“WAIT, MY DEAR. Where are you going? Is something wrong?”
Sir Henry’s voice halted Fiona in midstride. She’d been trying to escape the crowded great hall at Dovenbyre as quickly as her jeweled shoes would carry her, but when Sir Henry called out to her, she sighed, pasted a smile on her face, and turned to face him.
“Gilroyd and Wynn and I have scarcely seen you all evening,” he huffed, out of breath from hurrying to catch her. “Come, my dear, join us. The singer from Amelonia is bringing his harp into the great hall even as we speak. Gil very much wishes you to enjoy the festivities with him.”
Enjoy the festivities? Fiona thought bleakly. How she wished she could—but she had never felt less festive.
All around her, people were laughing and chattering, sipping wine from golden goblets and proposing boisterous toasts to Prince Branden’s health. The great hall was bursting with candlelight and incense, with ladies in finely embroidered silk gowns and lords and knights in velvet tunics. The precoronation feast had been more sumptuous than anything she could have imagined.
But she had never felt more heavyhearted. And she didn’t want to hamper anyone else’s enjoyment of the evening—particularly Gil’s—with her own troubles.
For Gil’s sake, she knew she ought to go back and try to pretend some more. She ought to sit beside him and clap her hands and chat with Wynn and laugh and seem happy. She was happy that Gil was safe and ensconced in the castle, happy that both Duke Borlis and Plodius of Ril had surrendered in a battle on the outskirts of Grithain, and that their men had all pledged allegiance to Prince Branden, who would be crowned king on the morrow.
But she needed a few moments in her own room, a few moments where she could let the pretense slip. A few moments to think, to feel, in private. A few moments to grieve.
“I have a slight headache,” she said quietly. Then as Sir Henry’s kind, pink face furrowed in worry, she forced a smile. “It will be better soon, I think. I walked in the garden to get some air, thinking it might help, but . . . no. Perhaps I drank too much wine.”
“Ah, I’m sorry.” His shaggy brown-and-silver brows drew together in concern, and he patted her arm. “You should rest, then—you want to be able to fully enjoy the coronation tomorrow. I’ll explain to Gil. He would be sadly disappointed if you were unable to be present for that.”
“I’ll be there, Sir Henry, never fear.” She touched his arm. “Nothing would keep me from Gil on such an important day.”
“Of course not. And you above all else deserve to be there, my dear. If not for you and for Conor of Wor-thane, Gil would not be alive to be crowned king at all. And where was I when all the trouble broke out?” he asked ruefully, shaking his head, as behind them in the hall the notes of a harp stirred the incense-rich air.
“Off on a wild-goose chase, in Aardmore, that’s where I was. Waiting for a message about the health of the king, a message that came nearly too late. Little did I know my delay there could have been disastrous.”
His mouth twisted in dismay. “I wish I could have been of help to you, child, but thanks to our lucky stars, we had Duke Conor on our side—who would ever have thought it would turn out like that? He has proven himself a true brother to the boy, after all. And speaking of Conor”—he stopped short, caught up in his own thoughts and oblivious of the sudden pallor that had sucked all color from Fiona’s cheeks—“have you heard the news?”
“N-news?”
“Conor is here—he arrived at the castle only a short while ago. He’d ridden half the night. And he’s put down the last bit of unrest in the eastern valleys of Ril—just in time for the coronation.”
“How very . . . fortunate,” Fiona managed, hoping he couldn’t see the panic surging through her. “Sir Henry, please excuse me. I must go to my chambers.”
“Of course, my dear, of course.”
He watched in concern as she hurried away, one hand gripping her pale-blue velvet skirt as she fairly bolted up the staircase, fleeing as if demons pursued her.
The poor girl. She hasn’t been quite the same since all of that business at Raven Castle, he reflected. Oh, she’d recovered within a week from the aftereffects of that monstrous spell the druid magician had cast upon her—and with no ill effects that anyone could see—but something was different about her. Wynn and Gil had remarked upon it too.
Her smile had lost some of its radiance, her skin looked paler than he’d ever noticed it being before. She laughed less. And she often seemed preoccupied, even sad.
Perhaps she misses Bitterbloom Cottage, he reflected. After all, it is the only home she remembers. Well, even though he would prefer that he and Wynn stay on a bit longer with Gil to see him properly settled, if Fiona was truly homesick, he would arrange an escort to take her back to Urbagran at once. She could leave right after the coronation, if that was what she wanted. Perhaps, Sir Henry thought, her spirits will bloom again when she reaches home.
Fiona had to struggle to keep from racing like a thief through the castle as she flew up the staircase and down the corridor to her chamber. The knowledge that Conor was here within these very walls filled her with such a riot of emotions that she couldn’t sort them all out. She only knew that she wasn’t ready to see him again—and she didn’t know if she ever would be.
But she must see him again—tomorrow, at the coronation. And she’d better have herself under control by then.
Reaching her bedchamber, she rushed in and closed the door, startling Tidbit, who’d been dozing by the fire. The cat lifted her head and gazed at Fiona with shining amber eyes. But Fiona scarcely noticed the cat, or the fire, or the grand furnishings of the chamber. Her heart pounded as she sank down upon the rose satin-draped bed and buried her face in her hands.
Conor’s image swam into her mind’s eye and her heart trembled. She hadn’t seen him since she’d slipped into that unnatural slumber following Kilvorn’s spell. The aftereffects of the failed death curse had lingered for nearly a week, and when she’d awakened, she’d found herself at Grithain Castle. Conor’s troop and the army of men sent from Dovenbyre to escort Gil to safety had carried her there on a litter.
But Conor had not stayed on in Grithain.
In fact, Sir Henry had told her, Conor had left Grithain the same day that she awakened here in this bedchamber, finally free of the magician’s spell. He’d ridden off that very hour at the head of a sizable army to put down a rebellion rumored to be brewing in the eastern valleys of Ril.
It was important work, Fiona knew, and she was grateful for Gil’s sake that Conor was defending him from enemies the boy couldn’t possibly yet be expected to counter. But . . .
He’d left without seeing her. He’d not even left her a note, a message for when she awakened. And in all these weeks, though he’d sent reports to Grithain, he’d never once sent word to her, or as far as she knew, inquired about her.
He has more important matters to deal with now, she told herself, as she pushed herself off the bed and stalked to the window. Things like battles, and prisoners, and treaties.
He probably never again has thought about that kiss—our kiss—the only one, she reflected, tears suddenly burning her eyelids, that we will ever have.
Taking a deep breath, she brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. She had to come to grips with that. He’d warned her in the tunnel that he didn’t believe in love. He didn’t want it, didn’t seek it, didn’t regard it.
And didn’t feel it, she realized with a painful knot in her throat.
The problem was, she did. She loved Conor of Wor-thane.
They were different, as different as spring and winter, night and day, sun and shadow. And she’d been a fool ever to think there could be anything more than a meaningless, dallying kiss between them.
Clouds shifted suddenly in the darkened sky, revealing the full March moon. She stared at it, remembering one month earlier when the moon had glowed full on another night: the night of the Midnight Mirror, when she’d been shown the man fighting for his life in the Dark Forest—the night she’d saved Conor’s life.
She whirled from the window and hurried to the gilt table where the Midnight Mirror rested amid her brush and combs and baubles. Sir Henry had directed the men who’d brought her to Grithain to bring her garments and every item a woman might want, and someone had included the Midnight Mirror with its amber-studded handle.
Fiona lifted it, peered into the glass, and saw her own reflection. Nothing more. The mirror’s face was as blank as her own future.
It isn’t yet midnight, she reminded herself. At that moment there was a rapping at the door.
Fiona set the mirror down, her heart beginning to hammer. No, that couldn’t be Conor. He’d left without a word of farewell. Why would he come to see her the moment he returned? It was probably Wynn or Gil, come to urge her to rejoin the others in the great hall.
Yet somehow she knew, even as she opened the door, before she saw him, she knew.
“There you are.” Conor’s eyes lit at the sight of her. His tall frame seemed to fill the doorway as he took a step forward, past the threshold, into the room. Fully recovered from his injuries now, he looked stronger, larger, tougher than she’d ever seen him. And certainly every bit as handsome. Behind him she saw Tor, sitting on his haunches, guarding the corridor.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“It seems a little late for that.” She stepped back further, aware that her knees were trembling beneath the skirt of her gown and that her voice was unsteady. She struggled to regain her composure, but it wasn’t easy, not now that she was seeing him again. He looked more striking than ever in a rich plum tunic that encased his wide shoulders. His face was clean-shaven and lean, his eyes sharp as green spikes beneath his thick-curled black hair.
And her heart ached at the sight of him.
She fought back the joy and the yearning, the desire to throw her arms around him and kiss him one more time, a kiss that would have to last her forever.
Instead she inclined her head gracefully and spoke with just a shade of breathlessness. “Of course you are welcome. After all you’ve done for Gil—for Grithain—you are no doubt welcome everywhere in Dovenbyre Castle.”
“Everywhere but here, is that it? You’re angry with me.”
She didn’t respond. Conor closed the door and followed her into the room as she turned and walked away from him, crossing to the window, where she stood in profile, gazing out at the night.
There was something different about her, he noticed. She was stiff, restrained. Cold. His angel, his Fiona, the girl he had dreamed about every night since he’d left Grithain, was warm, vibrant, giving. This woman, beautiful as a crystal statue in her pale blue gown, her midnight hair flowing loosely past her shoulders, had herself under rigid self-control—the same sort of self-control, he realized, that he had exercised on the day he left her, when his first instinct had been to crush her in his arms.
“Angry with you?” she responded at last, her tone so cool it made him flinch. “No, I’m not angry. Why would I be? You did all you promised to do, you helped me to save Gil, you defeated his enemies, you have helped to make the kingdom of Grithain whole and safe—”
“I let that druid magician cast a death spell on you. You nearly died and I couldn’t stop it,” he said tersely, and at the words, she met his eyes and shook her head.
“No, that wasn’t your fault. I knew there was danger when I insisted on going to Raven Castle with you. No one could have stopped Kilvorn. Except Ariel.” She took a deep breath. “They say she died that night. I think it must have been her final burst of power that brought Tidbit there to find the crystal shard—to kill the magician and break his spell.”
“Thank the stars and the moon for that. Fiona . . .” He seized her then and pulled her up against his chest, his blood surging at the warm, lush feel of her close against him. “When I thought you were dying, I wanted to die. You probably don’t know this, but I offered to die in your place—I would gladly have died in your place. But that wicked old bastard wouldn’t hear of it—”
“I know. I heard. Thank you,” she murmured very quietly. His arms were around her, and she was dying again. Of want, of need. Tears filled her eyes. “I appreciate all you did—”
“Damn it, stop thanking me and stop placating me. Tell me why you’re treating me like this! As if I am a stranger, someone you must accord civility and nothing more! Don’t you know I would have given my life for you? I would now. I will forever. I protected you as best I could, and though it wasn’t good enough—”
“You left me.” Tears filled her eyes as she lifted her face to his. She struggled a moment in his arms, and then gave up, her shoulders slumping forward, her voice breaking.
“Without a word, before I even awakened to see your face . . . you left me.”
He went stock-still. In her eyes he saw pain, distress. And a heartbreaking sadness that pierced him more deeply than any arrow or blade ever had.
“I never meant to hurt you.” He touched her cheek, brushed his thumb along the smooth, pale skin. “Never. I didn’t leave until I knew you were waking up. I was there, watching you, listening to you breathe, and all I wanted was to see you open your eyes, to hold you in my arms. Then—you said my name. And that . . . scared me. Strange, isn’t it? A soldier who’s never faltered on the battlefield, scared by a woman speaking his name.”
His mouth twisted. “I was a coward. And I ran away.”
“You could never be a coward—” she began, but he cut her off.
“Oh, yes. I was afraid of you.” He shook his head, his green eyes darkening. “Afraid of what I feel for you.”
“And—what is that?” she breathed, searching his eyes, as a tiny beam of hope sparked inside her.
“L-l-love.” He stumbled over the word, cleared his throat, and repeated it, more firmly, looking dazed. “Love.”
“You . . . ran away because you . . . love me?”
“Cowardly, I know.” A sheepish grin split his face, then he yanked her closer still and brushed a kiss across the tip of her nose. “But it’s all your fault. It hit me suddenly . . . and hard. All these feelings—I needed to see if I could fight them, conquer them, or forget them. If I could forget you. But I couldn’t, not for a single moment. And more than that, I didn’t want to,” he said softly, almost wonderingly, and then he crushed her to him, wrapped his arms around her and kissed the single teardrop sliding down her cheek.
“Now I’m going to try to make you forgive me.”
“H-how are you going to—”
“Like this,” he said in a most determined way, and he slowly, gently, and thoroughly kissed her.
It was a long, deeply possessive kiss—and it left her trembling in his arms. When it was over, before she’d scarcely drawn breath, he buried his hands in her hair and kissed her again.
This time the kiss was hotter, fiercer, awakening a fire within her. It sent flames licking through her blood, tingling down to her toes. Her breasts ached, and a wild craving began deep in her core. She could feel his heart pounding against hers, beat for beat, she could feel his strength and his passion and his need. Her own soared to meet it, and a dizzying heat burst through her.
“Tell me again, tell me you love me,” she urged, when he lifted his lips, and his lightning grin seared her soul.
“I love you. With all my heart, I love you.”
“I love you too—and I forgive you,” she breathed.
“Too easy, angel.” He shook his head and laughed low and deep. His lips whispered against her ear. “I haven’t yet begun to prove myself to you.”
“You . . . haven’t? What else . . . do you have in mind?” Her lips curved, her breath caught with delight. And answering laughter sprang softly from her throat.
“I’ll show you. It’s only midnight. I have all night to show you. But first—”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a green velvet pouch, then withdrew a brooch—the same brooch she’d glimpsed in the mirror, the one Duke Borlis had stolen and worn.
“I promised I would recover this and give it to you.”
“There’s no need—”
He closed her palm around it firmly. “Accept.”
She tingled with infinite pleasure at his air of authority, and her eyes shone into his. “It’s beautiful—and I thank you.”
Reaching over, she set the brooch upon a table of inlaid silver and then pulled him toward her. “Now what about convincing me some more of how much you love me?” she invited softly.
“What do you think I’m trying to do, woman? I’ve never had experience with this and you’re not making things easier.”
To her astonishment, he dropped to one knee and reached into the pouch again. This time he pulled out something that glimmered wildly in the candlelight. Clasping her hand, he placed a ring in the center of her palm—a delicate golden ring alight with a circle of amethysts surrounding a cool, glittering emerald.
Fiona caught her breath. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“Marry me, angel. Marry me, and be my bride, my wife, my love, for all of our days.”
Wordlessly, Fiona stared at the ring. And at the man who’d given it to her. He was gazing at her with a warmth and passion in his eyes that filled her with joy. Yet . . . she had to be sure . . .
“You said marriage was a practical thing, that it had nothing to do with love—”
“What did I know? I didn’t know anything, Fiona, until I nearly lost you. Until that spell nearly took you from me—”
His voice shook, and for a moment he bowed his head. Then he lifted it, and there was no mistaking the raw emotion in his eyes. Tenderly he pulled her down upon his knee, cupped her hand in his. Slowly, he kissed her palm and then slid the ring onto her finger.
“I was right about it being practical, Fiona. Marrying the woman you love—the woman you need—is eminently practical. Otherwise a man can’t think of anything else, can’t get anything done. Can’t know a moment’s peace.”
He stared for a moment at the emerald shining upon her slender finger, then looked into her eyes again. “I want a life with you, angel, a life of peace and happiness, a home like you made at Bitterbloom Cottage. We can live at Wor-thane, at Grithain, at Bitterbloom Cottage—wherever you wish, it doesn’t matter. But I need you at my side. In my bed. And always, in my arms.”
The last of her doubts melted like snow in May. What else was a girl to do? She leaned over and kissed him, her heart opening to him fully even as her lips parted beneath his.
“Yes,” she whispered against his mouth as she felt the passion rush through both of them, powerful as a coursing river.
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
The next thing she knew, he had swept her up in his arms and was carrying her to the bed. Her blue gown fell like a cloud to the floor, and his dark tunic was gone in a flash, leaving hot skin against hot skin, muscle and sinew against softness and silk, whispers and laughter and promises in the dark. Midnight came and they were swept away.
On the gilt table, the Midnight Mirror began to shimmer. An image flickered in the glass—Fiona and Conor, in the courtyard of the white keep of Wor-thane—a young boy laughing on a pony before them, twin girls of four twirling at their feet, and Fiona’s belly gently swelling with another child. Sunlight dappled the courtyard . . . a teen-aged King Branden with an entourage of thirty arrived at the gate, and . . .
What was that? Two silvery shadows flickered in the upper corner of the mirror—perhaps ghosts or angels or witches, who knew? It might have been two misty-robed sisters looking on in silent approval.
Then midnight was past. The images vanished. And the mirror’s magic was no more.
But the future could still be glimpsed. It shone in the eyes and the souls of the lovers on the satin-draped bed, as deeply entwined in each other’s arms as they were in each other’s hearts.
Somehow they both knew that their duty to the new young king was only beginning, that his happiness and safety would be part of their lives for years to come, but they also knew that tonight was just for them, a celebration of love found, held dear, and cherished.
Theirs was a night of promises, of passion, and as dawn approached . . . of wedding plans.
Fiona and Conor were married at Dovenbyre Castle one month later—at the stroke of midnight beneath a full and glowing moon.
The End