Amanda Ashley - Midnight Pleasures

She touched everything she saw. Several long tables and benches lined two walls. All were covered with a fine layer of dust. She trailed her finger over one of the tables, leaving a clean streak behind.

" 'Tis a great deal of work to be done," she remarked.

She paused at the great stone hearth and stared up at the sword that hung above the mantel. It was a large, heavy weapon. The hilt was set with sapphires and emeralds that winked a bright blue and green in the candlelight.

"Is that his sword, do you think?" she mused. "Looks very sharp."

Leaving the hall, they went into the solarium. There were a myriad of flowers and other plants growing there and she touched them all, stopping to smell the flowers, marveling at the silky feel of one of the blossoms, amazed that there were flowers at all when winter winds blew.

"Do you think he knows the names of all these flowers?" she wondered aloud. She stooped to smell a delicate bloom.

The next room was filled with books, more books than she had ever dreamed existed in all the world. Shelves of books, of scrolls covered with strange lines and symbols. Surely it would take several lifetimes to read so many books.

She picked one up and turned the pages. The words meant nothing, but there were pictures on some of the pages—pictures of animals and plants and people. A storybook, perhaps.

They left the library and went into the kitchen and she studied the pots and pans, the knives, the placement of the dishes and cups in the cupboard, so she could better remember them tomorrow. She lifted the lid on the bread box, cut a thick slice from a loaf of crusty brown bread, and covered it with butter and honey.

"Hmm," she said. She looked down at the wolf as she licked a drop of honey from her lips. "Would you care for a taste?"

The wolf wagged his tail, so she broke off a corner of the bread and offered it to him. He took it gently from her hand, then licked the crumbs from her fingertips. The rough velvet of his tongue sent a shiver down her spine.

It was near dawn by the time she returned to her own chamber. Yawning, she climbed up on the big bed, then patted the mattress beside her.

With a low woof , the wolf leaped up beside her. "Oh, Magick, I wish you could stay with me always," she said wistfully. She slid under the covers, and the wolf stretched out beside her. "Are you really here?" she asked, her voice low and dreamy and sleep-edged. "Or am I just dreaming?"

Perhaps I am the one dreaming , the wolf thought as her breasts pressed against his back. Her arms wrapped around him and she rested her chin on the top of his head. If so, I hope I never awake .

He lay there, her warm body pressed against his own, feeling her fingers stroke his head. Eyes closed with pleasure, he remained at her side until sleep claimed her. And then, unable to resist, he took on his own shape, his body humming with desire as he felt her soft curves pressed against his back.

He stayed there, unmoving, until the torment grew unbearable. And then, muttering an oath, he left her bed without a backward glance.

He woke to the tantalizing aroma of sausage and fresh-baked biscuits. A word brought the fireplace to life, the flames quickly chasing the chill from the air.

He slid from his bed, naked, to stand before the hearth, all thought coming to a halt as the heavenly sound of Channa Leigh's voice filled the air. She sang a cheerful morning song, praising the God of heaven for the beauty of the new day, for home and family and friends.

Darkfest stood there, mesmerized by the pure, sweet notes, by the knowledge that, for the first time in hundreds of years, he was not alone in the house. A year, he thought. She would be here for only one year. And already one day was gone.

He closed his eyes, letting the music caress him, feeling it move over him and through him. He was startled to find himself smiling.

When the song ended, he pulled on a pair of woolen trousers, a heavy shirt, thick stockings, his boots. And then, wondering if she would tell him of her adventure with the wolf, he went downstairs.

Channa Leigh sensed his presence even before she heard his footsteps. Though she had never seen him, she knew he was a big man, tall and broad. His voice was rich and resonant; sometimes it seemed to reach deep down inside her.

His nearness, the way she trembled whenever he was close by, frightened her.

She heard the scrape of wood as he pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. Surely he didn't mean to eat in here, with her?

"My lord," she stammered, "if you will wait in the dining hall, I shall serve your meal."

He grunted softly. " 'Tis cold and drafty in that great dungeon of a room. I shall eat in here."

"Yes, my lord. Very well, my lord."

She filled a plate and placed it before him, along with a mug of black tea, then went to stand by the stove while he ate.

"Here now," he said gruffly. "Why are ye not eating?"

"I… I'll eat later."

"Cease this foolishness. Come, sit with me."

"My lord?"

"I wish yer company."

"But…"

"Do not argue with me, lass."

Biting down on her lower lip, she filled a plate for herself, walked carefully to the table, and sat down. She felt terribly self-conscious, sitting there, eating in front of him. It was one thing to eat with her parents. There were times, however few and far between, when she spilled a cup of milk or dropped food on the floor. At home, such incidents were of little consequence, but here…

Trying to be extra careful only made her clumsy and uncertain. To her horror, she misjudged the placement of her cup and knocked it over. Her cheeks burned with humiliation as she heard it hit the floor.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she said hastily. "I am not usually so clumsy."

She had started to stand up when she felt his hand on her arm, staying her.

" 'Tis nothing to fret over, Channa Leigh; 'tis only a bit of a spill." Rising, he took a clean mug from the shelf and poured her another cup of tea. Then, very gently, he placed the cup in her hand.

"Thank you, my lord," she said.

He shrugged; then, realizing she could not see him, he sat down, muttering, "Yer welcome."

It was the longest meal of her life. Once, he complimented her on her cooking. She murmured her thanks, pleased and embarrassed by his praise. She would have to take his word for the quality of the meal; she might have been eating dirt for all the notice she took of the food, so disconcerted was she by his nearness.

"Did ye sleep well?" he asked.

Channa Leigh nodded." 'Tis a very fine chamber, my lord. The painting on the ceiling is—" As soon as she realized what she'd said, she clapped her hand over her mouth. She was blind. How could she explain that she had seen the ceiling?

"Go on," he said quietly. "Tell me about the ceiling."

"I…"

"Yes?"

Her fingers worried a fold in her skirt. What should she say? If she told him about the wolf, would he believe her? She could scarcely believe it herself.

"I know about the wolf," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

"Do you? But how?"

"I am Darkfest," he said, a touch of arrogance in his tone. "I know all."

" 'Tis most amazing, my lord," Channa Leigh said, her excitement momentarily chasing away her awe at being in his presence. "When I touch him, I can see. Oh, my lord, 'tis a miracle."

"Aye," he agreed. "A miracle." And knew in that moment that he would not rest until he had found a way to cure Channa Leigh's blindness.

Later, alone in his workshop, he pored through his books, looking for a spell that would restore Channa Leigh's sight. Her lack of vision was not a sickness that he could absorb into himself or heal with a bit of magic, but the result of an accident sustained in childhood.