The Secret Swan Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  “Stay with me”

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Don’t miss any of these enchanting novels from Shana Abé

  About the Author

  Also by Shana Abé

  Copyright

  For Darren,

  who works very hard and still agrees

  to take in the occasional stray bunny.

  Everlasting appreciation also to

  Ruth Kagle and Wendy McCurdy,

  who offered splendid counsel;

  and of course to Dad and Mom

  and the rest of the family,

  just because.

  “Stay with me”

  He was brooding handsome, feral intensity. She understood then that here was not the man she knew—he had gone past some inner edge, past a point she could not know or even guess at.

  She did not see love on him. She saw danger, and her destruction.

  “No.”

  “Too late to deny it. You care for me too. I think it so. I saw you in the bailey. I saw your face.”

  “No.” She shook her head again, taking another step away.

  “Lily…” He smiled at her, that subtle grace, and the wicked curve to his lips came back, the promise of pleasure there, of heartless intent. He moved toward her, tall, stealthy, almost a threat draped across him. She glanced frantically around the room and saw no comfort—shut doors, a looming bed. A castle beyond, filled with people ready to betray her.

  He caught her then, easily, almost gently, caught her up in his arms and kept her there despite her startled jerk. His head dipped down to hers.

  “No!” She could not think, she could not breathe—this could not be happening, his words, her feelings—he was killing her, he would kill her with this, she could not feel this way for him again—

  “Too late,” Tristan said once more. He kissed her then, drowning her in him, tasting her, a ravishment, all gentleness gone….

  Prologue

  Safere Manor

  1349

  THE LATCH TO THE GATE CAME OFF IN HIS HAND.

  Tristan stared down at it in some surprise, speckles of rust dotting his skin like dried blood. The soldered seam meant to hold it in place had corroded through; he was damned lucky he hadn’t cut himself on any of the flaking metal. No doubt the result of the sea air in this god-forsaken place.

  He remembered now. Nothing lasted here.

  Carefully Tristan dropped the ruined latch to the gravel beside him.

  The gate itself did not appear much more promising. One half of the barred grille hung at a drunken tilt against the other, offering paltry defense against anyone who actually wished to enter the estate.

  It made him want to laugh suddenly. Who would truly want to come here, after all? Safere was the outermost edge of the world—far, far past any prayer of civilization. Only the banished or the insane dwelled here, surely.

  The thought was so particularly apt that he did laugh now, low and mirthless, but the wind merely snatched it away from him. It pushed up off the ocean nearby, a steady tearing at his hair, his skin, drying his eyes to grit. On the journey here Tristan had found himself constantly squinting against the gusts to discern the land around him, as if that might clarify matters. It had not.

  He cupped a hand to his mouth and called out a greeting past the iron bars. It faded off against the bare walls of the buildings beyond. No one responded.

  Perhaps there was no one here, after all. Perhaps Safere was as deserted as it appeared to be. He could not fathom why anyone would want to stay here, anyway.

  If ever a land was rocky and formidable, it was this place. Whichever of his esteemed ancestors had claimed this seaside territory obviously had not been bothered by the lack of greenery. Perched on its lonely outcrop of rock overlooking the ocean, Safere seemed better suited for a prison than a stronghold: barren, remote, breath-takingly desolate. The water was a steady roar against the cliffs below. The wind never ceased.

  He fancied he could hear words in it now—a thin, berating wail that wrapped around him, relentless.

  She’s gone…they’re all gone…shame…shame….

  He gave the gate vicious kick. The broken half shuddered in place. The other half did not move at all.

  Tristan did not like Safere; he never had. Even now, in the peak of summer, vegetation was rare and trees rarer still. The farther he had ridden to it, the less and less hospitable the land became. Dirt paths, endless and winding. Pale tufts of grass struggling for life. Faraway birds, tangling into fantastic shapes amid the blue of the sky, dark against white clouds….

  But mostly there were rocks. White rocks, golden rocks, even ones tinted pink, which he decided were his favorite. The pink ones did something with the light, a trick of dusk and dawn, capturing the color to create a glow, suffusing the very air around them with warmth. Yes, the pink ones were—

  Tristan caught himself with a mental shake, and turned back to the problem of the gate.

  He might be able to squeeze through near the bottom of it. The gap from the angle of the disjointed half was just enough that he could make it, with a good bit of crawling. He would have to leave his horse behind.

  Wonderful. The Earl of Haverlocke crawling back to his wife. What a pretty sight that would be. And nothing less than he deserved.

  It was the reproving wind, perhaps, that made Tristan straighten, glancing around him again. Many might laugh at the sight of him on his hands and knees in the dirt, but it would not be the ghosts of this place. There had to be another way in. He thought he remembered a garden gate somewhere….

  He took the reins of the gelded brown rounsey and began to walk around the walls that enclosed the estate. From here he could see the top portion of the manor house, stone and wood, bleached with sunlight. No banner flew to welcome him home. In fact, he couldn’t even see the staff for it. The edges of the roof dipped and curved in places it was not supposed to; a few of those shadows might have been gaps in the beams. If the main house was as dismally neglected as the gate had been, he supposed he might be fortunate to find shelter at all tonight.

  On the far side of the stronghold the salted rock wall came perilously close to the edge of the cliff, eroded away under the constant assault of the elements. He kept the reins of his horse firmly grasped in one hand, allowing the other to slide along the rough stones of the wall—a thin illusion of security. It would not help if either of them stumbled, but the feel of something solid beneath his palm gave him some comfort.

  The gelding snorted and tossed his head against the wind. Tristan pulled him on.

  Nothing. No garden gate—only this long, unbroken expanse of wall, stretching on and on. How ridiculous to imagine there might have been another gate. He must have been thinking of one of the other estates. Merlyff, perhaps. Or Layton. They were all mixed up in his head now, indistinguishable. Mayhap none of them had a garden, or a gate. Another fantasy, whirled up out of nothingness.

  The wretched portal of the entrance loomed before him once again. Full circle, Tristan thought, and for some reason the phrase stuck in his head.

  With a sigh he approached the gate, releasing the reins, grasping the rusted metal of the broken half and lifting wi
th all his might. He was rewarded with a hideous squealing sound, the hinges protesting this rough handling. After a long while and a great deal of sweating effort, the gap was wide enough to fit through without crawling.

  He dropped the gate, panting, and absently wiped his hands down the front of his tunic. Rust left smudges of darkness against the gray of it. He had no gloves.

  Tristan entered his estate.

  Once inside the walls, the howling of the wind was drastically reduced, a sudden respite that rang in his ears, close to pain.

  No one came to greet him. There was only more dirt before him, and buildings and sky.

  He took a deep breath, then called out again—and again he gained no response beyond the mournful cry of the wind.

  Shame, shame…

  An ungentle push from behind reminded him of his horse. The gelding had followed him in and now stood impatiently, tossing his head once more.

  Yes. Tristan had stolen a mount—he should not have forgotten that. The horse would be hungry. He must see about feeding him. The stables must still be here somewhere.

  Safere was fairly sizable, for an enclosed estate. The manor itself took up most of it, along with a modest, neat garden—no gate—growing along one of the walls. Here at last were living plants, herbs and vegetables, even a scattering of flowers near the back, a decent effort against the thin soil. He supposed it was some sign of hope that there might be more than just ghosts in this place.

  Thankfully, he did not have to remember where the stables were. There was only one other structure of any significance on the grounds, and at first glance it appeared as abandoned as everything else. He found a reasonably clean stall and led the rounsey into it, then had to stop and think about what he must do next.

  Hay. Water. Oats, if he could find them.

  A rustling sound came from nearby. The delicate head of a bay topped the door of the stall opposite, eyeing him suspiciously.

  When he was finished with his horse Tristan got a closer look at the other one. It was a mare, a sweetly formed thing, really, with clean lines and a shining flank. One more hopeful sign.

  He left the animals examining each other with trembling hostility, walking back out into the bright sunshine of the day.

  “Amiranth?”

  No one answered him. There was no one here. Not a serf, not a servant. Certainly not her. He had come to the end of the world and found it just as he had left it so long ago—forgotten.

  But the thought of seeing her again after so long apart kept him moving, listening, looking. His wife was the only reason he had managed to come so far. She was the only reason he was still alive at all. He had planned this reunion countless times in his mind. What he would say. How she would turn to him—astonished, amazed—and then laugh with pure joy, lifting her hands to him—

  A small noise in the distance caught his attention. Tristan swung around, startled. It might have come from the depths of the manor. Aye. He went toward it.

  The interior of this place was darker than he recalled, cool and musty. A dim hallway of stone and wood paneling stretched out before him, closed doors on both sides. He had to pause to allow his eyes to adjust, until the shadows lightened from black to soft charcoal. The scent of something that might have been beeswax lingered faintly in the air. But the only sound to be heard now was his own breathing, and the occasional creaking of the wood beams above him.

  Tristan ventured deeper inside.

  One by one he opened the doors, taking care to throw frequent glances over his shoulder—was he truly alone? Was there truly no one else here? No one had followed him, he had made certain of that. No one would be able to trace him here, surely, to this lonely bit of earth….

  There was never anyone behind him; Safere echoed with emptiness. All he found, in fact, in this soulless place were deserted chambers and scattered furniture covered in a fine layer of dust. Ashes in the fireplaces, long cold. Windows encrusted with dirt. Every single thing spoke of abandonment.

  As he walked he tried to envision her living here, how her life would have been. He knew, logically, that he had hardly a chance to know her before he left. But in his mind she had blossomed over the years, all her secrets revealed; in time his unfamiliar wife had become as familiar to Tristan as he himself.

  So he knew that she would have endured the wind and the heat of this place with tender patience. She might have even thrived amid it, that fair-haired girl with the shy smile….

  Another chamber, more dust, the creaking silence, phantom cobwebs suspended all around.

  Aye, Tristan decided abruptly, closing his eyes against the sight. She had liked it here. She would have liked it. He had to believe that. And soon he would find her, and Amiranth would welcome him home, and once in her arms finally all would be right in the world. She would forgive him their past. She would accept him anew, and with her help he would become whole once more. He would never have to be apart from her again. They would have the rest of their days to truly learn each other.

  In a new room he discovered his first small clue to her life, an elegant little tableau set up: a pair of chairs brought close around a low table of polished wood, the empty hearth just beyond. The edges of a wooden screen closed off a corner of it, creating intimacy. A length of embroidery lay askew across the seat of the chair closest to him, needle and thread placed neatly on top, as if the seamstress meant to return at any moment.

  Tristan picked up the cloth—a dreamlike scene of the night sky and stars, a swan on a moonlit lake—then shook it. Dust erupted around him in a cloud, clogging his senses. He gave a rough cough, tossing the lot of it back to the chair.

  The needle dropped from the side and swung gently back and forth, bright silver suspended by a sapphire thread.

  Had his wife begun this piece? What would have caused her to discard it so nearly completed, forsaken to the mustiness of this room?

  He felt a chill and shook it off, continuing his exploration.

  She would be here. She would be.

  There was food in the buttery. That had to be good. Not much, granted: some bread and cheese, flour, roots, dried fruits and herbs—from the garden, he guessed. Certainly not enough to feed all the people who should be dwelling here…but enough for a few people, for a while.

  Again came that elusive noise, outside now, just past the kitchen door. Yet when he walked back into the sunshine there was nothing there—only the dirt of before, an empty sky, the mocking wind. Tristan closed his eyes once more and let out his breath, setting his teeth.

  Alone, alone again. She was not here, no one was. Perhaps she never had been. Perhaps he was not even married at all—it had all been just another dream of his, a delusion conjured up by his mind, that girl, the soft touch of her hand, the sweetness of her lips—

  No. It had to have happened. It had to have been real. He had kept her close to him every miserable day of the past eight years, had gone over and over his memories of her until each small moment was burned deep into his heart…even after he could no longer remember her face. Even after the pitch of her voice had faded from his mind, surrendered to the hungry silence of his cell.

  Through it all, Amiranth had kept him sane. Tristan had sworn by every oath he knew that if he could just come home again, he would be worthy of her. He would change completely, he would be the best, the most devoted husband. He would make her glad every day for the rest of her life that she had wed him. By God, he would.

  She was real, and somewhere, he knew, she was waiting for him. If not here, then at another estate. He would find her. It didn’t have to be this place, empty Safere….

  But when Tristan rounded the next corner he discovered that he had been mistaken; Safere was not so empty after all. At the foot of a new garden was a statue of a marble girl seated upon a marble bench, posed to stare out thoughtfully at the few trees and bushes pressed up against the outer wall.

  At first he didn’t understand what he was seeing. A marble girl on a marble ben
ch…but she wore a black gown that rippled in the breeze. Why had they clothed a statue? Why was her hair so golden?

  The marble girl turned her face and gazed back at him, still thoughtful.

  Tristan Geraint, Earl of Haverlocke, stopped in sheer surprise.

  The woman—not a girl, and not marble, but flesh—quickly stood, taking a step away.

  “No—wait.” Tristan held out his hands, his palms streaked with rust. “I won’t harm you.” He scanned the area around them, seeing nothing but more of the garden, the pale stone walls beyond that. She was the only sign of life, this figure of gold and white and black.

  “Amiranth?” he asked, but did not think it was she.

  This woman’s hair was darker than he remembered his wife’s to be, more of a honeyed blonde than the silvery curls that young girl had had. She wore it loose and free—strange for a grown woman to reveal her hair so openly—but Tristan would not regret the sight of it, not when it shimmered in the sunlight as it did, shades of amber and burnished gold, richly layered.

  She had not run away, but her hands had come up to shield her eyes from the bright sun; he saw only full lips stained red, like the sunset, and a sweetly curved chin. Long, elegant neck. The tail end of the wind slipped over the wall, pressing back the shadowed black of her gown, revealing a slender shape in teasing glimpses.

  If God had placed a desert flower amid this vast emptiness, it could not have looked more out of place than this woman did.

  He asked again anyway, “Amiranth St. Cl—Geraint?”

  The woman slowly shook her head in denial, allowing the sunlight to send sparks weaving through her hair. Tristan fought a sharp disappointment. She was not Amiranth. He had battled back from hell itself only to find the wrong woman.

  A new thought came to him: This could be her servant. A handmaid, perhaps.

  “Where is she?” he asked, taking another step forward. The woman did not back away this time, but to reassure her he added in a calm voice, “I am her husband. You may direct me to her.”

  The handmaiden lowered her hands, not even blinking against the sun. She was undeniably familiar. He might have seen her at the wedding, all those years ago….