Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(9)

“Ho.” Pulling back on the reigns, she brought the horse to an abrupt stop at her favorite creek and jumped off. “Good boy, you liked that didn’t you?” Duke neighed in response, his head bobbed up and down. She pulled an apple out of her satchel and shared it with him.

Humming, she closed her eyes. Allowing her daydreams to take hold. Her dreams were all she had, for she was plagued by them. She was constantly falling asleep. The spells would never last a long time, but dreams always accompanied them. Ones with dancing and laughter, bright colors and teasing. And always his face. It was the only face she continued to remember after she tried so hard to forget.

And always in her dreams, he would pick her up in his arms and carry her to the dance floor. Wrapping his large arms around her, he would dance and dance. The music never ended. And Rosalind would laugh in his arms, relishing the feel of his strength. Admiring the beauty of his perfectly sculpted face.

Lost in her fantasy, Rosalind curtsied, held out her hand, and began twirling in circles. Flurries of snow swirled about her feet as she flew around and around. She hummed and then began singing.

****



“Do you hear that, Samson?” Stefan slowed his horse to a walk as he listened to the air. A voice echoed through the skies. Though soft, it was so blasted alluring that for a moment, Stefan wondered if his mother’s madness had caught up to him. Who would be out in this weather? And singing, nonetheless? Blindly, he led his horse in the direction of the heavenly music. As if sensing his urgency, Samsun trotted through the trees with ease, until they came up to a tiny creek.

“Hmm,” Stefan said aloud. “Well, we’ll just have to cross it. What do ya say, old boy? You up to it?”

The horse neighed in response. Carefully, Stefan guided the horse across the small stream. When they reached the other side, he dismounted and led Samson through the thick brush of trees.

“Have I found you? The one who makes me sing? Once upon a midnight dream….”

The voice haunted him, chilled him to his core, for he couldn’t help but selfishly want this song to be about him. And the voice behind it. So clear, perfect. An angel from heaven.

Shocked about his physical reaction to something so simple, he cursed himself and moved closer towards the voice.

“As I lay me down to sleep, my midnight dream I know will keep. The stars in your eyes tell me what your heart is afraid to say. That while I wait for my prince, he will one day say…”

What urgency possessed him, Stefan did not know. All he knew was he needed to see the identity of this person. For his own sanity, he needed one glimpse. Starved, abandoning all sense, he finally reached the clearing. And swore.

It was her.

Lady Rosalind, dancing in reckless abandon, sans any sort of head covering. Her glorious red hair dangled past her waist. Her arms were held high above her head as she twirled and sang.

Stefan felt as if someone had punched him, and then added a heavy kick for good measure. Air, it seemed, whooshed out of his lungs; it was suddenly hard to breathe and difficult for him to do anything except stare, slack-jawed, at the most beautiful sight his eyes ever had the opportunity to behold.

Closer—his body demanded he draw closer. He inched forward and motioned for Samson to be quiet. So maybe he was a trifle mad. He hadn’t been on that forsaken island that long; he knew horses could not speak. But he gave the signal, nonetheless, and dash it if that horse didn’t seem to be tiptoeing just as Stefan was.

At the clearing, he stood only a few feet from her. A nervous chill ran down his spine as he fell into the hypnotic trance of her swaying hips. And then she curtsied. As if some other gentleman was dancing with her. Jealous rage poured out of him until he realized she was bowing to her horse.

At least they had that in common—both talking to their horses as if they were people. His mother would probably attribute that to the curse as well. Samson nudged him in response, and he lost his careful footing causing him to stumble. A branch snapped beneath his boot.

Lady Rosalind froze and ever so slowly turned to face him.

“Blast.” He closed his eyes, willing himself to disappear; after all, he had just been caught staring at her like some daft fool.

“Your Grace?” Had her voice always been so husky, dripping with promises of seduction? His body warmed. “Is that you?”

Stefan stepped out of the shadows and into the blinding light of the clearing. He led Samson but kept his eyes focused on her. Not out of necessity or propriety, but because his eyes could do nothing else but stare. As if any other option was possible, considering the circumstances.

“My apologies, Lady Rosalind. I had no intention of spying. I heard your voice and followed.” Like an idiot.

An amused laugh bubbled behind the woman’s pouty pink lips. They were slightly parted, giving Stefan lustful thoughts about where he’d like to see that mouth placed. Those lips were created to give a man pleasure, to make him think about warm wet kisses and pleasures that he had no business to be entertaining. She shook her head. “Hmm, and how did you like the entertainment, Your Grace?”

He felt a slow seductive smile break across his face as he reached for her hand, his body again acting without his consent. Kneeling before her, he kissed her hand and rose. “The entertainments were delightful, though I was saddened to see you had no partner.” He lied through his teeth; sadness had nothing to do with the emotions he was feeling at the moment. More like raw desire and jealousy.