Warrior's Moon A Love Story (27 page)

“You needn’t worry.  The only thing people can tell immediately is that you are uncommonly lovely.  Surprisingly, most of these have never ventured further than their immediate part of
the city.  I would assume they would be just as intimidated by life in the countryside.  The dressmaker we are to visit is but a short drive toward the castle you can see on the hill there.  We’re nearly there. ‘Tis just up ahead.  Are you ready then?”

She gave him a hesitant smile as the carriage slowed to a stop.  “I must be.  Please.”  She put a hand on his arm as he went to get out.  “Please don’t let me make too great a fool of either me or you.”

  Grinning, he reached to hand her out and said, “You truly needn’t worry. ‘Tis a masquerade ball.  Even if we make utter fools of ourselves, none will have an idea of who we are.  We have nothing to fear.  Come, my love.  Your ball gown awaits.”

Stepping lightly from the smartly drawn carriage into the b
ustling street, she decided he was absolutely correct.  She had nothing to fear in this night.  ‘Twas a fairytale dream and she was going to enjoy it.

Peyton took her inside, and once she was presented to the dress
maker there, he assured her he’d be back soon and left her there to have her gown fitted. 

If Chantaya had considered the dress from Peyton elegant, the ball gown the seamstress helped her into was positively magnificent by comparison.  A brilliant, cerulean blue that set off her eyes, it was of satin, with a full skirt, made even fuller by layers of individual gathers that were tucked one upon another from the slim fitting waist all the way to the floor.  The close fitted bodice had swirls of tiny blue glass beads and a sculpted neckline that plunged just enough to be lovely without becoming immodest.  Three quarter length sleeves narrowed to a point above her wrist.

The dress was again remarkably well fitting for those here never having seen her and the motherly seamstress needed only several minutes to mark where the necessary adjustments would need to be made.  She helped her out of the dress again and then while she began the alterations, she sent Chantaya two doors down the busy, narrow street to the shoemaker there to select from matching shoes he had ready to accompany the exquisite gown. 

Upon her return with the shoes, Chantaya was surprised to find two more people there waiting for her.  One, a portly and amiable jeweler, who was apparently in the employ of the royal family, had a necklace that seemed to drip brilliant blue stones of the exact color of the gown, with dangling earrings and bracelet to match.

And Chantaya wasn’t even quite sure what to call the other woman who stepped forward.  Dressed in a bright, flowing robe of sheer, filmy layers, draped with multiple necklaces made of colorful stone beads, she was a striking beauty, with snapping green eyes, in spite of the wrinkles that testified she was no longer young.  Her salt and pepper gray hair had been styled in a unique, twisting plait woven with ribbons and dried flowers that hung down her back and she wore ornate rings on nearly all of her fingers.

She smiled at Chantaya, then studied her face and hair for several long moments that made Chantaya wonder just what she was thinking inside that aging, but exquisite bone structure.  She looked long enough that Chantaya had begun to get nervous, but then the woman nodded silently with apparent satisfaction. 

Putting her hands into Chantaya’s long tresses, she fingered them for another moment and mumbled, “Glorious.  Simply glorious.”  She then proceeded to create an ornate, up swept hair arrangement that accented the silky, sable waves and curls.  When it was sufficiently pinned to her liking, she wove in slim, iridescent peacock feathers and more of the same blue glass beads that adorned the bodice of the gown. 

When Chantaya’s hair was finished, the woman then produced a feathered and glittering masquerade mask in the same iridescent blues.  It fitted against Chantaya’s face above her nose and around her cheekbones and forehead, leaving a surprising large area around her eyes free.

At first, Chantaya was concerned with how little of her face the mask covered until the woman added a gossamer sheer wisp of veil with fine threads woven through it that caught the light.  Draped like a harem girl, it almost imperceptibly concealed her lips and chin while acting as a frame to make her eyes appear a shocking blue.  It allowed just enough sensuous shadows of her features to give her an ethereal mystique and yet hide her identity. 

With that done, the woman then produced three small pots of paint and proceeded to paint the exposed area around
Chantaya’s eyes in shades of cerulean blue, metallic sapphire and shining silver.  Next she added a hint of inky smudge at the base of Chantaya’s eye lashes and then painted the lashes themselves with some substance that made them longer and thicker than ever. 

When she was finished, she stepped back to inspect her efforts, then nodded her head with a small smile of satisfaction and said, “Yes.  I believe 'twill do.  The princess wanted you to have a lovely disguise.  You are lovely indeed.”  She handed Chantaya a handled looking glass.  “Pray, what do you think?  Will you be recognized?”

The effect was nothing short of masterful.  The mask, veil, and paint accentuated, yet disguised her natural loveliness until Chantaya was truly taken aback.  The design around her eyes turned them an azure that held the intensity of a bolt of lightning in the evening sky.  It gave her an almost catlike look that was fascinating and all but seductive.  She suddenly felt a bewitching enchantress, but there was also something faintly mystical and innocent about the allure.  Something was reminiscent of a glittering, winged forest fairy nymph she’d seen pictures of in one of her mother’s secreted books. 

The whole of the image was strikingly beautiful, but there wasn’t a chance anyone could recognize the scullery maid of Rosskeene Manor.  In truth, Chantaya didn’t even recognize herself.  She could hardly believe the near wickedly, alluring woman who glittered back at her in the looking glass.

She turned in amazement back to the woman artisan who laughed at her expression and asked, “Do you like it?”

Nodding, Chantaya smiled in thrilled disbelief and asked, “Who is it?  Surely that can’t be me.”

Packing up her materials, the woman smiled, “‘Tis you.  An uncommon beauty in any kingdom.  The good Lord was generous when he gifted you.  Whoever your suitor is tonight, ’tis sure he’ll be enchanted.  As will be the rest of the poor, defenseless louts at your royal gathering. ‘Tis true that it almost makes me wish to be young and foolish again.  Almost.  Enjoy yourself.  You look divine.”

  With that, the intriguing beauty hefted her bag of apparent magic, smiled one last time and went out the door to leave Chantaya slightly stunned in her wake.  Slipping off the mask and the veil, she laid them aside and turned back to the demure seamstress who had been patiently stitching nearby, shook her head in wonder and asked, “Was she a mere mortal with a gift for miracles, or a sorceress?  Is this going to be like the minstrel’s story of Cinderella where the spell lasts only until midnight and then I turn plain again?”

The seamstress clucked her tongue, “As if you were plain.  For shame.  You’d best voice more gratitude for your extraordinary beauty than that, my dear, else the good Lord might think you ungracious.  He might take it all away.  'Tisn’t a spell.  But you may be wishing it ‘twas when it comes time to take that paint off.  Nephritirie’s potions can seem indelible at times.  You look very nice, child.  I pity the poor, mortal men there.  They truly will be defenseless against such a one as you.  Here. ‘Tis that I’m finished.  Help me wrap it up would you?”

Chantaya bent to help wrap her ball gown in a protective layer of light fabric and was securing it when the door opened.  She turned at a sound and found Peyton standing just inside the door, nigh as speechless as Shaun had been earlier that morning.  She straightened and walked up to him, wondering if the look on his face meant that he liked her hair
and eyes, or if he thought she looked disreputable.  When he didn’t say anything, she finally prompted, “Well.  Do you like it?”

He only nodded thoughtfully and she said, “Peyton, please.  Is it suitable?  Or shall I take it all back off?  Is something wrong?”

He reached out to gently touch her cheekbone on a swirl of the color and smiled.  “Nothing is wrong.  You simply look like something out of a dream.  A truly nice dream.”  He smiled and stepped back to take in her hair as well and added softly, “Possibly even a truly intimate dream.” 

“Peyton!”  Her eyes widened and she felt her stomach do a somersault, but then he went on less suggestively, “I can only imagine what you’ll look like with the gown on as well.  I may have to go to the ball in my armor.”

At that, she rolled her eyes and finally laughed.  “Will I do then?”

He reached to carry the dress for her and replied, “You’ll far more than do. 
I so feel for the other men who will be attending the ball.  I shall be the only man there tonight with my own personal enchantress.”

Chantaya laughed, “Why Peyton, you wax eloquent.  I had no idea there was a touch of the rogue in you.”

“But of course you did.  I’ve had a touch of the rogue near your whole life.  I was just too busy keeping you in line to get out myself.  Or maybe it’s my association with Matthew.  At any rate, that look makes me feel the rogue; although I fear I may have to spend my time tonight defending my territory instead of the kingdom of Monciere. ‘Tis sure even Matthew himself will try to woo you away from me.  Are you finished here then?”

“Indeed.”   Chantaya thanked the dressmaker and put a friendly arm round her shoulder as Peyton offered to pay her.  She simply
waved his coin away, saying she had already been paid and the two of them went out the door to the waiting carriage.  As Peyton handed Chantaya inside, she glanced around to see several people looking askance at her face painting and she laughed to herself, knowing all who saw her thus were probably wishing they would be attending the royal masquerade ball this even at the castle as well. 

She settled into the carriage seat with a sigh and said to Peyton who watched her, smiling, “Thank you for not letting me talk us out of this, Pey. 
‘Twould have been such a shame to have missed it.”

Two hours later, when she stepped from her room after dressing, she had to stifle a laugh as she walked into the kitchen.  Both Matthew and Shaun were trying to help Peyton figure out how to keep his own mask from slipping as he put on a positively swashbuckling three corner hat that sported a most voluminous fluffy feather.  The three of them worked at it for several moments without noticing she was there before Chantaya finally reached onto a shelf, dipped a dainty finger into the sweet syrup there and dabbed it upon his temples.  ‘Twas a trifle unconventional, but the mask stayed put instantly.  Still laughing, she teasingly licked off her finger as all three of them turned to her. 

Once again, their complete and utter silence as they stared at her made her wonder, just for a moment, if there was something wrong with her appearance.  Finally, Matthew, ever the jester, let out a low whistle, walked all the way
round her, then whistled again, and said, “I challenge you to a duel for her, Wolfgar.  This very moment.  This very day.  He who wins gets to accompany her to the castle.”

Peyton chuckled, “Oh for pity’s sake, Ansel.  No duel.  You aren’t even invited and you’ve never bested me in aught but telling tall tales.  I’d only have to kill you and you would miss the ball anyway.”

Matthew put a dramatic hand to his chest.  “But at least then I wouldn’t die of a wounded heart from watching such a heavenly vision of beauty walk away on another’s arm.”

At that Shaun chuckled and said, “You?  The fair Romeo of the entirety of the kingdom?  Die of a wounded heart?  Please, spare me the jesting!  In truth, he’d probably only wound you and leave you to die slowly anyway, rogue that he is.  So give it a holiday, Matthew.”  Turning to Chantaya, Shaun said, “I however, have a much better chance of besting him with a blade for your favor, Miss Chantaya.  Pray, I beg you, throw him over for me and ’tis that I shall waltz the night away with you in his stead.  You deserve much the more virile and masculine suitor anyway.”

Chantaya raised her eyebrows innocently and looked askance at Peyton, who fairly growled, “Best me with a blade?  Surely you jest.  And ‘twould this be the virile and masculine suitor who called her a boy and a little bugger and pressed me to leave her home but less than one day ago?”

Shaun shook his head and laughed at himself, as he looked at Chantaya, saying, “How could I have ever been so blind and foolish, m’lady?  Please, I beg of you, forgive me.  ‘Twas the ale.  It had to have been.  I was blinded by the ale.  For never have I beheld such a vision of grace and loveliness.”

Peyton bowed and doffed his feathered hat to Chantaya while saying to Shaun, “You hadn’t imbibed yet a drop of ale. ‘Tis simply that you’ve the brain of a turtle at times.  Give it a rest, Squire Shaun.  It shall be me, and only me, who will accompany said vision.  And ’tis true that I would fight to the death for the honor.”  To Chantaya, he added mildly, “Although, ’tis also true, that I’ve spent the finest years of my life protecting you from any number of briar patches you’ve found yourself in, so in reality, I’ve truly earned this privilege.  Have I not, my beauty?”

With a soft laugh, Chantaya admitted, “
‘Tis indeed that you have, Sir Knight.  From the very day we met, I have ever been and shall ever be in your debt.  You have earned all manner of privileges, the least of which is accompanying me to the castle this even.  Are you ready then, Sir?  Shall we away?”