Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Clearly, he was in no mood to banter. She saw his countenance darken, and winced. And suddenly he approached her, and Rhiannon took a defensive step backward—not that she was afraid of him.

  Rather, it was that she no longer trusted herself in his presence. Having spent so much time alone together, playing Queen’s Chess, supping and drinking, sharing wit and words, she had by now developed very disturbing feelings for her gaoler—feelings that thoroughly confused her.

  In truth, Blackwood’s lord was ever gentle, showering her with gifts. And nevertheless, she remained a prisoner. No matter whether she be draped in scarlet, or that her bed was piled high with ermine, she could not for one minute afford to forget what he was: at best, an opportunist; at worst, a murderer—and perhaps even worse than that.

  And yet, when she should utterly despise him for aiding and abetting her mother, she found she could not. Instead, she suffered a pang of longing whenever he wasn’t near, and she loathed herself for the inexcusable weakness.

  Today, his eyes glinted strangely.

  “Is anyone truly free?” he asked, still assessing her. And then he came closer yet, and said, “With the absence of constraints should come great restraint; without it, the strong are said to enslave the weak. It is, as they say, a conundrum.”

  Rhiannon frowned. “Ever with the posturing, my lord! Make no mistake, I am not weak.” She lifted her right arm, proffering the right wrist, returning his canny smile. “At least, I would not be without these. Care to test me?”

  The familiar timbre of his laughter threatened to warm the cockles of her heart.

  “Alas,” he said, standing before her, so desperately close that he could have reached out to brush a wisp of hair from her face, as he ofttimes did. “There has never been aught about you I’ve found to be weak, Rhiannon. In fact, I have come to fear you will be my ruin.”

  “Your ruin?”

  Sweet fates. He must be jesting!

  “Aye,” he said, and Rhiannon took yet another step backward, unnerved by his proximity. “What do you want, Lord Blackwood?” Her nerves were frayed and she was tired of his posturing. It was easy enough to speak drivel whilst he held her in shackles. As for his ruin, there was little about Cael d’Lucy that one could ever mistake for fear, but neither would she cow to him, or apologize for whatever sense of distress he was feeling.

  “Your mother is here,” he confessed, at long last, and it was just as she’d feared. Rhiannon’s heart tripped painfully.

  “And?”

  “And,” he said, without further ado, because, in truth, what more need be said? They both knew well enough that her mother despised her. Whatever the former Lady of Blackwood had in mind for her second eldest daughter, it would simply not behoove Rhiannon.

  She swallowed hard, uncertain what more to say.

  No matter how lightly she and Cael bantered, no matter how much consideration he gave her, in the end, he was still her mother’s minion, and all she knew for certes this moment was that her time had run out. If Morwen was here after so long an absence, she was returning because it was time to put her plans in motion. Once more, she cursed the manacles for blocking her magik. Without the hud she was hapless as a babe, and it galled her that she felt reduced to begging for freedom—still, she would not.

  3

  Proud and utterly defiant.

  Cael’s jaw worked furiously as the key’s iron teeth cut into his palm. This was not what he had planned.

  And nevertheless, having heard the horn blast, here he was—and why? Because he was listening to his bloody heart.

  Nay, he thought.

  It was not true.

  His heart was cold.

  It was simple human decency not to wish to see a woman suffer, and whatever he’d become, he was still flesh and blood like any other man.

  And yet, because he was flesh and blood, he burned. Even now, he longed to pull Rhiannon into his arms and kiss her fiercely, especially now that their time was so short.

  Not once during their time together had he ever felt the desire to rush their wooing. He’d enjoyed their verbal sparring, and hoped to win her for life.

  But now the stakes were higher and the time was gone.

  Waiting until the last of his guards dispersed, he anticipated the ebbing footfalls…

  No matter that these men were loyal to him, he didn’t intend to have an audience. He had a good sense of what Morwen was capable of, and, whether out of fear, love or greed, few men could deny her. She would compel them if she so chose, and she would do her worst if she suspected treachery.

  At any given moment, he could not afford to forget that everything he possessed, he possessed through her good will. He had returned to this realm as vulnerable as a babe, and she’d been his benefactor since.

  If it weren’t for her recalcitrant daughter, he might already have had all he desired. And somehow, even after five long years, this was where they stood…

  Rhiannon was willful and noncompliant.

  Much like that first day, she stood facing him now, hands upon her hips, her blue eyes glittering fiercely.

  “Well?” she asked. “The guards are gone. Will you speak now, or did the cat get your tongue?”

  Cael laughed, though ruefully, wishing for a shot of Marcella’s new brew.

  Originally, her mother had intended for him to wed Rhiannon’s eldest sister. It was Elspeth, not Rhiannon, who was the rightful heir to this estate, and her husband should own this demesne. Once that possibility was removed from the table, Cael had steadfastly refused a change in plans. Why, he didn’t know, but he had a sense of it now…

  Knowing Rhiannon would never succumb to pressure, he’d protected her all this time. If Morwen realized that she was the only reason they weren’t yet wed, he wasn’t certain what she would do. But he had never coveted Elspeth—not for an instant since meeting Rhiannon. With her dark copper tresses and those feral eyes, she’d stood up to him from the first, and even whilst her gaze was still afflicted, he could harbor no pity for her at all. She’d asked for no quarter and gave none.

  Perhaps, in truth, her sister was Blackwood’s heir, but Rhiannon was the Pendragon at heart, and even now, with a shadow of fear clouding her storm-blue eyes, she could set him afire with only a glance. And yet the one thing he knew for certes was that he would never take what Rhiannon would not willingly give, and he understood very, very clearly now: She would never give her heart to anyone.

  In the silence that followed after her question, his gaze moved to her window. Already, the sun was beginning to set. The torches along the pathways were not yet lit. Even so, he surmised they had few minutes remaining before Morwen presented herself in his hall.

  Blackwood’s defenses consisted of a number of safeguards. Surrounded by woodlands, the castle was built atop a craggy hilltop. And though it was small in terms of fortification, it was easily defensible and completely impenetrable, unless one knew of the narrow path that led to his postern gate.

  The climb up was steep, and the barbican was designed to restrict access to the castle’s interior.

  Even beyond the first wall, there was a series of narrow bridges built over pits, all filled with pikes. It was carefully designed so that persons seeking entrance to the inner bailey were forced to travel along a narrow path.

  On a good day, even in broad daylight, it was impossible to traverse more than one-man deep, and at any time, those bridges could be withdrawn.

  Knowing Morwen, she had arrived with pomp and ceremony, escorted by her lackeys—all those Welsh kings she’d gathered to her side, men she’d inveigled with promises. Owain Gwynedd, the self-proclaimed King of Wales; Madog ap Maredudd, Prince of Powys; Maredudd ap Gruffydd, Prince of Deheubarth. The latter ruled with England’s support, though he’d gladly put a blade through Stephen’s eye.

  No doubt she would expect Cael to greet her with Rhiannon at his side, but not because she cared to lay eyes upon her estranged daughter; merely so she could test
the girl’s resolve.

  Squeezing the key in his hand, he realized that wedding Rhiannon per force would not gain him what he truly desired…

  Her heart.

  Alas, he must confess: He had loved Nesta dearly. He’d adored her sweet, kind heart, and he’d valued her counsel, but he’d never hungered for her body… not the way he lusted after Rhiannon. Even now, despite their circumstances, his body trembled with desire, and he longed to push her back onto the bed and pillage all she had to give—all that he had been promised.

  Only what then?

  Then she would loathe him.

  And yes, he could force her to marry against her will, and hope to God that he could change her mind. But… after five long years of trying and failing, he had a feeling deep down… he would regret the decision for the rest of his days.

  Even now, she glared at him as though she would plunge a dagger into his breast, and he believed in his heart that she would if she could—no matter how much he’d risked to serve her. Knowing this, tendrils of anger clutched at his heart. Closing his fist about the key, he placed his hand behind his back, and with the other hand, he reached out to seize her wrist above the manacle, drawing her close, forcing her to endure his proximity if only once in her damnable life.

  “Cael,” she protested.

  Rhiannon swallowed.

  For the first time since their meeting, the look in his eyes thoroughly disturbed her. There was something new and terrible in his demeanor that gave her pause—something angry and desperate.

  “W-What are you doing?”

  The sound of his voice was achingly low, filled with torment. “The time for games is done,” he said darkly, pulling her closer, and not gently. His arm slid about her waist, pulling her against him, so Rhiannon could feel the hard contours of his body. And even as he restrained her, she felt the evidence of his arousal. “Cael,” she said, though she wasn’t entirely certain it was a protest.

  In that terrible, terrible instant, the shocking feel of him awakened something deep inside her that she’d hoped to deny—her nipples pebbled embarrassingly, puckering against his leathers and she swallowed convulsively. “Please…”

  “If your mother has her way, you’ll soon be my bride.”

  “Never!” she spat, with far more conviction than she felt.

  In truth, had the situation been different, she might have welcomed a match with this man.

  There was something about Cael d’Lucy that tripped her heart and fired her soul. Never in her life had she met a man who was so much a man—strong, and crude betimes, filled with surety. She lifted her chin defiantly and lied.

  “No matter what you do or what you say, you’ll never force me to love you.”

  He laughed then, the sound mirthless. “Love?” he asked. “Love? What has love ever had to do with a contract of marriage, Rhiannon?” His black eyes shone. “Do not mistake me, lady, there is only one woman I have ever loved, and she is not you.”

  Rhiannon swallowed her words. Why did that bit of truth wound so deeply?

  Like a chimera, his emotions morphed between hatred and… something else…

  And regardless, despite the obvious disdain he felt for her in that instant, his gaze found her bed, and she noted the unbridled heat that crept into his storm-ridden eyes. Her voice faltered. “C-Cael… w-what do you mean to do?”

  In all these years, he’d never even once given her a reason to fear him. Oh, she understood well enough why men cowed before the lord of Blackwood; there was a certain darkness that permeated every room he entered. No less so than any Pendragon before him, he was a dragon lord, inscrutable and cunning, treacherous and exacting. This was one thing Rhiannon never, ever dared to forget. And yet, despite this, though he lusted for her body, he’d never once acted upon his desires, and, yes, she knew—had always known—this was all it ever was for him: a man’s lust.

  She reminded herself that there was a good reason he’d never caved to her mother’s demands.

  She must not fool herself into believing this man held any measure of affection for her, even if betimes he did look at her with such incredible longing that her flesh prickled beneath his gaze—the way he was looking at her right now.

  He inhaled a slow breath, then let it out, as though trying to master his rage.

  Was it rage?

  Or was it pain?

  He said calmly, but angrily, “Once your mother arrives, you will join me in the chapel for our much-delayed nuptials—”

  “Never!” she cried. “I will not!”

  Ruthlessly, and without apology, he pulled her tighter against his body, quieting her with the force of this gesture. “Aye, Rhiannon, you will,” he said low, and with unmistakable menace. “Already, I’ve sent for the prelate. Once he arrives, you and I—” He squeezed her again when she opened her mouth to protest. “Will stand before him and graciously accept our vows, with your mother and the Welsh kings as witnesses.”

  Rhiannon blinked away tears, hoping against hope that he might at least give her some sense that he wanted this too. “To please my mother?”

  His smile thinned. “Ask me no promises, I’ll give you no lies.”

  “I—”

  He squeezed her one more time, silencing her with the ferocity of his gaze. “You will marry me, Rhiannon,” he said, with quiet menace. “You will be my lady. And I shall speak no more of my fealty to your mother—never again! Do you understand?”

  Angry tears filled Rhiannon’s eyes—until he found her hand and pressed something small and sharp into her palm. It took her a full moment to make out the small object… a key?

  To what?

  He lifted his brows. “Do you understand?” he reiterated.

  Dumbfounded, she lifted the key to examine it and blinked in shock. She hadn’t seen this key for five long years, and yet she knew precisely what it was. She knew it, because it bore that same odd glimmer as the metal of her shackles. Lifting her eyes to Cael’s, she swallowed convulsively, finally understanding. He released her abruptly.

  “My bride’s gift to you,” he said, searching her eyes for comprehension. “Only do me the inestimable favor of waiting before you use it. Speak your vows when the time requires, bide your time. Later, when the time is right, I’ll see you have the opportunity to escape.”

  Vows?

  Go?

  “When?”

  There was nothing gentle about his dark look. His jaw worked furiously. “You’re an intelligent woman. You’ll know,” he said. “And, in the meantime, put a smile on your face and pretend that wedding me is the one thing you most wish to do.”

  After all this time… Rhiannon would be the lady of Blackwood… and then she would be free.

  Dumbfounded, she closed her fist about the precious key. “Why?” she asked.

  His lip turned cruelly. “Why do you think, my lovely termagant? The more your mother believes we are aligned, the greater your chance to escape.”

  “No, I meant, why—why are you helping me?”

  It dawned on her suddenly how much this would cost him. Everything. And still, he meant to do it.

  “Why is not important.”

  Her brows collided. “Aye, but it is.”

  His gaze softened now, his expression incongruous to his words. “If you must know, I do not take kindly to being told what to do. You are not the only one averse to sharing a marriage bed, my beautiful harpy.”

  Rhiannon winced. Sweet fates. As much as it pained her to acknowledge it, she sensed the truth of his words, and still there was more that he seemed disinclined to say.

  “Thank you,” she said, bewildered.

  Did he believe her mother would kill her once their vows were spoken? Some part of her searched for a hidden motive she could live with.

  Or did he truly not want her?

  Unfortunately, she waited too long to speak.

  Another horn blast sounded from the ramparts, and the lord of Blackwood turned on his heels and marched
out the door, leaving Rhiannon alone, for the first time without guards. She stared unblinking in the direction he’d gone, and then she peered down at the key in her hand.

  The key to her shackles.

  4

  Rhiannon’s guards did not return.

  She stood alone, listening to the distant echo of Cael’s footsteps, ebbing swiftly as he made his way belowstairs.

  She could leave, she realized.

  Go!

  Flee!

  As though to emphasize this truth, her wrists burned with new awareness of the enchanted metal that bound them.

  The key in her palm seared her flesh like a burning ember.

  Until this instant, she hadn’t had any inkling there were varying degrees of “alone.” Alone without companions or visitors, and alone without guards were two wholly different things. Once Cael was gone, silence rang in her ears—an endless silence that left her confused.

  No shuffling of feet outside her door.

  No sniffles.

  No quiet laughter.

  No idle chatter.

  No taunts, or jeers.

  Although, truth be told, these past two years of her confinement, they had all begun to treat her with a modicum of respect. And, of course, she understood why: After all this time, they must assume she and Cael were lovers.

  After all, why wouldn’t the lord of Blackwood avail himself of the woman who was meant to be his bride?

  The simple fact that Rhiannon had never once wept nor shouted against his advances could easily have been because she’d welcomed his hands and his lips upon her body.

  Except she had not, and Cael never once afflicted himself upon her person—not once.

  To be sure, the man was a conundrum.

  He was her enemy, in truth, but he was also her friend—and never was she more aware of this dichotomy than she was at the moment.

  Morwen was here.

  How in the name of the Goddess could she face her mother after all Morwen had done?

  How could she pretend for even an instant?

  Now that she possessed the key, how could she maintain these shackles upon her wrists when her hands ached to squeeze her mother’s throat?