Midnight Magic
Copyright © 2005 by Sharon Antoniewicz
Excerpt from
Twilight Magic
copyright © 2005 by Sharon Antoniewicz
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Book design by and text composition by L&G McRee
Cover design by Diane Luger
Cover illustration by Alan Ayer
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First eBook Edition: December 2005
ISBN: 978-0-446-55448-0
Contents
“You must accept that I am now your betrothed and we will be wed in two days.”
“Even over my refusal? You cannot force me.” He cupped her face with warm palms, and she felt the force of his light touch clear down to her toes.
“I can,” he said softly. “Believe me, I prefer not to use force, but you continue to resist what you cannot prevent. Our fates are sealed. Yield, Gwendolyn.”
“Never.” She expected anger but received an unnerving smile.
“Never is a long time.” His kiss was whisper soft against her lips, and only the power of magic could turn it all-encompassing, banishing her resistance and common sense so thoroughly. Every part of her became aware of how closely they stood, how little fabric covered either of them. Too easily she could grab his tunic and pull him closer yet, feel the heat of him against her. Too easily she could melt into a puddle at his feet. She couldn’t yield, couldn’t let him win.
PRAISE FOR SHARI ANTON AND HER NOVELS
“Shari Anton is a master who weaves magic onto every page.”
—Rendezvous
“Anton is a superbly talented writer of medieval historical fiction.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
AT HER SERVICE
“Anton captures not only the spirit of the Middle Ages, but the heart of her characters as well.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“Anton handles history with a deft hand, even as she spins a tale that will capture the reader’s heart.”
—Literary Times
“Magnificent . . . Filled with wonderful characters and plenty of sexual tension.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“Ms. Anton creates a strong, sexy hero who holds your attention until the end.”
—Rendezvous
ONCE A BRIDE
“Anton weaves a spellbinding romance, rich in historical backdrop, fiery characters, and sexual tension.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“Bravo . . . Ms. Anton has painted a marvelous and witty novel of love.”
—MyShelf.com
“A keeper! This is a delightfully charming novel, extremely well written, with characters who blossom throughout each page.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
THE IDEAL HUSBAND
“Anton weaves history into her highly romantic tale with aplomb, crafting a beautiful love story brimming with period atmosphere.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“A historical romance for readers to savor.”
—Southern Pines Pilot (NC)
“A lovely, lovely tale . . . The well-proportioned mix of narrative and dialogue; passion and romance; challenge and triumph sets a brisk pace . . . I’m eagerly looking forward to her next book.”
—RomRevToday.com
ALSO BY SHARI ANTON
At Her Service
Once a Bride
The Ideal Husband
To the wonderful ladies who populate the Medieval Enthusiasts loop.
Goddesses, every one.
Today theories abound on the very existence of King Arthur and Merlin. Geoffrey of Monmouth had no doubts. His
Historia regum Britanniae
, finished c. 1136, contains both
The History of the Kings of Britain
and
The Prophecies of Merlin
. For its day, the book was a bestseller and subject to both praise and criticism for its content. As a basis for my research, I chose to use
GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH: THE HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF BRITAIN
, translated and with an introduction by Lewis Thorpe.
I also would like to thank DeborahAnne MacGillivray, who provided the Welsh phrase I needed to finish this book.
England, 1145
W
HEN THE ROYAL TEMPER RAGED,
prudent men held their peace.
Alberic of Chester considered himself a prudent man. With his helm securely tucked under one arm, he stood quietly near his fellow soldiers, holding a sword still too bloody to sheathe.
Chilly rain mingled with sweat to soak his hair and trickle down his neck to seep under the layers of chain mail, padded gambeson, and linen shirt. His chain mail weighed down on shoulders beginning to stiffen from exertion, his body too weary and spirit too heartsick to feel victorious.
A skirmish shouldn’t have been fought in this field, where sprouting oats were now ruined. So many men shouldn’t have died today. A frightful waste.
Alberic yearned to return to the austere comforts of the royal army’s camp, where everyone from the lowliest pikeman to exalted King Stephen had idled away weeks while laying siege to Wallingford Castle. There awaited him a canvas tent where he could get out of the rain and, if the supply wagons had arrived, drink enough ale to drown out the wails and moans of the wounded and dying.
Except he dared not move until given the order.
So Alberic watched tall, robust King Stephen pace the road alongside the freshest battlefield in the ten-year dispute over the rightful possession of England’s crown. Unconcerned for either the rain wetting his woolen cloak or the mud splattering his leather boots, the king focused his fury on two men: Ranulf de Gernons, the earl of Chester, the living, stoic target of his wrath; and Sir Hugh de Leon, a baron who lay facedown in blood-soaked grass, beyond hearing and earthly cares.
“An unfortunate death, Chester.”
The king’s deceptively placid statement reeked of ire and accusation.
With nearly as regal a mien as the monarch’s, Chester retorted, “His death could not be avoided, Sire. Sir Hugh refused to surrender when given the chance.”
The king gestured toward a young, fair-haired man sprawled not far from the baron. Alberic tensed, aware of whose blood dried on his sword, and prepared to acknowledge his part in the senseless carnage if need be. But the king continued to address the earl.
“The son, also?”
“Young William followed his father’s foolhardy example. Had they allowed, I would have captured both and held them for ransom.”
“So instead you allowed both to die!”
Chester tossed a hand in the air, his usually unshakable composure fraying. “Their goal was to attack the camp and take you as their prisoner. What would you have us do, Sire? Not defend our own lives? Stand aside? Perhaps allow them to escape and return to Maud’s service?”
“We would
prefer
our land-rich subjects be captured and brought before us! Sir Hugh might have been turned to our service if given sufficient enticement.”
The twitch of Chester’s jaw made Alberic wonder how long the recent, brittle alliance between the earl and the king would last. Chester’s reputation for acting only in his best interest was well earned and widely known. And given the king’s mistrust of Chester, a breach could come at any time, for any reason, the alliance split asunder by either man.
“As I said, Sir Hugh gave us no choice,” Chester stated, firmly indicating he would argue no more.
Wisely, King Stephen didn’t push the earl further. Instead, he glanced at the field littered with dead, at the wounded men-at-arms being tended, and finally at the poor souls who’d been taken prisoner: those of Sir Hugh’s small force who’d survived.
Too small of a force to have a prayer of prevailing against the earl’s. Alberic still didn’t understand why Sir Hugh, who had been vastly outnumbered, hadn’t surrendered. Or why William had fought on with such vicious zeal knowing his father had fallen and their mission was doomed.
All pondering over the de Leon men’s actions halted when King Stephen’s gaze settled on him. Alberic endured the full force of the dark-eyed, measuring stare for several uncomfortable moments before the king asked of Chester, “Your whelp?”
Alberic almost smiled at the earl’s obvious chagrin.
For several years now, Chester had dismissed the familial similarities between himself and Alberic as slight and utterly no proof of paternity. To have the king notice the resemblance so quickly and accurately must be irritating. Alberic also knew better than to hope for the answer he’d waited nigh on half a lifetime to hear—full acknowledgment from Chester. Even so, his heartbeat quickened.
“So his mother claimed,” Chester finally answered.
“Have you provided for him as yet?”
“He has a place in my household.”
A place grudgingly given and not the one Alberic had hoped for as a lad of twelve. After his mother’s death, having no means to support himself, he’d shown up at Chester’s castle and confronted the earl. While Chester hadn’t acknowledged Alberic as his son, neither had the earl tossed him out the gate. Disappointed, but needful of shelter and sustenance, he’d responded to Chester’s scant generosity by working hard to earn the earl’s respect, if not his affection.
Most days Alberic believed he’d made strides in winning Chester’s acceptance. On others he suffered pangs of sorrow for that skinny lad, raw with grief, needing to belong
somewhere
and fearful he never would.
“Is he knighted?” the king wanted to know.
Alberic’s heartbeat kicked up another notch. That coveted honor hadn’t occurred yet, though he’d long since passed beyond the age when most squires acquired their knighthood. Chester, however, was decidedly reluctant to bestow the honor.
“Not as yet.”
Then Alberic wondered why the king took so pointed and unwarranted an interest in the baseborn son of the earl of Chester. Especially now, when more important matters begged attention.
Discomfited, Alberic watched King Stephen squat beside Sir Hugh and slide a large gold ring from the baron’s limp hand, pausing to study it before clenching it in his fist.
“The seal of the dragon,” the king said softly. “We remember the first time we saw this unusual ring many years ago, on an occasion when Sir Hugh attended our uncle’s court. He said he wore the ring in honor of his wife, a Welsh princess, whose family claims lineage from that of Pendragon.”
Pendragon? The fabled King Arthur?
All around him Alberic heard both awed murmurs and snickers of disbelief. The muttering stopped when the king rose from beside Sir Hugh.
“Disbelieve, do you?” Stephen called out. When no one answered, his attention again returned to where Alberic didn’t want it. On him.
“What of you? Do you believe?”
Alberic considered his answer carefully, well aware he was being judged.
“I know naught of the descendants of King Arthur, Sire, so cannot give you an informed opinion on the matter.”
The king came toward him, his steps purposeful, his intention impenetrable, stopping a mere arm’s length away. “What is your name, young man?”
“Alberic of Chester, Sire.”
“On your sword dries the blood of William de Leon?”
Asked mildly, but with an undertone of cold steel.
Apparently the messenger whom Chester had sent to camp to inform the king of the skirmish had described how the baron and his son had met their end.
“Aye, Sire.”
“Do you now consider yourself the better man?”
Alberic glanced over at William de Leon—young, fair-haired, and damned good with a sword.