For his part, Cael had made some excuse, then disappeared into the woods, perhaps to tend to his ministrations. No one dared follow him, except for that wolfhound, who, like Rhiannon, clearly longed for some attention.
What a silly fool she was, yearning for Cael’s embrace and his kisses.
How was it even possible that she was so concerned with something so ridiculous as kisses when the fate of England was now at risk? At any instant, Mordecai could descend upon them—and God help them all if it should happen to be Morwen. None of them were prepared to face her mother yet—not even Rhiannon, and certainly not Jack or Marcella. And nay, most especially not Cael. Morwen would tear out his heart sooner than she would listen to a word from his mouth.
“Rhiannon…”
She turned to find her husband emerging from the woods, with the wolfhound at his heels.
He stopped, and the dog stopped beside him, and Cael immediately buried a hand into the animal’s thick fur—tall as it was, he barely had to stretch.
Still rather annoyed, even despite having discovered that he wasn’t so immune to her as he might like her to believe, she turned her back on him and continued repairing her saddle. “Am I supposed to forget everything you said to me at Blackwood simply because you are here?”
“Nay,” he said.
Rhiannon continued to repair her gear. “We are not aligned, you said. And what is more, you gave me every indication that if you were made to pursue, you would do your worst.”
“Aye, Rhiannon, but I also said—”
“You said a lot of things,” she interrupted.
“I said I love you.”
Rhiannon stiffened.
“I truly meant it.”
Tears pricked at Rhiannon’s eyes and she daren’t turn—so easily did he melt her heart.
Nor did it help much to see a grown man traipsing about with an overgrown pup—like an endearing little boy.
No one in all her life had ever said they loved her.
Not even her sisters, because the sentiment was always understood.
“Rhiannon,” he said again, gently, and Rhiannon swallowed hard as she sensed him moving near. He reached out to touch her elbow. “I am here… because it occurred to me that, whether I live or die, I must do so for you…”
Rhiannon swallowed again, uncertain how to respond.
There wasn’t time to stand on ceremony, she realized. Death would come for them all, and much to her dismay, she had desperately feared Cael’s time had already come—only fate had intervened and given them another chance.
She couldn’t help herself. She turned to fling herself into his arms, tears burning her eyes, even as she buried her face against his gambeson.
“I thought you were dead,” she said, and he placed his arms around her, holding her close. “I thought—”
“What?”
Rhiannon shook her head, not wanting to say what else she’d thought—that he’d pursued her only to return her to Blackwood… to her mother… and worse.
We are not aligned, he’d said.
Together, they stood, embracing for the longest moment, and finally, at long last, he acknowledged what Rhiannon was only thinking. “Did you believe I intended you harm? That I could speak my love for you, kiss you so passionately, then harden my heart enough to come and slay you?” She nodded brokenly, her throat too thick to speak, and he squeezed her tighter. “I suppose I did imply so much, did I not?” He laughed then, ruefully, as he smoothed the tangles from her hair. “In truth, Rhiannon, I thought I must. I considered it a matter of life or death, and yet… once I returned to face your mother… I realized then and there that there was only one good reason to die… It wasn’t for her.”
Rhiannon still couldn’t find her voice to speak, but there was so much she wished to say…
“I meant every word I said, Rhiannon. ’Tis true, though I didn’t know it until I said it; I loved you from the moment you first opened your mouth—so brave and true. But you must have suspected so much? Did you not? Why else would a grown man eschew his duties for hours on end to sit in a lady’s bower over a game he could never hope to win?”
Rhiannon choked on her laughter. It was true. He was miserable at Queen’s Chess. “I assumed you let me win,” she said with a watery laugh. “After all, you’re the commander of the King’s Rex Militum. Stratagem should come easily to you.”
He sighed heavily, as his hand continued to caress her hair. “Aye, well… I must presume our King is a poor judge of character.”
Rhiannon laughed again, and though often she would have continued to spar with him—cutting him with her words, because a sharp tongue was the only weapon she’d ever had—she embraced him fully, laying her head over the spot where his heart beat strongest.
“Rhiannon,” he said again, and this time her name sounded more like a caress.
Hapless to do aught else, she lifted her eyes to meet Cael’s, and her breath caught at the intensity of his gaze.
“Before witnesses, and before God, I have pledged you my troth,” he said. “But here, now…” His hand slid from her waist, tickling her back, appearing between them to lift up her chin. “I pledge you my loyalty and my life. Where you go, I will follow. Every moment of the time we have remaining, I pledge these to you.”
Rhiannon didn’t know what to say.
There was naught in the fathomless depths of his eyes that called him a liar, and yet, she couldn’t speak those words herself. She would not choose him over all, nor risk her sisters’ lives for him. “Thank you,” she said, at a loss. And then, her husband did, what she sorely hoped he might do: He ceased with more words, lowering his mouth to hers, and thoroughly kissed her—not with the fervor of his first kiss, but tenderly, and full of promise, coaxing love words from her lips, as urgently as his hands held her.
Still she could not say them, though she didn’t know why. The need to speak aloud what was heartfelt was nearly as potent as the burn of magik through her veins.
And still, she refrained…
“Time to go, lovers,” shouted Marcella.
Cael ended the kiss abruptly, smiling down at her.
Rhiannon felt the separation like the rending of a limb. “Little does she realize,” she quipped, scarcely aware that it sounded like a lament.
He winked at her. “We’ll remedy that,” he said, and Rhiannon shivered over the promise in his eyes.
She wanted to say that it wasn’t what she’d meant, but wasn’t it? Even now, her body thrummed where he’d touched her and… more. Deep down in her womb, she felt a desperate need to be filled. Sweet fates, her desire was as potent as Marcella’s philters.
26
A rising mist obscured the forest floor—naturally, else Rhiannon would smell the manipulation.
They could barely see the full moon through the lush canopy of summer green, but the night was still bright enough to lend a modicum of light as Cael scouted the path ahead with his wolfhound by his side.
Like its master, the overlarge beast moved stealthily through the woods, padding through a pillow of composting leaves.
Jack assumed the rear of their cavalcade, Marcella’s normally amiable apprentice silent and taciturn—more and more so as the night wore on.
By now, everyone was tired, and it was a dangerous proposition to double back through these woods, effectively countervailing the lead they’d attained.
For her part, Marcella rode beside Rhiannon, tirelessly scrutinizing their surroundings, her sword at the ready should anyone emerge from the shadows.
If everything went according to plan, it was estimated they should reach Amdel’s parklands by Lauds, or thereabouts—a full seven bells in the saddle, stopping only now and again to tend to the mounts.
For the sake of their horses, the pace remained easy; even so, Rhiannon was bone-tired, and by now, her lids were heavy. Still, she found little enough to complain about, particularly considering that whatever discomfort her companions were suffe
ring at the moment, they were suffering it for her. Her gratitude was boundless, and her heart was full. So much had changed over these past few days.
Scarcely a week ago she’d been imprisoned, with no hope for escape. Now, she was free, and no longer alone.
In fact, not only was she surrounded by men and a woman who’d sworn vows to protect her, she found she rather enjoyed Marcella and her painful candor.
She enjoyed Jack, as well.
And she loved Cael, though she couldn’t seem to say it aloud.
Despite fearing the worst, he was alive and well… here, with her. And soon, very soon, she would be reunited with her sisters as well—perhaps a bit longer than anticipated, now that they were doubling back so far, but everyone had seemed to be in agreement that this was the best laid plan.
Ellie, Seren, Rose… it won’t be long now.
Together, they would find a way to defeat Morwen.
Together, they would endure.
Had Seren already realized her destiny?
She wanted desperately to mindspeak, but didn’t dare.
How strange the fates.
Her sweet sister was simply not the sort Rhiannon would ever have imagined in such a role. Goddess knew, if there was anyone in this realm less ferocious than Seren, Rhiannon didn’t know them. She had always envisioned the Regnant as a warrior queen, more like herself, truth be told.
How wrong she had been.
And what of Rose?
Was she still the same? Prickly as a thorn, and wily as a fox—slipping away from the priory every chance she got. It was inconceivable to imagine that only five years ago, Rose had been a young girl, who’d enjoyed stealing men’s clothing. She wore them to slip into the woods to forage for herbs.
Of all her sisters, Rose had been the most like Rhiannon, and Seren and Arwyn had been most disparate—both sweet and gentle, with voices that never carried.
And then there was Elspeth—dearest Elspeth—she and her eldest sibling had locked horns so oft they both ought to have beat each other senseless.
Oh, nay, they never came to blows, but Elspeth had been equally as willful as Rhiannon, only far more self-righteous. And nevertheless, she supposed Ellie had earned the right. She had been the one who had to defend them against Morwen.
Seeking Cael, taking comfort in his presence, her gaze traveled unerringly through the shadows, finding him tall in his saddle, looking like a venerable champion… her very own.
She couldn’t wait to introduce him to her sisters.
She wanted to assure them she was free and on the way, but daren’t mindspeak with Morwen in pursuit. Now that Rhiannon understood more about what her mother was—a Sylphkind—she realized it would be impossible to keep her from intercepting anything she put into the aether.
Nay, she decided. It was safer to keep her thoughts to herself, although, apparently, she couldn’t manage to conceal them all from Marcella. The paladin, with her limited abilities was able to glean the truth about what was lurking in her heart—else it must be a woman’s intuition. “I was right,” she said, with a little smirk in her tone. “You do love him.”
Resigned, Rhiannon gave the paladin a tentative nod, though she wasn’t even certain that Marcella could see the gesture in this inky darkness. Thankfully, Cael rode far enough ahead that he couldn’t overhear.
“It pleases me to know it,” she said. “He’s risked so much to join you, I hope you realize.”
“I do,” assured Rhiannon, although she knew he hadn’t told her everything as yet, and it still annoyed her that he was keeping secrets. “Alas, you seem to know my husband better than I do,” she said, though she didn’t intend it as an accusation, and thankfully Marcella didn’t take it as one.
The paladin laughed softly. “It took me years to cut through his armor,” she said. “But never fear, I’ve no doubt he’ll tell you everything in good time. Perhaps even tonight when we are safe at Amdel?”
The tiny hairs at Rhiannon’s nape prickled—anticipation?
The thought of being alone with Cael sent a frisson down her spine—not fear precisely, but not entirely delight.
For one thing, she hadn’t the first notion how to do a woman’s duty in the bedroom. Oh, she knew how it was done, and, in fact, she’d pleasured herself a time or two in secret. She understood it could be pleasant for a woman as it was for a man. However, she desperately wished to please her husband, and as bold as she liked to believe she was, she blushed like a nun merely at the thought of undressing in his presence.
Would he find her lacking?
Would he regret having embroiled himself?
After all, he didn’t actually have to wed her, and in truth, he was promised little for the effort. If in fact King Stephen meant to cede his crown to Duke Henry after his death, he hadn’t any reason to keep his Rex Militum, since the entire purpose of that commission—by all accounts, Rhiannon had heard—was to find and exterminate all threats to his reign. So, then, Cael might yet have to forfeit Blackwood, after all—not that she cared, mind you. Though she could certainly find it in her heart to love that pile of stones, she would be content enough to simply be with Cael, wherever that may be.
She wondered then… were they truly wed if they hadn’t yet had a first night?
Did men still have the desire to lie with a woman in the midst of war?
She considered that, and thought perhaps the answer must be yes, because, she was a woman and even she thrilled over the barest possibility. Moreover, she’d heard about those women who followed troops, sometimes traveling along with them. They wouldn’t be doing that if men didn’t enjoy them, therefore the answer must be aye, but then, she frowned over the thought, wondering if Cael had ever availed himself of their services. She didn’t relish the possibility.
Something inexplicable had changed since he’d joined them—something Rhiannon couldn’t begin to construe.
It was as though she might be two people now—one, naught but a silly, blushing bride who longed for nothing more than to be touched by her lord husband. The other a dauntless soldier, ready to do battle for the sake of the realm. Neither of these two women had any likeness to the other, and somehow she was both.
And really, considering the circumstances, she shouldn’t even allow her head to be so filled with thoughts of kisses and caresses, but she couldn’t help it.
Even the steady trot of her mare left her wiggling in the saddle, and she felt like a doxy, exposed, even in full attire. No one was watching her, and nevertheless, she felt as though everyone one must be. She longed to ask for Marcella’s advice, but didn’t know how to broach the topic, and then it occurred to her that, normally, this might be something a maiden would ask her mother—more’s the pity, because she’d never had one.
“You speak so fondly of your mother,” Rhiannon ventured. “And yet you’ve never spoken her name.”
“Isolde,” said the paladin after a moment.
“Isolde?”
“Aye.”
“The same—”
“Indeed, she is one and the same,” Marcella said, and once again she heard rather than spied Marcella’s smile.
Goddess, alive, it didn’t seem there could be any more surprises, but here was yet another.
Isolde was the old woman who’d tended them for a while at court, whilst they were still very young. She was also the same woman who’d delivered Rhiannon and her sisters to Llanthony the year King Henry died. She was the one who’d roused them from their slumber in London, and spirited them away to the Vale of Ewyas, where she’d placed them in the care of those monks. Only then, she’d gone, and they never saw her again, and Rhiannon had only assumed she had abandoned them to their misfortunes. After all, who wanted to attach themselves to five penurious young maids.
Rhiannon didn’t know what to say.
“We parted ways after an argument over your mother,” said Marcella.
Rhiannon shook her head. “So it seems, my mother is the cause for so
much discontent. I’m so sorry to hear this, Marcella. Have you seen her since, or are you still estranged?”
She sensed Marcella’s gaze, even through the darkness. Her face became visible only in glimpses as moonlight pierced the foliage. “My mother is dead,” she said. “She died a few moons after Henry died. There was a bout of leprosy at Blackwood when I was young, and despite that she was healed, she was twisted and ravaged by her illness. After she left court and deposited the five of you at Llanthony, she wasted away and died. God forbid she should ever humble herself enough to appeal to me—not in life. Though I do still see her now on occasion.”
Rhiannon blinked. “You still see her?”
Silence was her initial response, and then, Marcella asked, “’Tis odd how we can know something in our hearts, and still not know it experientially.”
“I don’t under—”
“As you must know already, all things are one, living and dead. If the stars align, you might still connect with loved ones Beyond The Veil, but you must wholly believe it.”
Rhiannon considered that a moment, and then Marcella added, “If you look and listen, you’ll see signs of our departed in so many forms.”
Rhiannon wondered how Arwyn would appear—in a glorious explosion of flames, she decided with a smile. Her youngest sibling may have been gentle at heart, but she was dazzling in spirit. She found the thought comforting, and tucked the knowledge away for further exploration.
“How much longer to Amdel? Do you know?”
Marcella peered up at a sliver of sky through the trees. “I would suppose by now we have passed into Darkwood, so perhaps another bell.”
Rhiannon stiffened.
“Never fear,” Marcella said, correctly reading her unease. “We are far north of the inn.”
Rhiannon shivered, although it had little to do with the evening’s damp or chill. “I have never been there, but I know enough from my sisters to know it is nowhere I wish to be.”
Marcella agreed. “No man, lest he have some death wish, ever rests at that inn.”
Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Page 22
