Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

Sadly, they were not even promised one evening together, much less the morrow. Therefore, if they were still alive and breathing after the Golden Hour—which she knew intuitively would be their greatest hour of peril—she intended to make the most of her time with Cael.

  At any rate, ever since her conversation with Marcella about the particulars of congress, she very much longed to… explore.

  To that end, she found a lovely, but scandalously diaphanous shift hidden away in a wooden coffer that appeared as though it might be part of a bride’s trousseau. The contents were musty, but everything inside the chest was of the utmost quality—all women’s garments.

  There was also a small armoire in the room with the remnants of a man’s wardrobe. Most of what it once contained was gone. However, within it she discovered a single sherte, one pair of very pointy shoes, and a rich, blue velvet surcoat that was heavy with dust.

  Such as it was, there were no other signs of a woman’s touch in these quarters. The coffer, she surmised, must have been a gift in wait for a bride—very convenient, she decided, considering that she herself was a newly wedded bride.

  In fact, she might have presumed this one was meant for the lord’s sister, since Cael had said she was recently wed, but the garments were not at all what Rhiannon would suppose a brother would provide for a sister.

  For example: The chainse was as sheer as a woodland mist, and there were gowns inside that trousseau that revealed more than was prudent, or even acceptable.

  To be sure, there were some women at court who dressed so outrageously, but not even Morwen had dared.

  Rhiannon hadn’t any interest in those, but she did intend to make use of the sherte, exchanging it for the smelly tunic Marcella had given her. She no longer needed the masking philter, and though it was a little too big, she could easily tuck the sherte into her breeches, at least until she could wash the tunic she was given. She couldn’t very well wear some silly gown whilst wielding a sword, nor could she use the ringmail without some protection for her skin.

  It was easy to imagine why Marcella wore such garb. No gown was suitable for warfare. She could easily trip over the hem and injure herself, and Rhiannon didn’t intend to unintentionally aid her mother’s cause. They would need every sword arm they had to bear, even if Rhiannon’s was less than able. But at least she had her magik, which was growing stronger and stronger by the hour.

  She found a set of clean bedsheets in a storeroom, and after changing the bedding, she put the delicate chainse on the bed, turning her attention to the remainder of the room.

  By the time she was finished cleaning, the sun was already lowering to the west—a beautiful view from the lord’s window, where she could peruse the outer bailey and the parklands beyond.

  For the time being, the tree line in the distance revealed no sign of movement and neither was there any sign of Morwen’s birds, except for that one. For this, Rhiannon breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps they would be spared tonight—she hoped. She had a strong intuition for which there were no promises. Still, though she felt a terrible ramping of tensions in her soul, the moment right now was serene. The sky was beautiful, with shades of lavender, peach and pink, and she sighed wistfully, considering the beauty of the moment. It was no wonder these were called the Golden Hours. It was a time of limitless possibility if only one had the will to open their hearts. Here and now it was impossible to believe that somewhere out there her mother was preparing to butcher them. And yet, Rhiannon knew it was true. There was no way that Morwen would let this be; she was like a wounded beast no longer caged.

  Hic est Draco…

  Here be the dragon.

  Only now she truly understood what that meant—the inscription writ upon her bracelets…

  In their purest forms, the Sylphkind were winged creatures, like dragons, both beautiful and terrifying at once. For love of these famed creatures, the kings of Wales had all named themselves the Dragon’s Disciples, and it was for the Sylphkind they’d decorated their banners.

  Hic est Draco…

  Rhiannon herself was a Pendragon, named for Uther, whose pennants he stole from the true Dragon Lord. Anglesey was said to be the cradle of Wales. Ynys Dywyll, as her people once called it—the Dark Isle. And Môn Mam Cymru—Mother of Wales. Rhiannon had never been there, but she’d been told much about this sister isle to Avalon. It was said to be riddled with menhirs—the standing stones of the gods. These days it was Owain Gwynedd who raised the dragon pennant, but Rhiannon knew by the way he spoke of it that her husband had bartered his fealty for the payment of this county in Wales. He longed to have and hold the Dark Isle.

  Hic est Draco…

  If, indeed, Morwen was Cerridwen, then she was the true mother of Wales, and all its people—Cael included—were honor-bound to rise to her defense.

  Was this, then, the crux of Marcella’s story?

  Was this her dire warning?

  Was it from Cael and not her sisters that she must be wary of betrayal? She thought about that as she filled the tub—an easy enough endeavor with her strengthening magik. There was so much moisture on the ground after last night’s deluge, even after a full day in the sun, that it took little effort to gather the moisture into droplets and the droplets into a lovely shower. She stood inside the tub, naked as the day she was born, allowing herself to be showered by the gifts of the Mother, feeling anew the thrill of magik hum through her veins and the gentle downpour of cleansing water rushing over her face.

  This was what she was made for!

  These were the moments when she felt whole!

  It could be, in truth, that her husband was still her enemy, but for this one night alone, he would be her lover. This, she knew in her woman’s heart. For better or worse, tonight… they would consummate their vows.

  32

  Cael froze, stunned by the vision that greeted him upon entering the lord’s chamber—the sight both startling and surreal. Never in his wildest dreams could he have conjured an image so fine as the one he saw before him.

  Rhiannon.

  But Rhiannon as he had never witnessed her before. Gloriously made, unashamed, reveling in the pagan magik that fed her soul.

  The soft curves of her woman’s body were masterfully formed—breasts high, taut and round.

  Revealed to him fully, her mons was as dark a copper as the hair on her head.

  She stood with palms turned up inside the downpour, eyes closed, while a soft cascade of rain fell over her and only her, showering her where she stood inside the tub.

  It straightened the curls of her glorious tresses, so it fell like copper satin against her face and proud shoulders, diverting water so it cascaded like a fountain over her breasts, teasing her nipples till they pebbled with pleasure.

  Cael’s response was visceral; his body reacted at once, hardening to its full length, unyielding as stone and throbbing for a release long denied.

  He wanted nothing more in that instant than to go to her and open his mouth to receive the blessing of water from her bountiful breasts.

  “Rhiannon,” he said hoarsely.

  Very slowly, she opened her eyes, though if he feared she would conceal herself from his greedy eyes, he feared for naught. Immodesty was her cloak this eve and her ice-blue eyes were feral, her lips curved ever so gently at the corners, into that wicked little smile that set fire to his blood—entirely reminiscent of the smiles she used to give him when she defeated him at Queen’s Chess. And now, even as then, he would gladly lose, with grace, and cede all he owned but for the promise of a kiss from her lush, beautiful lips.

  He was a man lost, besotted by his wife. No other woman in his long, strange life had ever put such a flame in his heart.

  Only belatedly, he closed the door, hoping to God that no one had been hiding in the shadows of the hall, because, in a fit of jealousy, he thought he might pluck out a man’s eyes only for having taken the liberty of ogling his wife.

  His wife.

  His.

&n
bsp; Wife.

  A primitive and fiercely proprietorial instinct swept over him in that instant and he knew that he would kill any man—or woman—if they so much as dared to harm a hair on her head…

  His wife.

  All memory of the women who came before her vanished from his heart and mind as his feet moved of their own accord. He swallowed with difficulty, but never dared avert his gaze.

  As he had for so long, Cael yearned to possess this woman, body and soul, and, at the moment, he was entirely too aware of how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman—years and years and years. Even now, his cock was hard as stone, hot and throbbing.

  “Husband,” she said softly, warmly, and the single, softly spoken word struck him no less violently than a hammer.

  It shook him to his bones.

  She crooked a finger at him, and Cael crossed the room like a man enslaved, wanting nothing more than to take this nymph into his arms and whisk her to the bed—at least he hoped there was a bed, because his eyes were blind to all but Rhiannon…

  Marveling over the look of appreciation on her husband’s face, Rhiannon beckoned him forward, feeling more emboldened than she had in all her given years.

  She did not feel afflicted, nor plain, nor ugly when he looked at her just so. In fact, he appeared to her as though he might sink to his knees at any instant to worship her where she stood. A sense of empowerment came over her at the realization—a feeling quite unlike anything even her magik had ever provided. It was as though her husband’s admiration lifted her up and proclaimed her a goddess, and she had never, ever felt so beautiful as she did in that moment.

  Sweet fates.

  This was not what she had intended.

  She had meant to dress and present herself to her husband clean, with freshly plaited hair, wearing that beautiful diaphanous chainse. But she had been carried away by the moment, and now, seeing him standing before her, sweat beaded upon his achingly beautiful brow, and his tunic sodden with perspiration, she wanted nothing more than to gift him with the same joyous experience she’d given herself—a shower courtesy of the aether.

  She reached out for him, luring him inside the tub. And then, once he was there, she tugged at his clothes, helping him disrobe. One by one, his garments found the floor.

  Only once his chest was bare, she eagerly reached for the twin reliquaries; he reacted swiftly, pinning her hand to his chest, cutting her with a warning glare.

  But then, just as swiftly, he seemed to reconsider, grasping both reliquaries in one hand, and removing them himself, discarding them into the folds of his tunic, before giving Rhiannon a long, hard glance…

  Curious though she was, Rhiannon hadn’t any true interest in his baubles at the moment. She was far more concerned about what else remained to be unveiled…

  Once his hands moved to his trews, she stood back, watching breathlessly, eyes wide as he loosened his ties.

  She swallowed convulsively as his breeches fell away and he shrugged them off, revealing himself fully to her wide, greedy eyes.

  Sweet fates… he was truly magnificent—like a god—perfectly formed. His shoulders were broad, his chest lightly flecked, and his manhood fully and frighteningly erect.

  She did, indeed, want to lower her gaze—and did only for an instant—but then she lost her nerve and, instead, met his deep, dark eyes.

  Now it was his turn to smile—a small, knowing, satisfied male smile that sent a frisson down Rhiannon’s spine. And yet it wasn’t fear. Because she wasn’t afraid. It was anticipation. She wanted this more than anything in life. Tomorrow would be soon enough to remember all that was at stake.

  Tonight, he was her husband.

  Tonight, she was his wife.

  This moment a gift from the Goddess…

  33

  The casting of magik required intense concentration.

  It was a long, muddled moment before Rhiannon could remember herself well enough to resume the shower, and then, once she did, still another before she could remember what else she was supposed to do—lave him, she supposed.

  In that instant, all pretense of self-assurance fled, and she was left only with a virgin’s uncertainty.

  Mercifully, Cael didn’t wait to see what she would do. His arms slid about her waist, embracing her and pulling her close. His lips claimed hers, hot and insistent, and Rhiannon could only whimper with pleasure as his lips melded with her own, hard and unyielding, coaxing her to open for him.

  And then, before she could respond, his tongue swept between her trembling lips, taking and plundering the depths of her mouth, his tongue lapping her teeth, exploring, sparring with her own, only this time with a hunger she hadn’t known before.

  Sweet fates.

  She could taste his ardor, smell his arousal—the faintest trace of pollen, that made her ache deep down.

  Freely choose, or choose to be free…

  Unbidden, she heard the words like a whisper in her head, and despite that she’d already spoken her vows before a priest, she knew it was a plea from the Goddess for Rhiannon to speak now or forever hold her peace.

  “I choose you,” she said breathlessly, and heard an answering whisper…

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, and one to another.

  “Rhiannon,” he cried softly, perhaps oblivious to the words of the Goddess, and Rhiannon melted against him, her breasts hardening against the tiny hairs of his chest.

  Instinctively, she arched backward, supported by the strength of his arms, as he trailed soft, little kisses from her lips to her chin, down her neck, and down through the valley of her breasts. When his mouth closed, hot and insistent, over one nipple, she moaned softly with terrible longing.

  This was everything she had ever desired and yet nothing she had ever anticipated. Even as he suckled, Rhiannon felt a delicious tug at her womb, and a dampness creep between her thighs.

  And then… sweet Goddess… he lowered himself again, kneeling at her feet, and lifted his face to her mons.

  His tongue struck out, boldly sweeping between her woman’s flower, pressing high against her bud, the sensation warm and delicious in contrast with the cool water cascading over their bodies. And suddenly, she lost the thread of her magik completely, leaving the water to trickle over them in spurts that mirrored each foray of his tongue.

  “Cael,” she cried out, her fingers weaving themselves into his thick, black hair, groping desperately as he drank from her, rewarding her with a first taste of animal pleasure; it washed over her in waves, wracking her body with shivers. And then he rose again to offer her his tongue and Rhiannon was shocked to find the taste of her body lingered.

  Bold. Shocking. Delicious.

  If she’d thought herself intrepid, this only inspired her sense of daring. She accepted the gift, a pleasant tang that she would never have been audacious enough to explore on her own. Her body began to convulse in the most private of places, and she longed desperately to be filled—intuitively, knowing it could only be Cael.

  “I’d lay beneath you,” she said, shivering in his arms.

  He smiled gently. “I’d have you lay beside me instead.”

  She nodded, understanding, and lowered a hand to his manhood, touching it tentatively.

  “Art certain?” he asked.

  “I’m your wife,” she said.

  That was all Cael needed to hear.

  Merely hearing those heartfelt words nearly unmanned him where he stood.

  He could barely restrain himself. She was perfect, a blend of innocence and daring that fueled his jaded imagination. He could think of a million ways he longed to have her, but realizing this would be her first coupling, he intended to prepare her as best as he could. If, indeed, his time in this realm was nearing an end, he would die contentedly, knowing he had, at long last, found the light of his heart. As it so happened she was Uther’s heir.

  Morwen’s daughter.

  Yet none of that matter
ed.

  Not right now.

  Burying the tips of his fingers into her silky mons, he continued to kiss her mouth, mimicking with his tongue the rhythm he longed to follow with his hips.

  She tasted sweet, like honeysuckles, sex and rain—the odd combination like manna from Heaven. This night would be theirs, he vowed—even if on the morrow the fires of hell rose to destroy him. Nothing, no one, could keep him from claiming his wife…

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, one to another.

  Strange whispers in his ears, from a voice he didn’t know. And nevertheless, he needn’t a word of encouragement.

  He bent to sweep Rhiannon into his arms, and carried her to the bed, laying her down very gently, unconcerned that they would dampen the bedding. At the moment, he longed to drown in the love she so willingly gave, and not even the fact that he was parted from his reliquaries occurred to him.

  “Rhiannon,” he said, as he caressed her face, and then he covered her body with his own, pressing her down into the bedding, giving her only half his weight, his hips already moving of their own accord, seeking and begging entrance to the temple of her body.

  “I love you,” she said, startling him with the declaration, and his heart sang with a chorus of joy. Still, he was determined to afford Rhiannon the same pleasure she gave him.

  “Spread your thighs,” he demanded. And then, once again, he shimmied down her body, kissing and lapping at the valley between her breasts, suckling each nipple in turn, before moving down to kiss her belly and mons. And there, again, he sent his tongue to coax the wetness from the font of her womanhood, knowing intuitively that this would make her first time easier to bear. Rhiannon moaned and he reveled in the sound, lapping hungrily and suckling her silken petals. When he was certain she was ready for him, he lifted himself to look into her eyes and said slowly, clearly, lest a word be mistaken. “Live or die, I will do so for you, my love. I love you, and only you, Rhiannon Pendragon.”