In fact, she seemed quite gleeful over the fact—in this, her mother was utterly predictable. She loathed all her daughters that much. Swallowing her disgust, Rhiannon strengthened her resolve. She could not bear the sight of the woman seated at her side. And truly, considering all that Morwen had done, it was all she could do not to murder the hateful bitch where she sat—wrap her manacled hands about Morwen’s elegant throat and squeeze till her eyes bulged and her tongue lolled.
The image pleased Rhiannon immensely, unkind as it must be. Morwen Pendragon was a murderess at best, and no one in this realm could imagine the worst. Rhiannon herself could scarcely conceive it and she knew the truth…
Nay, the woman beside her was not the woman she claimed to be, although when she’d ceased to be Morwen Pendragon, Rhiannon didn’t precisely know. She only knew that the real Morwen was long gone, and what remained in her place was an evil sorceress that not even Rhiannon was prepared to deal with.
Oh, she realized her mother was keeping her alive for some purpose, and perhaps it was this… merely to bind herself to the lord of Blackwood, and once the deed was done… there was naught to say she wouldn’t be well-disposed to kill her. In fact, it was entirely possible that this was her plan all along, and Cael only meant to keep Rhiannon quietly appeased until such time as they were wed…
But, nay, she refused to believe it. Deep in her heart, she sensed a better man in Cael—had always sensed that man, although he fervently denied her claims. There was something good in him; she sensed it in her heart and saw it in his aura as well. No doubt, it was dark—darker than anyone’s she’d ever known except her mother’s—and still, it wasn’t black, and there was a thread of crimson besides. This could signify anger, though it could also be love…
Rhiannon chose to believe in love.
Pleading silently for her husband’s return to the dais, she kept her gaze trained upon him, and said, “Please… do not pretend there is love betwixt us, Morwen. You are not my mother and I am not your daughter.”
“Oh, my dear,” Morwen exclaimed, utterly amused. “But you are, Rhiannon! My dearest, I can assure you: You were dragged squealing from my womb, and you are more like me than you will ever care to confess.”
“Nay! I am not!”
“I beg to differ.”
At long last, Cael cast them a glance. His dark eyes were smoky with unspent passions, and Rhiannon’s heart squeezed painfully. Would he satiate himself once she was gone? With that woman? The thought pained her more than she might have realized.
“I wouldn’t worry,“ said Morwen, as though she’d read Rhiannon’s mind. “The eyes have but one language, my daughter. Judging by the look he’s giving you now, I’d say the man is hopelessly besotted. In truth, ’tis more than enough to put me off my dinner.”
He is?
No, he wasn’t!
Not with Rhiannon.
Surely her mother meant that he was besotted with that woman he was speaking to?
She frowned, because he did seem to like her overmuch, and to the contrary, she and Cael fought far too oft. And then she sighed, because she didn’t know what a besotted man should look like, and it galled her that her own mother should find the notion so utterly appalling. It would seem that on a day like today she might dredge up some small shred of good will in her awful bag of bones. But she didn’t sound pleased when she said, “I’ve known that man a long time, and let me tell you, I’ve never once seen that look in his eyes. Take care if you are not already deflowered, my daughter. I suspect he will pound you till you bleed.”
Startled by the brutality of that image, Rhiannon winced, and despite her resolve not to be affected by anything Morwen said, she blushed hotly. “He’s never touched me inappropriately,” she said in defense of him.
And it was true.
Whatever else he might be, Blackwood’s lord was a gentle man. She couldn’t even imagine him “pounding anyone until they bled”—most certainly not a woman who was his wife.
Oh, she had no doubt he’d done far worse to those men he was sent to “hunt,” but Rhiannon was not his enemy.
Oh, yes, you are, a small voice argued.
And perhaps she was.
Morwen snorted. “Grimace all you like, but remember this: My daughters were not bred to be prudes.”
It was the wrong thing for Morwen to say. All caution flew out of Rhiannon’s head. “Really, Mother? How would you know? You were not there!”
Not even whilst they were together in London while King Henry was still alive. Rather, it was always Elspeth who’d nurtured them, and then Isolde once the nursemaid arrived. Morwen was scarcely ever about, and even when she was, she was utterly blind to her daughters. “Not all men are so foul,” she suggested. “Nor is every bargain to be made in a bed.”
Morwen laughed brutally. “And yet,” she said. “That is precisely where this bargain will be sealed tonight, in a bed.” There was a smile in her voice and Rhiannon swallowed her disgust—not that she wasn’t attracted to Cael. She was. But she would not be used so meanly.
“Only remember this, my dear, all the while his tongue tickles your bits… your husband’s ambition is the same as mine. Today, you did not merely align yourself with the lord of Blackwood, you have bound yourself to me. Trust me when I say… that man cares less for what lies betwixt your soft thighs than he does for what else he has to gain.”
Rhiannon’s gaze slid to her mother’s face, and she knew the bloom in her cheeks had little to do with the impropriety of her declaration. Morwen was furious, she realized, but good! At least Rhiannon was not the only one who was nettled, and if her mother’s intentions had been to give Rhiannon worry over the possibility of a physical union with her husband, well, she’d struck her mark. The entire ordeal was disgusting, and no matter what she’d been taught, she was nevertheless repulsed. Nay, she was not a prude, but she was still a maiden—not because she feared the coupling. She and her sisters had been taught to revel in all that made them women. Their ancestors had been pagans, who, rather than find shame in the act of procreation, had been taught that the greatest gift a woman could bestow on the world was a child of her womb.
Not that Morwen ever valued such gifts.
Despite that she had, indeed, borne the world five daughters—all “squealing from her womb”—she was a very poor excuse for a mother. Even so, the images that accosted Rhiannon now filled her with chagrin. No matter what, she would not allow any man to “pound” her.
Goddess forgive her, if Cael reneged upon his promise…
If he dared try to force her…
If he left her in shackles…
She didn’t think she could bear it.
Her mother was crude and cruel—not that Rhiannon had ever hoped for more. Where Morwen Pendragon was concerned, hope was only another tool for that woman to abuse. “I see you are unchanged by the years,” Rhiannon said, her loathing beginning to creep to the surface, though she somehow held her aplomb. “How comforting,” she added very drolly, her gaze again seeking Cael, who was still speaking to that damnable woman.
If only to cover her unease, Rhiannon reached for her cup of mead and took a small swig—too sweet, she thought. Over-spiced. And, for the first time in all her years at Blackwood, she considered how she might improve their kitchen—if only this were a union in truth. Too bad she wouldn’t be staying.
Her mother was also watching Cael and that woman, her displeasure in plain view. “Well,” she said. “You needn’t be overly concerned. He could have had that tart long ago if he’d wanted her, and besides, she’s his cousin. Though… I do wonder… why he’s not introduced you?”
Cousin?
Swiftly on the heels of that thought, Rhiannon had yet another, and a prickle of fear stabbed at her heart. If, in truth, this were some grand scheme to deceive her, it wouldn’t do for Morwen to become suspicious.
What could she say to deflect?
And then it came to her, and she said, affecting
an air of confidence. “He means to give us time. If you must know, Mother, my husband has some idiotic notion that you and I will reconcile. Alas, he cannot possibly understand that no matter what my heart feels for him, it will never soften toward you.”
“You wound me,” Morwen said, completely without feeling, and Rhiannon cast her mother a withering glance.
Despite her untold years, the woman was still uncannily beautiful—not a wrinkle visible on her face, no loss of sheen in her hair. The gleam of her eye was still sharp enough to wound. Much to her dismay, Rhiannon felt a new surge of hatred so intense that it threatened to discompose her—that she should be seated here, forced to converse with this creature whilst her husband flirted with his cousin!
Morwen smiled thinly. “One day you’ll learn to forgive your enemies. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, vexes them more.”
“Alas, I will never forgive you,” Rhiannon said behind clenched teeth. “You are the reason my sisters are dead—or needst I remind you?”
Of course, she would never address Morien—that sweet child she slew in the womb. “Arwyn was a full-grown woman with a mind of her own. She made her own choice.”
“Because you forced her,” Rhiannon countered, fury heating her cheeks. If only to calm herself, she took another sip of her mead and then put the goblet down, realizing how dangerous it was to imbibe in her present state of mind and mood. She mustn’t let down her guard at all.
Her mother turned to assess her then, and it was all Rhiannon could do not to flinch beneath her hateful scrutiny—not because she was afraid, mind you, but because she had never felt so exposed as she did at that instant.
Her mother’s gaze was savage; her lips curled. “No one told that little knob to set the ship ablaze.”
Her very stature seemed to grow before Rhiannon’s eyes, and her eyes slitted vengefully.
“In truth, I should be the one so furious that my own daughter preferred to toast herself rather than reunite with her mother! Rejected, I am! By all of you! I gave you birth, and you share my blood, still you forswear me!”
Discomfited by her mother’s loss of temper, although she’d certainly sought it, Rhiannon averted her gaze, secretly pleased that if she must lose her temper, she still had the means to make Morwen lose hers as well—and nevertheless, she wished to the Goddess that she could do what she longed to do: How delightful would it be to thrust her poniard straight through her mother’s wicked heart?
If, indeed she had one.
And still, against her better judgment, she couldn’t hold her tongue. “Mark me, Mother. In the end, Duke Henry will win the day, and you will lose everything.” She averted her gaze. “I only fear for my lord husband. He will come to regret having put in his lot with a treacherous bitch like you. I know you have bewitched him!”
Morwen snorted. “Me? Bewitch him?”
She sounded furiously amused.
“Cael d’Lucy?” She laughed again, a bark that resounded throughout the hall. “Nay, daughter. Much to my bother, the lord of Blackwood is his own man; he cannot be ensorcelled—which is a very good thing for you, since you no longer have the means.” She flicked a glance at Rhiannon’s manacles, then sneered, although Rhiannon blinked in surprise at her words. “Good thing he hasn’t lost his wits so soundly that he removed those, and yet I see he’s discovered a way to lessen the burden. How thoughtful. I shall have to speak to him about that to see if we can remedy it.”
Rhiannon blinked again.
Despite the overt threat, it was not that which gave her pause… Cael could not be ensorcelled?
Everyone could be ensorcelled.
Except for faefolk or dewinekind.
Rhiannon narrowed her gaze.
“Why can’t he be ensorcelled?”
“Because, you stupid, piteous girl, he’s been to the Other Realm and once that Veil has been crossed, a man’s eyes cannot unsee what they have seen.”
Rhiannon blinked again. “What?”
Her mother flicked a hand, dismissing the conversation once and for all. “Never mind, stupid wench! These things are none of your concern. If you care to know more, ask your beloved—that is, if you can pry him away from his cousin!”
Rhiannon sat upright, stunned, uncertain how to respond. Cael had crossed the Veil?
When?
How?
Was he dewine?
Nay… nay… there was naught about Cael d’Lucy that had ever led her to believe he was aught more than a mortal man. He was an executioner for the King, she realized—feared by many, but still only flesh and blood.
Yet so was Morwen—for the most part—so was Rhiannon. They were all flesh and blood. They were born and bled like everyone else. So, then, who was Cael that he should cross the Veil, and live to speak of it? So far as she knew, not even Morwen had ever done so…
And yet, Morwen was stronger than ever. Even wearing her shackles, Rhiannon could sense her mother’s force.
Alas, after five long years of wearing these shackles, Rhiannon felt drained. As beautiful and vivid as her dress might be, she felt drab in comparison. The best she could hope for would be to survive this day without Morwen discovering their plans, and with that thought, she turned to find Cael returning to the dais. His eyes found and held hers. “Forgive me,” he said, turning to regard her mother. “Did you ladies miss me?”
Though he and Morwen shared a meaningful glance, neither Morwen nor Rhiannon responded. Both sat long-faced and sullen. Cael twisted his lips, and reached for his cup, then without another word, turned the goblet, downing the contents, and called for a serving girl to return with her ewer.
“Drink up!” he said, with forced gaiety. “Tonight is a time for celebration! Tomorrow will be soon enough to resume all our petty squabbles.” And then, very discreetly, he hitched his chin at the woman he’d been speaking to—his cousin—before resuming his seat at Rhiannon’s side.
Rhiannon sat, furious now.
The one thing her fury was not, was petty.
She wanted to shout a demand that he explain himself in regards to his cousin. She wanted to ask him why the devil he had not yet introduced them. She wanted to smack him right on the cheek, and demand he kiss her… why?
By the cauldron, this wedding was a sham!
Annoyed by her husband as well as her mother, Rhiannon shoved her goblet toward the serving woman when she arrived to refill their cups.
If Cael wasn’t going to set her free tonight—well, then, he was going to have to carry her insensate to consummate their vows, because she was not going to submit to him willingly!
“By the rood! ’Tis no wonder spiders consume their young,” Morwen said snidely, and then she, too, reached for her goblet, putting it fast to her lips. “Ungrateful little bitch.”
It wasn’t entirely clear to whom Morwen was referring, because her gaze followed Cael’s “cousin” until she removed herself from the hall without a backward glance. Still, Rhiannon gloated, feeling as though she had won some small victory, because Morwen’s face was now flushed and her eyes sparkled with unmistakable fury.
Truly, if she could accomplish that at least once per day for the remainder of her life, she might not entirely mind having to remain at Blackwood, enduring Cael and his cousin as well. Her mother’s misery made her unexpectedly glad.
Alas, there was no guarantee her mother would remain at Blackwood, which meant her sisters would be in danger.
Nor would Rhiannon ever best that creature whilst she was wearing these infernal shackles.
Nay, if ever she was going to go, she must do so now…
All three musicians continued playing at intervals, while Morwen held her tongue, quietly seething, drinking one cup of sweet mead after another.
All the while Cael whispered love words into Rhiannon’s ear—all for show, she realized. “Art even more beautiful than your mother,” he said once, loudly enough for Morwen to overhear, and her mother growled, then clapped her goblet down upon the table.
“If that is the sort of woman you prefer,” she said, beginning to slur her words. “As they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder!” And then she remanded a pitcher from a passing maid, seizing the vessel from the poor woman to pour herself another drink, and then, just for good measure, she hoarded the entire pitcher, rudely waving the girl away.
If only to annoy her, Rhiannon reached for the pitcher, as well—after all, it was her house.
Cael caught her hand. He smiled warmly, lifting her hand to his lips to kiss it ever so sweetly, his eyes spoke words that never found purchase on his tongue. No, they said, and he shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
No.
And just that swiftly Rhiannon’s sense of anticipation returned.
Something was happening.
Morwen was incandescently angry, oblivious to all but her fury, and she was, in truth, so livid that her guard came down.
With a nod, Cael laid down their joined hands, pinning Rhiannon’s firmly beneath his own, and then slowly, very slowly, Rhiannon peered over to discover that her mother’s chin began to wilt…
She blinked as Morwen’s cup tilted precariously, although her mother seemed perfectly unaware. In fact, her eyes drifted shut, and her fingers relaxed on the stem…
Stunned, Rhiannon’s gaze shifted to the ewer of mead—a ewer no one else had drunk from as yet. And now that she considered, the kitchen maid had not been passing by. She was waiting close to Morwen… waiting. Once her first pitcher was consumed, it was the same girl who’d replaced it with another.
Poisoned?
By the time it dawned on Rhiannon what must be happening, she saw Cael gesture to Aelwyd, making a discreet circular motion with his finger.
Mead for all?
Indeed, within moments—as though they’d been awaiting a cue—a horde of servants emerged from the kitchen, all cradling ewers.
As Morwen’s head lolled, they made their way down every aisle, filling goblets and mugs as they passed.
After a long, surreal moment, Cael reached over to gingerly shove at her mother’s shoulder, to which she responded by slumping listlessly to one side of her chair, eyes closing and mouth agape, suddenly drooling.
Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 8
