Kathryne Kennedy - Everlasting Enchantment

“Yes…”

The arrogant man chuckled again. Did things with the rest of his fingers that made her tremble.

“Ah, my love,” he murmured, dropping his hands and standing up behind her. He caressed her bottom, murmuring something about perfection, but Millicent could focus only on his touch, on this aching need he had built inside her. And when she felt the hot, silky length of him finally touch her, spread her apart and plunge inside, she thought she might scream.

She no longer wondered at this new position. She felt only the absolute delight of it. He held her hips, thrusting inside her, taking long, smooth strokes, touching her differently with each one, until he found…

Millicent gasped. A surge of pleasure went through her, the deeper one, the one inside her womb. He stilled, allowed the feeling to wash through her, before starting his rhythm once more, this time bending forward and stroking her nub again, building that pleasure to a new peak. And this time he allowed her to reach it, to tumble over the edge, her body rippling with ecstasy, like a flurry of waves washing through her. And that deeper pleasure joined it, until Millicent lost herself to mindless rapture.

He bent his upper body over hers once again, and whispered, “I love you. I love bringing you pleasure.” And then he straightened, and started to gently move once more, to build her up to the heights of passion again.

And yet again.

Millicent came to earth the third time blessing her were-strength, for surely she would have collapsed. “Gareth,” she pleaded.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you love me.”

Millicent froze, a tangle of emotions welling up inside her. How to speak the truth, when she wasn’t sure of it herself? She closed her eyes. “I love being with you. I love the way you make me feel. I love becoming a part of you like this, even if it’s only for a short time. Please, Gareth.”

He plunged inside her, taking her breath away, her thoughts away. He built her to that peak again, but this time allowed himself to join her, to take his own release the moment she found hers. And Millicent discovered a new joy. That bringing him pleasure increased her own tenfold.

When the world settled around her once again, she realized her arms and legs shook so badly she couldn’t unlock them for fear of tumbling to the floor. But as usual, her knight came to her rescue, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bed, lowering them both to the mattress without ever letting her go. He tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder, pressed her close to him, allowing her leg and arm to flop over his lean torso.

Millicent could barely move…

Could barely keep her eyes open…

And woke to find him gone.

She sat up, aching in places she didn’t know she could ache in, and pressed her hand against the indentation of his head in the pillow next to hers. She ran her palms across the sheet, imagining she could still feel his warmth in the rumpled bedding.

“I do love you, Gareth,” she muttered to herself, “but don’t you see it doesn’t matter? I cannot keep you trapped within the relic and deprive you of a chance for freedom, and my love isn’t strong enough to break the spell. We are doomed, you and I, and it’s better not to forget that.”

As if to prove the truth of her words, the relic had fallen off her arm. She frantically searched the bedding for the band of silver. It had fallen off the bed onto a thick red carpet, and the moonstone within it winked mockingly at her as she picked it up and slid it over her wrist.

Would it tighten around her arm again?

Conflicting emotions rose inside her as the bracelet shrank to fit securely on her arm. Fear, wonder, and a trace of anger at feeling trapped. She wished she knew what it meant… and realized it might mean nothing at all.

But still, she felt the smile on her face as she rose and began to dress.

She had managed to fasten only a few buttons of her gown when Nell screamed, with more terror in her voice than Millicent had ever heard before. She tore open the door and shifted to panther midleap into the withdrawing room, using her stronger vision to search for the danger. But Nell sat on a velvet settee, apparently unharmed, and Millicent could not see anyone else in the room. But she and Nell had been through some tight scrapes, and the old woman wouldn’t have screamed like that unless she had a reason.

She shifted to human. “What is it?”

Nell pointed to a pile of cushions. “It flew in the window.”

Millicent lit a lamp and approached cautiously, remembering the pointy teeth of the sprites the duke had set upon them before. Their bites might be as drug-inducing as Selena’s. But the small creature sprawled across a beaded pillow did not resemble those nasty little creatures. Indeed, this one was quite… handsome, in a pointy sort of way. His brown hair stuck up in all directions, as if he had purposely used pomade to shape it that way, and his pointy nose and chin looked somehow appropriate for his narrow face. He wore a rather smart set of miniature clothing, with a waistcoat of gold brocade, and lace at sleeves and neck. His wings splayed out around him, a lovely display of gossamer iridescence.

He looked like the sort of sprite the gentry aboveground used to carry messages to one another, usually flowery love notes or secret assignations. What on earth was the little thing doing in the Underground?

When she got closer, she noticed the grime covering the lace, the ragged tears at the elbows of his coat, the worn cloth at the knees. Millicent sniffed. He smelled like rotten apples… and gin. Lots of gin.

“You’re not hurt, you little scamp. You’re drunk!” Millicent nudged him with her finger.

One eye opened. A very large brown eye, rather like a puppy’s. “Never drunk, dear lady. Slightly foxed, perhaps. I’m sorry to say that I haven’t been completely drunk since… hmmm, the year eighteen hundred and thirty. Or was it thirty-one…?”

Millicent folded her arms across her chest, catching her sagging bodice in the crooks of them. “What are you doing here?”

Nell walked over and began to button up the back of Millicent’s gown, peeking around her arm to glare at the sprite.

The little man sat up, rubbed a hand across a face that hadn’t seen a razor for a few days, and frowned. “Well, a few years ago I woke up in an empty barrel of ale after getting a wee bit too foxed. The smuggler did not appear to appreciate my fine compliment to his beverage, and sold me to a young warlock, along with the rest of his supply. Imagine my surprise at discovering that the Underground was no mere myth, but a real city of dark mages and pubs. Many, many pubs. Since my previous, err, employer, had dismissed my services, I thought to myself: Ambrose, this is a serendipitous opportunity! You shall finally be appreciated by the young, uh, nobles, living down here, and as soon as you pay off your debt to the young warlock, you can be a free agent and—”

“Not in the Underground,” snapped Millicent, flinging out her arms. Good grief, she had not expected his life story. She then pointed to the floor. “But in this palace.”

The sprite—Ambrose—rose to his several-inch height and glanced about the room. “Where, exactly, am I?”

Nell had finished buttoning Millicent’s dress and bent down to inspect the little man. “Ye are in the Duke of Ghoulston’s castle, and it’s a bad place ye’ve taken a wrong turn to.”

“My dear woman, I have never taken a wrong turn in my life. Each of my adventures has led me to even greater heights—Ghoulston, you say? Oh, yes, I remember now. I have a message for Lady Millicent.” His pointy gaze swept to Millicent. “A shape-shifter with black hair and cat-eyes. I presume I flew through the correct window, madam?”

Millicent could only nod, afraid if she argued about the honorific in front of her name it would set Ambrose off on another tale. And she was too curious about who could have possibly sent her a message, and why. “Yes. I am Millicent.”

“I don’t suppose you would happen to have a drop of—”

She growled.

“No, I rather thought not.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “The sender of my message is none other than Lord Bran of… err, of the fine establishment of the Swill and Seelie.” He bent over in a bow, and promptly landed flat on his pointy wee face.

Millicent whined in frustration.

Nell glanced up at her. “There’s a liquor cabinet near the sideboard. Shall I fetch a glass? Per’aps if I wave it beneath his nose it’ll bring him to.”

“Good idea.”

Nell hobbled over to a carved mahogany cabinet tucked in the corner of the room, opened the doors to reveal a sparkling display of bottles filled with rich brown and red liquids. She chose one at random, uncorked it, and brought it to the sprite, waving it over his prone form.

The fumes of the brandy had a startling restorative effect on the sprite. His pointed nose twitched, his eyes flew open, and he scrambled to his feet with a bounce. “Jolly good. I knew you had to have some about.” His wings fluttered as his gaze flicked to the cabinet. “An abundant stash, I see.”

Millicent lowered her face to mere inches away from his. “What is the message?”

“Err, my memory is still rather fuzzy. I have found that a few swallows of excellent—brandy, is it not? Yes, brandy—will often sharpen my faculties.”

“Give me the message now, and you can have all the brandy you want. Continue to be a nuisance, and I shall pluck off your wings. Slowly.”

Nell cackled, and Ambrose gave her an injured look, but quickly spit out his message.

“Bran is aware of your forced confinement, and feels that as your employer, he bears a certain responsibility for you.” The little man grinned at his play on words.

Millicent blinked. How astonishing. She had never suspected that Bran felt anything other than a mild interest in her beyond the bounds of her ability to do her job.

“And he will send a force to rescue you. He has offered free drink for a fortnight to any volunteers, and has enough men to show the duke that he is a man—shape-shifter—not to be trifled with. He hoped I would find you so you would be prepared for his attack this evening.”

Millicent glanced at Nell, who appeared to be just as surprised by the message.

“Per’aps it’s a matter of pride,” said the old woman. “Fer it’s a foolish thing for Bran to go up against a sorcerer, even if he’s immune to the duke’s magic. Silver blades will cut him just as easily.”

“Whatever the reason,” replied Millicent, “we cannot accept his offer of rescue until we find out the duke’s plans for Gareth. But you, Nell. We should get you away from here.”

“And miss all the excitement? Ach, no, me gel, I’m staying right here with you and the knight.”

Millicent huffed. It did no good to argue with Nell if she had her mind made up. She glanced back at Ambrose, who kept gazing at the large bottle of brandy with lovesick eyes.

“Ambrose.”

He ignored her.

“Nell, fetch a thimble for him, will you? He’s liable to swoon again.”

Iridescent wings twitched. “I never swoon, madam. Lose my equilibrium, perhaps. But never swoon.”

Nell fetched a thimble from Millicent’s sewing supplies and carefully poured a drop into the makeshift tankard, and handed it to the little man. He downed the contents faster than any of the patrons of the Swill and Seelie, causing her and Nell to gape at him in admiration.

“Quality brew,” he said, wiping his mouth on a well-stained sleeve, and looked up at Millicent with a renewed sparkle in his large brown eyes. “Now then, where were we?”

“I want you to return with a message to Bran. Tell him I have… unfinished business with the duke. Tell him to wait for a message from me to move. Then you come back here, so I can send him to you when it’s time.”

Those pointy brows furrowed. “There appears to be more afoot here than just a simple kidnapping. My services do not come cheap, my dear, and I would rather not involve myself in anything… too dangerous.”

“You may avail yourself of the entire cabinet.”

His gaze riveted on the sparkling bottles and their contents. “I daresay, that is rather generous—”

“As long as you can manage to fly with my message when the time comes,” added Millicent.

“Madam. I assure you, I have never been unable to fly. I may wobble a bit—”