had to get away from Roger. As soon as she worked up the courage.

          
Now he'd been after her to change her will and lately she’d began to wonder if he intended to kill her.

 
           
Glancing around her, at the unbelievably beautiful people with their gaily colored clothes, then at the rugged giant of a man who took a seat across from her, she found herself wishing that, if this were a dream, it might never end.

#

          
Kenric had never been at ease around the faerie folk.
 
Truth be told, he avoided them as if they carried the plague.
 
They reminded him too much of the side of himself he tried the hardest to suppress.
 
Ever since he'd been a young boy, taken in by his father at the tender age of five, he'd known he was different.
 
So had all the other children of the castle, skirting him with wary looks and cruel taunts. As he grew older he'd told himself it was because he was the bastard son of the Lord, but even then he'd known that was only the partial truth.
 

          
Though it was probably only some magical gift his sister had bestowed on him in secret, the fact remained that he was good at everything.
 
Once he'd taken a fierce sort of pride in this.
 
It was only as he grew older, more mature, and had come to realize what this meant, that he'd come to hate it.
 

          
Still, he could not help what he was.
 
Hand him a sword, and he bested his opponent.
 
Hand him an old manuscript, and he'd have it translated from Latin to English to Gaelic to Latin and back again in no time.
 
His half brothers had at first despised him for it, though as they'd all grown older they'd come to regard him with a grudging sort of respect.