M'Lady Witch

CHAPTER 9

"Why, Alain," Cordelia said, "you have never spoken so before."

"Aye. I have been a chowderheaded fool," Alain said, with self-disgust verging on anger.

Delilah looked up indignantly, and Geoffrey decided it was time he took a hand—a hand he had been wanting to take for quite some time now. He stood up and stepped over to Delilah, reaching down. "My lady, will you walk? While we hunted for dinner, I found a small garden by the riverside. It must have been planted by Nature herself, but it is so sweet a sight that it must needs be the perfect setting for such beauty as yours." He smiled, looking deeply into her eyes. "Will you not come see it?"

Delilah looked startled, then cast an apprehensive glance at Alain—a glance that gained an edge.

"I am sure they will be safe by themselves," Geoffrey said, then leaned to murmur, "as you will be quite safe with me—if you wish to be."

Delilah turned back to him, startled—and for a moment, he saw the naked desire in her eyes, so hot that it led him suddenly to doubt that she was quite the virtuous maiden she seemed. But he could also see the calculation behind her eyes, as she glanced at Alain with a scornful smile. That smile turned to one of amusement, not altogether pleasant, as she turned back to Geoffrey. "Do you promise, sir?"

"Aye, surely—that you shall be safe as you please." Passion flashed in her eyes again, but was quickly hidden. "Then I shall come." She rose in one lithe, sinuous motion, taking his hand. "I thank you, sir. Surely this garden will be at its most beautiful by moonlight."

"Alas!" Geoffrey tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and turned her away toward the trees. "The moon does not rise for some minutes yet."

"Then we shall await it." She turned back with a vindictive smile for Alain—but he wasn't looking, and the smile disappeared. "We shall return anon," she informed the couple. "Fare well in our absence."

"Farewell indeed." Cordelia tried to hide her elationand silently thought a beam of thanks at her brother. He smiled and winked, since Delilah still had her back to him. Cordelia tried to remind herself how thoroughly she disapproved of Geoffrey's womanizing—but at the moment, it didn't seem at all bad.

Alain looked up, startled at Delilah's words, then glanced quickly at Geoffrey, who only gave him a sly wink. Not altogether reassured, he glanced at Delilah—but she was already turning away to go with Geoffrey, and when she looked up at him, her smile was dazzling. Alain stared after her, wondering whether he should feel wounded or relieved. He decided on relieved, and turned back to Cordelia, dismissing Delilah from his mind—and was rather surprised at the ease with which he did it.

He caught Cordelia watching him with a look that clearly said he was being weighed in the balance. "She is quite attractive—in fact, a beauty."

"She is," Alain said judiciously, "but will she remain in my mind when she is gone from my sight?"

"A most excellent question." Cordelia's answer was somewhat tart. "Will she, indeed?"

"I think not." Alain tilted his head to the side, regarding her. "But then, I have been spoiled, Cordelia."

"I know." Inside, Cordelia could have screamed at herself for the sniping remark—but it was too old a habit; it would take her some time to break it.

To her surprise, though, Alain only smiled, amused. "No, I do not mean only as a Prince, having had all defer to me, and having been given ... almost all I wish."

Almost? She wondered what he had been denied, then realized that one thing had certainly been herself. She blushed, looking down.

"I mean spoiled in regard to loveliness," Alain said. "Now and again during my childhood, I have been exposed to true beauty; I have had it before me more often than not. It may be that I have become inured to the charms of beauty alone."

He was speaking of herself, she realized, and suddenly felt rather dizzy. Where had Alain learned to make such pretty speeches? And were they only that, pretty speeches? Or did he really mean what he said?

Alarmed, he moved closer, taking her arm, resting it on his, chafing her hand. "Are you unwell, Cordelia? Or have I given offense?"

"Nay. I am ... well." But the support of his arm felt very good indeed. Suddenly, she realized that if she were a little more unwell, he might put his arm around her. "It—is simply that it has been a long day, and..." She let herself go limp.

Alain's arm tightened about her, holding her up. "Mayhap I should let you sleep."

Somehow, that sent alarm bells ringing through her. She wanted him close, yes, but not too close. "Nay. Only ... hold me ... for a small space."

"Why, that I shall," he said softly.

She let herself relax into the curve of his arm, leaning against his chest. She was surprised to discover how hard it was. "I ... I must thank you, Alain, for your ... gift."

He looked at her, puzzled.

"Some dozen men in rags of green and brown," she explained.

"The outlaw band!" His face cleared. "Did you truly find it pleasing, my lady, or was it another piece of gaucherie?"

"Well ... it did make the day ... quite interesting," she admitted. "I found myself beset with curiosity as to what I should do with them. But it was simple enough—I sent them on to Sir Maris. And I own that I did feel honored, and quite complimented that you had sent me such a tribute."

"I scolded myself for it when it was too late, and they were out upon the road," Alain said sadly. " 'Tis no great gift to a lady to have a dozen filthy, ugly knaves attending upon her."

"Oh, nay! It is the kind of gift that most I wish!" She looked up at him, eyes wide, and very, very earnest. "To restrain the brutal, the predatory, and to protect the weak! Giving me signs that you have done these things, Alain, is the most that I could ask of any man!"

Alain beamed down at her, reflecting that most other women would have been far more pleased by the gift of a diamond bracelet or a ruby tiara. He had no doubt at all the Cordelia meant what she had said. "How..." His voice sank almost to a whisper. "How if I could heal the sick as a king's touch is supposed to do? Would that be a gift to you? Or only my duty to my subjects?"

"Your duty to your subjects would be your gift to me!" She moved within his arm, a little away from him, so that she could look directly up into his eyes. "Truly the greatest gift that any woman can have is knowing that she has made a man a better man! But, Alain..." She lowered her gaze. "I should not accept such presents—or any presents of any sort, for . .." She looked back up at him again, forcing herself to be honest. ". . . I cannot be sure that, were you to ask again, I would be willing to wed you."

Alain gazed down at her, his victory turning to ashes in his mouth—until he remembered her words: "I cannot be sure..." Hope flickered in his eyes again, and he said, "Then there may be yet some chance?"

"Oh ... aye . .." She looked down again. "There may be some chance ... But I would have you know, Alain, that it is only this night that you have begun to talk to me as yourself, Alain, not the Crown Prince. How can I know whether or not I love you yet, when we have only now met?"

"Well," Alain said softly, cradling her closer in his arm, "I will be very glad with that, Cordelia. Come, let us learn to know one another—truly, if we can."

They sat by the river, his arm about her, talking of inconsequentialities, talking of grave matters, talking of themselves and of each other, as the moon slowly rose.

But the moon had not yet risen when Geoffrey led Delilah to the little fairy garden. It rose where a little stream trickled into the river—tall, feather-soft columns in a semicircle, backing smaller flowers and ferns: anemones, poppies, spirea. They were only varying shades of gray in the starlight, of course, but the stream reflected glimmers back at many points, and the soft susurrus of the leaves of the willow that overarched the whole of the tiny garden made it seem like an undersea grotto—partly magical, and entirely alluring.

"Oh! How wonderful!" Delilah reached out to caress the slender stalks. "Scarcely have I ever seen anything so lovely!"

"We should leave a bowl of milk." Geoffrey knelt beside her. "Such a wondrous place cannot have grown by nature, and who but the elves could have tended it?"

"Fairies, say rather." Delilah looked up at him with excitement in her eyes—not of wonder, Geoffrey realized, but of anticipation, almost as though she were a hunter tracking quarry—eager, eyes dancing with mischief. "For what have you brought me to this place, sir?"

"Why," said Geoffrey, "to admire beauty."

"Then admire! Admire all you wish!" In a smooth, continuous motion, she rose to her feet, skirts belling around her as she pirouetted. "Gaze your fill—but you shall not touch!" And she fled, laughing.

Geoffrey rose, grinning; he knew the game, and understood it. He was on his feet, stalking her.

With a gay laugh, she disappeared among the trees. He echoed her laugh with a deeper tone of his own, and followed.

In and out among the trees they darted, playing at nymph and faun. Her laughter was not the pure, innocent trilling of a maiden, but the mocking taunts of a woman of experience.

Geoffrey's blood flowed hotter for hearing it, and he followed hard and close.

Several times he lunged out, grasping for a handful of cloth, but she whirled aside at the last second, and the fabric slid out from between his fingers.

Finally, she tired—or tired of the game. She tripped, and stumbled back against a huge old oak. Geoffrey was on her in a second, one hand slapping the trunk to either side of her, boxing her between his arms, his face only a few inches from hers, both of them laughing with delight—but not sheer delight. No, delight and anticipation, as his lips came closer ...

At the last second, she caught her breath and ducked out under his arm, fleeing again, but not quite so fast as she should have, and he caught her wrist. She pulled against it, but not too hard. "Oh, sir, leave off! Let me flee!"

"Why, I shall let you do whatever you please." Geoffrey stepped lightly around, circling her into the crook of his arm and pressing her close. "But what do you truly desire?"

"Why sir, for shame!" She lowered her gaze, but only as far as his doublet. She reached up as though to pluck a piece of lint from it—but her fingers ended by fumbling with the fastenings. "Have you no shame?"

"Shame?" Geoffrey wrinkled his brow, puzzled. "What is that?"

"It is something that you do not have, but should," she reproved him.

"It does come undone, you know," he said.

"Do you?" She rolled her eyes up to look at him through long lashes. "Ah, sir! You might prove my undoing!"

He loosed the fastener and began the next. "Why, so I shall. Have you never heard that you should do as you are done by?" He reached around to the nape of her neck and let his fingers trail down her back. She gasped, with a wriggle, then laughed. "You are deceived, sir! I have no fastenings of any kind; this dress is all of one piece."

"Why, then." His fingers traced under the curve of her breast, to the lacings of her kirtle. "I shall have to undo here, instead."

She laughed, twirling away, but he held onto the lace, and the bow came undone.

"Sir! How dare you!" She put her hands to the kirtle, pulling it tight, even though it had scarcely opened at all. Geoffrey let the end of the lace slip of out of his fingers. "What would you have me do?"

"Why, whatever you will." She tilted her chin up. "But my sights are set higher than yourself."

"That takes not overmuch doing," Geoffrey countered, "for my sights are set low—very low indeed."

"Nay, nay!" She stepped away with a wicked glance. "I pursue one of higher station than your own."

Geoffrey was still for a second, then gave her a wicked grin. "Why, think you I am but a squire?"

"Why, are you more?" she returned. "And is not your friend a knight?"

"Am I not knight enough for you?" he countered. "Or enough for a night?"

"I think perhaps you might be." Her voice was low and throaty, and she stepped close to him, so close that he could have sworn he had felt the touch of her body, though there was still an inch of space between them—and for a second, her eyes burned with the heat of desire.

Then she whirled away again, and when she turned back to regard him from a distance of five feet, her eyes had cooled to the chill of icebergs, and she gave him her most haughty look. "I think you are not all that you seem."

"My friend, though, is?"

She shrugged elaborately. "I think that he is more. Certainly I shall discover it."

"Will you truly?" Geoffrey grinned. "And will you discover how much of me is substance?"

She gave him a cool, appraising stare, then flashed a wicked smile. "If it pleases me—for surely, I know that I would please you."

Then she turned and fled again.

He followed her, running fast, dodging in and out among the trees. There was no laughter this time, only hot breath panting in their throats, until finally he reached out and caught her by the sleeve. She spun about, tripped, and fell to the ground. He dropped down by her side, fingers trailing fire across her cheek, down her neck, and across the swelling curve of her breast, breathing hard. "Ah, lass, pray do as you please! Fulfill your desires, and care not how base they may be! Know that I am a man for all you might wish!"

"Aye, well might you be," she sighed, and her breath was perfume, perfumed smoke from a fire where incense burns. "Yet still shall I withhold, till I have taught another man delights of which he shall never have his fill!"

"He shall cleave unto you always?" Geoffrey raised an eyebrow.

"In truth! Then may you court me to the end, to the finish! But for now, sir, I pray you—leave off!"

It cost him dearly, it required a huge effort—but Geoffrey had sworn to himself, very early, that he would never pursue a woman farther than she wished. He forced himself away with a sigh, reflecting that if she had really wanted him to continue, it was her own hard luck that she had bade him hold. She would have to pursue him more fervently, and be more open and more sincere in her flirtations, if she wished a different ending to the game. "As you wish, then. Come, sit beside me for a moment or two. I promise I shall touch naught but your hand."

"Why then should I sit beside you?" But slowly, she sat up, her eyes wary, weighing him, gauging him, not understanding, not believing.

"Why," he said softly, "to look at this fairy grotto in the moonlight. Only see!"

She sat up beside him, staring, then clasped her hands and gasped in delight.

They had come full circle, had returned to the elfin grotto—and surely, it was no surprise to her. The moon had risen while they played at nymph and faun. The garden glittered in the moonlight like the agglomeration of turrets and spires that form a fairy palace.

She stared at it, spellbound, but as conscious of his hand tickling fire across her own as she was of the magical garden. He was true to his word—he touched no more than he had said he would—but the way in which he did it made her bitterly regret the course that she had chosen. She promised herself that, when she had captured Alain, she would visit upon Geoffrey every ounce of pleasure of which he dreamed, and more, far more, until it was torment. She would use him, she would drain him, then revive him to use him again—but only at her pleasure.

When they returned to the campfire, they had assumed demeanors that were properly chaste and sober. Alain and Cordelia, though not quite so demure, seemed rather content with each other's company.

Alain, for his part, wondered whether Delilah's eyes were really glittering in the moonlight. Delilah, in turn, exulted within to see that Cordelia and Alain were not talking to one another. She had given her rival her chance, and, as Delilah had expected, Cordelia had made a hash of it. She sat down by the fireside with a sigh that was perfectly balanced between boredom and gloating satisfaction.

Cordelia looked up with a spark in her eye. "Was the garden so pretty, then?"

"By moonlight," Delilah purred, "one would have thought it was a mermaid's grotto beneath the waves." Cordelia felt a burning anger within her. What had the cat been doing with her brother? What had she done to him?

From the look of him, though, she might have asked him the reverse: what had he been doing with her? However, there was still an edged and whetted hunger to him, a devil-may-care, reckless, barbed delight about him. She did not have to wonder long about what they had been doing, but only how far the game had gone. Not too far, or Geoffrey would not still look famished—but somehow, the notion was not reassuring.

"Where shall we fare tomorrow?" she asked.

Delilah turned her head, locking gazes with Cordelia; she had not missed the "we."

"The gentlemen shall escort me to my home," she purred, "or so they have promised."

"And so we shall do," Alain said stoutly. "We could not let so gentle a lady wend her way unescorted."

"Oh, aye!" Cordelia said, with a smile of her own. "I shall join you."

"And what shall you ride, then?" Delilah asked gaily. "For I see you have no horse! Perchance you shall ride a broomstick!"

"Perchance." Cordelia's tone flowed like honey. "Though perhaps I should leave it for you."

Delilah threw her head back with a tinkling cascade of laughter. "Do not trouble yourself—for I have an excellent palfrey."

"Why, then," said Cordelia, "I shall have to find a stallion."

Cordelia waited until the others were asleep, then rose and moved quietly off into the wood, but only a few paces. She directed a thought at her sleeping mother, asking her to send her father's great black robot-horse, Fess—with a sidesaddle.

Gwen agreed, and so did Rod, easily. Cordelia couldn't tell they were only a mile away.

The sound of movement waked her. She opened her eyes, lying still to avoid surprises. She frowned, feeling muzzy-headed, and pressed a hand to her temple, but it would not drive the shreds of dream away. A patched and ragged dream, surely ...

Alain lay to one side of her—good. She muttered and turned over as though she were still asleep, then peeked through her lashes and saw Delilah, eyes closed, breathing deeply and evenly.

You need not pretend, sister. Only I await you.

As well you might, Cordelia returned. To be sure, none has the advantage of you.

There is some truth in that, Geoffrey admitted. Cordelia sat up, slowly, carefully, pressing a hand to her head again. I had the strangest dream ...

I too. Let us go.

He was sitting on his heels across the campfire from her, but now he rose silently, stepped around the coals, holding out his hand. She took it and rose to her feet, then stepped away from Alain and Delilah. Brother and sister wrapped their cloaks about them, for the morning was chill. They moved silently away from the sleepers and in among the trees, but not so far they could not watch the campsite.

"Tell me your dream first," Geoffrey said.

"'Twas a dream of this Lady Delilah," Cordelia said, watching his face—but he only nodded. No look of guilt, no look of keen interest—no look of surprise. Heartened, Cordelia went on. "I dreamt that in the deep of the night, she did come into these trees and meet with several men."

Again, Geoffrey nodded, and did not look surprised. Cordelia took a deep breath. "She did give them orders—orders, Geoffrey! She did command! And not a one of them disputed!"

Geoffrey still nodded, very intent.

"She did command them to prepare her home for her. She spoke of a manor house and staff, but she bade them dress as servants, and named one to impersonate her father. Nay, it did seem that she had already given such orders, for these commands were only in the nature of asking if all was in readiness—and they told her nay, but nearly." She watched her brother out of the corner of her eye. "What would you say to that?"

"I would say," Geoffrey replied slowly, "that it was the product of spleen, envy and jealousy that one woman might have for another—had I not had the same dream. Not only like yours, mind you, but the same."

Cordelia stared at him in surprise.

"Aye," said Geoffrey. "And what would you say to that?"

Cordelia turned away, walking very slowly. "I would say 'tis not the sort of dream I would have thought a randy young man like yourself would have dreamt, of a beautiful woman."

"Cordelia!"

Cordelia shrugged impatiently. "A spade is a spade, brother, and a lecher is a lecher. I will own I had some intent to speak to you of that anon—and aye, I have seen the covetous looks you cast upon the Lady Delilah, so I was not so surprised as I might have been, to learn that you had dreamed of her. But such a dream as this is not the sort I had expected."

"Nay, I am sure it is not," Geoffrey said, with a sardonic smile.

"How is this, brother?" Cordelia spread her hands. "How is it we have both dreamed the same dream, even though it is quite inappropriate to yourself?"

"Why, you know as well as I," Geoffrey countered. "What could it be, but truth?"

"Truth of what sort?" Cordelia frowned. "Can it be she is a telepath, a projective, and does not know it?"

"That, or one who does know it, but felt no need to shield her thoughts from sleepers." Geoffrey frowned. "In either case, it would seem that our Delilah is not what she seems."

Cordelia gave a harsh little laugh. "'Tis no great news to me, brother. I have seen the looks she gives you when she thinks Alain does not see."

"And that you do not see, either?"

"Oh, no! She cares not if I see. Indeed, she would prefer that I did." Cordelia's lips thinned. "No doubt she thinks that I believe you to be my puppy, and will be quite wroth with her for seeking to steal your affections. But I know you well enough to doubt that could happen."

Geoffrey looked up, offended. "Be not so certain, sister! I, too, may fall in love."

"You may," Cordelia said acidly, "but not with such a thing as that. Nay, Geoffrey, speak truly: I know you have felt lust for her, but has there been the tiniest shred of love?"

Geoffrey relaxed in an easy grin. "Oh, nay! I know what she seeks, and may well find—but no more, I assure you." Then he sobered, frowning. "But if she orders men to make a false home for her, what is she truly?"

"A commander," Cordelia said slowly, "though I think she is not a lady born."

Geoffrey nodded slowly. "I have that feeling, too," he said. "I cannot say why, for she counterfeits well. No doubt 'tis a host of small signs that I am not aware of consciously—but they are there nonetheless, and I read them without knowing that I do. She is not nobly born."

"Yet she may be a telepath." Cordelia looked up at him, feeling a sudden pang. "Oh, Geoffrey, my brother, be wary, I pray you! For I do fear for your safety!"

For a moment, he looked grim. Then he gave a soft laugh, and gave her a brotherly squeeze. "Do not fear for me, big sister. I have learned in a hard school, and have been taught by experts."

But Cordelia did not return his laughter. The statement had an odd echo; it reminded her of something she had once heard their older brother Magnus say, shortly before he left home. She tried to give Geoffrey a glare, but her heart wasn't in it, and she gave him a reluctant smile instead. His own answered her. She sighed and looked back at the campsite. "Do you watch these two, brother, while I step aside a moment."

"Surely, sister. And what shall I do if they arise and walk?"

"Be sure they do not walk toward one another," she answered drily, then turned away to step in among the leaves. In a few seconds, she was surrounded by the rustling susurrus of greenery, and projected her thoughts. Fess! Are you near?

A shadow moved from under the trees, and the great black horse stepped forward, nodding. I am, Cordelia. What do you wish of me?

"Oh, Fess, it is so good to see you!" Cordelia rushed forward, throwing her arms around his neck—but carefully; that was hard metal beneath the horsehair, not flesh. He was the companion of her childhood, the dream horse that many young girls imagine. She had been six before she fully understood that he was not really a living creature, like herself—but she had always thought of him as her friend and, in the depths of her being, still believed him to be a living, animate consciousness.

And, suddenly, she found that she was relaxing, letting the pressure and stress of the last few days evaporate, trembling as she clung to the great horse. Fess sensed it through sensors imbedded in his artificial horsehair. "What troubles you, Cordelia? Perhaps it were best that you tell me."

She lifted a tear-streaked face. "Alain had come a-courting—except that he did not court, he commanded me to marry him! Dearly though I had dreamed of that moment all my life, I could not bear to have it come in so undreamlike a fashion!"

"I know of this," Fess said, his tone thoughtful, "and of his quest with Geoffrey, though I confess I do not truly understand it."

"Ohhhhhhh ... Geoffrey!" Cordelia stamped her foot. "He has taken it upon himself to turn my callow swain into a proper lover, to teach him the right and proper way of courting a maid—and corrupting him betimes, I doubt not!"

"Only Geoffrey?" Fess was picking up undertones that she hadn't intended.

"There is also a witch of alluring enchantments," Cordelia said, seething. "She has preyed upon their kindness—and, aye, their randy lust—and prevailed upon them to escort her to her home, each mounted upon a horse. I have only my broomstick. Fess, will you carry me?"

"Surely," Fess told her. "I would not miss this for the world."

Cordelia reflected sourly that everybody but herself seemed to find the whole episode monstrously entertaining.

They breakfasted on quail and pheasant, then saddled their horses (of course, Alain insisted on saddling Delilah's mount). Geoffrey had only a raised eyebrow when the great black horse strode into the clearing. Alain looked up, then looked again sharply. He turned to Cordelia with a look that was an amused accusation.

But Delilah stared, taken aback.

She recovered her poise quickly, though. "Truly, so great a stallion would be beyond my feeble horsemanship. I marvel that you can ride him, Lady Cordelia."

"I do prefer stallions," Cordelia said.

"To ride, of course," Delilah said, with an insinuation that made Cordelia blush, though she didn't understand why. She covered by reaching up for pommel and cantle, setting her foot in the stirrup, and swinging up to hook a knee around the horn of the sidesaddle.

"How athletic," Delilah purred. "Surely I could never do such wonders. I have no skill in this. Alain, would you help me to mount?"

"Gladly, Lady Delilah." Alain gave her a small, courtly bow, then set both hands about her waist and lifted her up to the saddle. Delilah squeaked, and if Alain's hands lingered a little longer than was strictly necessary, who was there to blame him?

Only Cordelia.

So it came about that they rode toward Delilah's home—a witch, a warlock, a Prince, and another whom Cordelia thought to be more truly a witch than herself.