He went back to his desk and sat down, instantly losing himself in thought.
Serafina
gave him one last hard look, then opened the book and started turning the well-worn pages. Aiden had clearly read the book time and time again, and she soon could see why, for the subject matter was fascinating. The pages were adorned with beautiful copperplate illustrations, the history beginning with the Bronze Age vessels that had traveled the Mediterranean three thousand years before in the time of Odysseus. It described the ancient coastal cities they visited, the trade routes they followed, the cargo they carried.
She carefully flipped through the pages, interested not so much in the shipping aspects of the history, but by the carefully outlined details of the development of various civilizations—Greek, Roman, Italian, Arabic, they were all covered. She’d never realized how intertwined they were, how often countries had changed hands. By the time she’d reached the section on the Byzantine Empire she was enthralled.
And then her hand froze as she turned another page, and she stared, not believing her eyes. She looked again, harder, sure she had to be seeing things. For there on the page was an illustration of a city she had seen time and time again, but only in her dreams.
Kyrenia, the caption read. One of the more important Greek city-states during the Byzantine Empire, owing to its rights to the huge timber forests so necessary for shipbuilding.
A city climbed up a hill, crowned by a castle, the sea glittering behind it.
Serafina’s fingers tightened painfully on the edges of the book as her heart started to pound furiously. She could hardly focus through her shock, but she forced herself to read the text.
The island of Cyprus, one of the earliest centers of Christianity, was particularly important to the Byzantine Empire at this time as a direct result of its strategic location to Syria, Palestine, Egypt, and Anatolia. During the 7th and 8th centuries it was often used as a springboard for attacks launched by both Islam and Constantinople against each other, the island suffering constant Arab invasions as a result. However, the kings of Cyprus continued to maintain their own hierarchy throughout this period of turmoil, which ended only in 965 when the emperor Nicephorus II Phorus finally delivered the island from Arab attacks. However, the port of Famagusta, located on the south side of the island, held exclusive harbor rights owing to its fortuitous positioning, a source of continuous conflict between the kings of Kyrenia and Famagusta. This was to be the cause of great tragedy for the island.
Serafina
passed a hand over her eyes, fighting waves of dizziness. A conversation echoed in her head, dimly recalled through the pounding in her
head …
I thank God that this city-state is located in an inconvenient position for raiding—look at what Famagusta has had to endure, being a direct target on the southern side…
It had been Adam speaking, the night of their wedding feast, she remembered now.
Do you mean my mother’s resentment of the killing harbor fees that the king imposes on every ship going out and coming in? If I had the principal port on the island I would probably do the same … Famagusta has a stranglehold over us and we’d be unwise to object to their policy. We learned that lesson twenty years ago.
Kyrenia. She remembered the name, Adam speaking that too.
All of Kyrenia has turned out for our wedding party …
Something to do with Adam’s mother—and Michael. A man called Michael
Angelus,
Adam’s dearest friend. Something … And then she remembered. A premonition of disaster.
Serafina
covered her face with her hands and gave a low moan. The book slid to the floor with a dull thump.
“Sweetheart?
Serafina?
What is it?” Aiden’s hands on her shoulders, his voice alarmed. “You’re pale as a ghost.”
She looked up at him, his face swimming before her eyes. “Aiden,” she gasped, drawing in air, trying to retain a grip on reality. Aiden. It was Aiden. There was no Adam. There couldn’t be; she’d only dreamed him. He was a figment of her imagination—this was all a figment of her imagination. Kyrenia, Famagusta, Arab raids, all the stuff of dreams. And yet images swam before her eyes, images of chaos and people crying out, fleeing from a city in flames. “I—I can’t breathe,” she choked, feeling suffocated. Smoke. Smoke filling her lungs. “I can’t breathe.”
He quickly scooped her up in his arms, holding her as easily as if she were a child. “It will be all right, sweetheart,” he murmured, but his voice held deep concern. “You must be exhausted—I kept you up most of the night. I’ll take you upstairs.”
She pressed her face hard against his shoulder, her body trembling uncontrollably as she tried desperately to shut out the terrible images of people dying, being slaughtered in the streets, blood flowing, deep red rivers of blood.
“
Your father. Tell your father—”
“Don’t worry about him. He won’t mind if you miss dinner. You need to rest…” The words came faintly through a mist. She struggled to say something else, to give a warning.
And then blackness mercifully engulfed her and she saw no more.
Serafina
woke to moonlight streaming through the window. She didn’t know how much time had gone by. Aiden was nowhere in sight, although a chair had been pulled up next to the bed. She sat
up,
one hand pressed against her temple, trying to orient herself. She knew she’d fainted again, but this time she hadn’t had any wine, so she couldn’t blame it on that. The last thing she remembered was being in Aiden’s study, reading a history book. And—and then something had happened, something alarming.
She drew in a sharp breath as memory returned in a rush. She’d seen the illustration—that was
it,
the illustration of a city-state called Kyrenia. And text had filled the page, text that mentioned places, names, and events she’d been sure she’d invented.
A chill of fear ran down her spine and she buried her face in her hands, so confused she could hardly think. Was it
possible,
remotely possible that she hadn’t made these things up? But how could she have known of them? She’d never heard of an island called Cyprus—had she?
She frowned in concentration, trying to remember if perhaps her father had spoken of it during one of his history lessons. And yet she couldn’t recall his ever touching on that part of the world. Maybe she’d read about it somewhere else and simply forgotten, the information seeping back in a dream state. That was the only explanation she could think of.
But something else tugged at the back of her mind, something insistent, like a whisper she couldn’t quite hear.
Time will run back … time will run back…
She slipped out of bed, desperately needing to be outside where she could think,
breathe,
be close to the goddess. Maybe she could help
Serafina,
offer her comfort, for Serafina’s deepest fear, one that appeared more possible by the moment, was that she might not be in her right mind.
Throwing a shawl over her nightdress, she crept out of the house by the back way, careful to avoid being seen. She didn’t want to be caught and forced back to bed as if she were sick, for that was surely the conclusion Aiden must have reached. He certainly couldn’t have divined the truth, that once again she had lost her grip on reality. That was all Aiden needed—an insane wife. She wrapped her arms around her midriff, telling herself that she couldn’t be crazy, she just couldn’t be.
Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest like a frightened, caged bird and she started to run, as if she could escape the terror that tore at her.
The grass felt cool and damp under her bare feet as she raced toward the bridge and the hill that would take her up to the huge old oak tree, the place of sanctity and shelter that she sought out whenever she was troubled.
The oak tree stood proud and tall, fully leafed out now, moonlight catching in its massive branches, casting deep shadows on the ground.
Serafina
took a deep breath and released it, then threw off her shawl and knelt at the foot of the oak, her body trembling all over as she reached her hands out and touched the trunk with her fingertips.
“Gracious goddess,” she whispered. “You who are the queen of the gods, the lamp of night, the creator of all that is wild and free; mother of woman and man; lover of the horned god and protectress of all the Wicca: descend, I pray, with your lunar ray of power upon my circle here!”
She bowed her head. “Oh, mother, help me? Please—I’m so lost, so confused. I don’t know what is real anymore.” Her voice caught on a sob. “I thought I understood, I truly did. I gave up the false dream to accept my true destiny, to love Aiden, for in your wisdom you gave me to him. But now I know nothing but that I do love Aiden. And I’m so afraid of what is happening to me.” Her shoulders began to shake, and her tears flowed hot down her cheeks as she poured out all her fear and confusion. “Am I mad?” she cried. “Why else is this happening to me? Oh, blessed mother, nothing makes sense anymore! I feel so alone…”
She wept until she had no tears left, until she was no more than an empty vessel, not even
Serafina
anymore, but a soul lost and adrift with no safe harbor to anchor in.
It was then that she heard the voice, clear and high, coming all around her, as real as any voice she had ever heard.
“Be still, beloved, and be of good heart, for you walk the path of truth.”
Serafina
lifted her head in wonder. “Mother?” she whispered. “Is it you?”
“It is I who speaks to you through the ages, who guides and nurtures you always,” the voice intoned. “I give you no burden that you cannot bear, I offer you no knowledge you cannot endure. Seek the truth, my child. Seek the truth and know that it is I who brings it. Follow your heart. Always follow your heart and the truth will reveal itself…”
The voice faded, becoming nothing more than the sound of the wind blowing gently around her.
Serafina
shakily wiped her eyes, then stood, her heart suffused with joy. She had not been deserted after all. She knew all would be well. She had been blessed.
The goddess had answered her prayers.
“W
hat in the name of God?” Aiden took in the empty bed, the empty room, a thrill of alarm running through him. He’d only gone downstairs for fifteen minutes to have a quick bite to eat, and
Serafina
had vanished. He was worried enough about her—this was the second time she’d fainted since he’d been married to her.
The highly unpleasant thought occurred to him that maybe Elspeth had been dosing her as well, but with something other than wine. It was the only explanation he could think of.
He looked next door, then tore downstairs, but she was nowhere to be found, and none of the servants had seen her.
“Excuse me, Father, Lottie. A word alone with you, Miss Beaton,” he demanded, striding into the drawing room where Elspeth was playing her nightly chess game.
“Don’t you cheat and move my bishop,” Elspeth said, looking over her shoulder at Lord Delaware as Aiden took her by the arm and practically dragged her out of the drawing room. “What’s your rush, boy?” she snapped, shaking his hand off as they reached the hall.
“What have you been giving
Serafina?”
he hissed.
“What are you talking about?” she said, glaring at him with annoyance.
“I know I said
Serafina
didn’t come down for dinner because she was tired, but she fainted tonight, Miss Beaton, and it’s not the first time.”
“Nonsense,” Elspeth said. “Like myself, Serafina’s health has always been perfect. You probably wore her out.” She sniggered. “Told you the potion worked.”
“Enough!” he roared. “Have you or have you not been feeding my wife some of your poison?”
“Certainly not,” Elspeth said indignantly. “The dear girl has no need of it, unlike
some
I know. I told you, she’s more than likely exhausted and that’s nobody’s fault but your own.”
“If she’s so exhausted, then I’d like to know why she’s left her bed and why I can’t find her anywhere in the house.”
“How am I supposed to know?” Elspeth said with a shrug. “She’s free to come and go as she pleases, isn’t she? What do you think, you can chain her to your bed now that you’ve finally managed to consummate your marriage?”
Aiden wanted to throttle her. “Never mind,” he said. “Never mind. You answered my question.”
“Good, then I can return to my game. I’m about to beat your father for the fourth time straight. If your wife’s disappeared, that’s your business, and you’d better busy yourself with finding her.” She turned and marched back into the drawing room.
Aiden muttered a string of curses under his breath, then stalked back upstairs to their bedroom, concern growing by the minute. He tore off his jacket and neckcloth and went to the window, looking out into the warm, moon-washed night.
Tinkerby came in behind him. “No sign of her, my lord,” he said. “I looked in Miss Elspeth’s quarters just to be sure. Can’t think what got into her ladyship to disappear like this. She’s usually a reliable girl.” He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and bent his head in thought. “Mayhaps she went out to sing one of her songs,” he said after a moment. “It is Midsummer, after all.”
Aiden’s head shot up. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, looking over his shoulder.
“I told you, it’s Midsummer,” Tinkerby said, as if that explained everything. “It’s one of them pagan high days or something.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Aiden said in frustration, then frowned as a perfectly dreadful idea seized hold. “Oh, God—
please
don’t tell me she’s a bloody witch like her blasted aunt.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Tinkerby? The truth, please, and I’d like it now.”
“She’s not exactly a witch, my lord,” Tinkerby said, shifting his weight to his other foot, looking extremely uncomfortable. “She’s just picked up a bit here and there from her aunt, but she doesn’t practice magic or anything—or at least I don’t think she does.”
“Oh, this is bloody marvelous,” he spat out, picturing his wife flapping around on a broomstick next to her aunt. “She’s not
exactly
a witch? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that she’s a little paganish, if you know what I mean,” Tinkerby said, rubbing one large ear. “She likes to go on about gods and goddesses, that sort of thing. And she goes out and sings to them.”
“She sings to them. I see. Of course she does,” he said, covering his eyes with one hand. “And where does she do this singing, exactly? Obviously not in the kitchen with the rest of us, since the only songs I’ve ever heard come out of her mouth have been perfectly respectable hymns.”
“I’ve often seen her go up to that big oak tree on the other side of the river. Of course at Clwydd it was the cliffs, but you don’t have any of those here, so I suppose a tree has to do.”
“This is just splendid,” Aiden muttered. “My wife is singing songs to a tree. All right, I’d better go and fetch her back before she catches her death.”
He set off across the lawns at a quick pace and crossed the river, thinking he really had married a wood nymph after all. He ought to have realized after their absurd conversation in his study that she had some peculiar notions, but it had never crossed his mind that Elspeth had managed to stuff her brain full of nonsense so successfully.
He took the hill easily in long strides, the half-moon lighting his way, not that he needed it. The path was as familiar to him as the back of his hand, trod daily in childhood, although other than his wedding day he hadn’t been up here in a long time.
He understood why
Serafina
had chosen this spot—it was a place for dreaming, for spinning fantasies. He knew. He’d done enough of that in his own time, although thank God he’d outgrown the habit.
Serafina,
apparently, hadn’t. But then that came as no real surprise, given her penchant for weaving fairy tales about princes and true love.
He supposed he should be grateful that she’d managed to come around to the idea of a real-life husband, even if he couldn’t make her dream come true. She certainly seemed receptive to what he could give her, given her enthusiastic response to lovemaking, and that had gratified him enormously. He couldn’t remember a finer night of passion, and he wasn’t about to miss another, especially if
Serafina
was restored enough to go flying off to practice pagan rituals by the light of the moon.
He reached the crest of the hill where the land flattened out to form a meadow. And stopped dead in his tracks, drawing in a sharp breath of wonder at the sight before him.
Serafina
stood at the edge of the pond, bathed in moonlight, her long dark hair streaming down her back, the white cambric of her nightgown blowing about her slender ankles. The ancient oak framed her with its branches, a fitting backdrop for a wood nymph. She’d raised her arms above her head, the palms outstretched, her face lifted toward the starry heavens as she sang, her pure high voice soaring in a slow, haunting melody he’d never heard but which stirred his very soul with its ethereal beauty.
“O gracious goddess,
O
gracious god,
on this night of Midsummer magic
I pray that you charge my life with
wonder and joy. Help me in attuning with
the energies
adrift
on the enchanted night air.
I give thanks.”
He watched spellbound as she began to dance, her voice still soaring in the plaintive notes, but now without words. She moved effortlessly in circles, her bare feet skimming the grass as her lithe body gracefully undulated to the eerie music, a true queen of the fairies.
He felt as if he was caught in the spell of the sirens, listening to the Pythagorean music of the heavenly spheres, a moment outside of time in which loneliness was forever banished, where nothing existed but
Serafina
and himself, the heavens above and the earth below. He felt as if they had always been here in this place, as if a shower of starlight had cascaded down over them, obscuring everything else.
Time will run back and fetch the age of gold…
Aiden shook his head, passing a hand over his eyes as if he could bring himself back to his senses, but they had slipped from his grasp. It was this that was real, his other
life
no more than a vague shadow, nearly forgotten.
Serafina
and her song, they were the only reality in this unearthly place.
He walked toward her slowly as if in a dream, his feet moving of their own accord, one hand outstretched.
Serafina
slowed, then stilled, her song dying in her throat as she sensed his presence and turned.
She did nothing, said nothing, just gazed at him with her wide dreamy eyes, eyes that seemed to reflect the moon itself, her arms loosely held by her side. And then she smiled.
It nearly undid him, that smile, so full of mystery and promise. She might have been the goddess herself, calling to him through the ageless past as her hands stretched out toward him, inviting.
Two swans, one white, one black, floated soundlessly and unconcerned on the still surface of the pond as he skirted its edge.
Serafina
stood equally soundless, the silence of the night broken only by the sighing of the wind and the distant call of a nightingale. Waiting. Waiting for him.
He reached her, could hear the soft sound of her breathing. His hands moved into her hair, twining in its thick silky depths. His mouth came down on hers, tasting, seeking more as his tongue delved into its sweet warm recess.
Dewdrops,
he thought through the thick haze in his head, and yet he’d never felt so clearheaded in his life.
Dewdrops and flowers.
He greedily drank more like a bee seeking sweet nectar, and she gave it to him readily, her breath coming hard and fast in her throat, her pulse fluttering rapidly under his fingertips as she answered his kiss fully, her tongue tangling with his in passionate response.
His arms moved around her, drawing her fragile body close, his hands exploring her curves, running over her finely made bones. He reveled in her heady, musky fragrance that smelled of the earth itself, his heart pounding painfully in need. He couldn’t think, could barely breathe, could only revel in the feel of her soft, sweet body pressed against his, could only sweep the thin layer of cloth up over her hips, his hands seeking her bare flesh, so soft, so smooth. He cupped her buttocks and pulled her hard against his erection, wanting her to feel the intensity of his desire for her, the force of his need.
She shuddered in response, her fingers tugging at his clothes, and he impatiently pulled at his shirt, unbuttoning it with no care. Her hands slipped inside the open material, smoothing over his burning flesh, pushing the linen off his shoulders and arms, raising her face for his kiss as sweet whimpers came from her throat, driving him into a frenzy of excitement.
He took her mouth hard, driving his tongue into its warm cavity, wanting to claim every part of her for his own, his hands wandering restlessly over her back, bunching her nightdress in his fingers. Impatiently he raised his head long enough to pull the shift over her head and tossed it to one side, lowering her to the grass, coming over her with his body, pressing her back into the cool earth.
So beautiful … so perfect,
he thought as he bent his head to one high, round breast, the nipple such a delicate pink, already erect for him. He drew it into his mouth, tasting, pulling, reveling in her little cries, in the way she twisted under him, her hips pressing against his, one leg twining over the back of his thighs, then the other.
He groaned at the contact, wanting her so badly he felt he might come apart with need. Quickly sitting
up,
he jerked off his boots, then stripped his trousers away, never taking his eyes from her as she lay in the grass with her arms over her head, watching him steadily with her luminescent eyes, her lips slightly parted, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts the only movement she made.
Aiden had never seen anything so breathtaking in his life. He was humbled beyond measure by her beauty, intoxicated by her primal femininity. He felt like a god coming to his goddess, a goddess who lay fertile, filled with abundance, waiting only for him to sow his seed in her. He felt like the wind, like lightning and thunder and lashing rain, all the elements unleashed in the glorious storm of passion that swirled in him.
He came back down to her, stroking her soft hair, running his mouth over her forehead, her cheeks, gently biting her chin, moving up to her generous mouth and covering it in a long, deep kiss as one hand sought and found the downy curls at the apex of her thighs. She gasped under his mouth, parting her legs to give him fuller access, and he slid his fingers between her wet silky folds, so ripe, so ready for him. She arched beneath his touch, moaned as he circled her hard little nub, cried out as he dipped his fingers into her soft woman’s flesh, so mysterious, so tantalizing. She was full of dewdrops there, too, was overflowing with them.
He couldn’t help himself—he had to know how she tasted. He shifted his weight, sliding down until his head was at a level with her hips, then shaped her thighs with his hands, lifting her knees and lowering his head, running his tongue over her plump lips, sliding between and stroking, teasing, until her soft cries filled the night. She tasted of sunshine and earth, of flowers and rainfall, had an effect on him like the headiest of wine.