Silver Silence

by Joy Nash

  It was as if he were plucking Breena’s body, causing it to ripple with sensation. She prayed desperately for numbness, but it was no use. Where Rhys was concerned, she couldn’t not feel. Neither could she hold onto the anger she’d harbored since the night she’d seen more than she’d wanted.

  Each note he played, each syllable he sang, stripped away a bit of her resentment, until there was none. Until there was only love, and longing, and that sweet, aching pull in her belly. And an even fiercer yearning between her thighs.

  She hardly knew what Rhys sang. A ballad, perhaps. Or a song of Annwyn. She only knew that when his beautiful tenor touched her, she softened. Opened. For him.

  His hair glinted silver in the dancing fire. Its light cast into stark relief the angles of his face. He sang one song after another. But as the night deepened, so did the shadow in his eyes, and Breena wondered if he wouldn’t rather seek his bed.

  And she wondered what woman he would dream of.

  The shore was cold and damp. The seat of Rhys’s breeches was wet where his arse touched the ground. The discomfort was welcome. Or, if not exactly welcome, tolerated. It allowed Rhys to focus on the wretchedness of his body, rather than the wretchedness of his soul. For that small distraction, he was grateful.

  Silence spread like a woolen blanket over Avalon. Far off, a raptor screeched. Perhaps it was Hefin, hunting. The village, however, slept. Rhys had tried to do the same, on the spare pallet in Trevor’s roundhouse. He was as tired as he could ever remember—exhausted in soul as well as body. But sleep would not come.

  Sleep never came to him easily, here on Avalon.

  Aye, he could drop off at a moment’s notice camped by the road, under trees and sky. He slept effortlessly in vermin-ridden haylofts, or wrapped in a thin blanket in front of some stranger’s hearth. And he’d slumbered soundly in any number of beds belonging to widows and whores.

  But here in Avalon, surrounded by the people he loved, and who loved him in return, he could not sleep. His loneliness was too profound, his hurt too deep.

  He wanted what he could not have. Desperately.

  Gwen had scolded him soundly for staying away so long. He was sorry to have frightened his twin. Once they had been so close, they had shared nearly every thought, but now Gwen’s husband was first in her heart, and her connection with her twin had faded. Still, his sister loved him deeply, even if she understood him less well. He wondered if she suspected that Breena was the reason Rhys had stayed away so long.

  Now that he could no longer tell himself she was too young to give herself to a man, he could not look at her without wanting her beneath him. Or on her knees, her red lips parting eagerly. Or bent over a bed, or chair, or even a log, as he slaked his lust like a rutting beast. Or with her wrists bound—

  He broke that sickening thought with a shudder of raw guilt.

  Marcus would kill him for even imagining such things about Breena. But Rhys couldn’t help it. He might travel to Hibernia, or the far northern isles…he might warm the beds of a thousand whores…he might drink himself to oblivion, or walk until he dropped…And still he would not be able to wipe Breena from his mind.

  The worst of his torment, perhaps, came from the knowledge that had he truly belonged to Avalon, he would have been able to have her. If his grandfather had not condemned him to a life of homelessness. Even though Cyric was dead, Rhys did not for one moment imagine he could give up his wandering on Avalon’s behalf. He’d seen, through Cyric’s magic, the terrible future Britain would face if Rhys abandoned his search for Druid magic. Only by bringing the most powerful Druids to Avalon, to be trained in the Light, could he ensure that darkness would not overtake his land and his people.

  Aye, Cyric’s vision of Britain’s precarious future meant that happiness was a blessing Rhys would never know. Perhaps there might have been hope, had Breena been raised in poverty, as Rhys had been. Until four years ago, Breena’s home had been a prosperous Roman estate. She’d been born to luxuries Rhys hadn’t even known to dream of during his own childhood. The comfort and security of the Celtic settlement of Avalon was a primitive life for her. The hard life of a wandering minstrel’s wife? He almost laughed. Unthinkable.

  He stared into the fog and the darkness. He should not have come. Visiting Avalon, far from comforting him, had only driven loneliness and hopelessness deeper into his cold heart.

  “Rhys?”

  He would have known her voice at a hundred paces. As it was, she spoke from only a few steps behind his back. He dropped his head and pressed his forehead to his bent knees. He could not face her. Not now. Perhaps if he gave no answer, she would simply leave.

  He should have known better. Even as a small lass, Breena had been too stubborn for her own good.

  “Rhys, what are you doing here all alone? Are you…all right? You’re not ill, are you?”

  He admitted defeat by lifting his head. “Nay.”

  He didn’t look back as she approached. His body tightened as she neared, the scent of roses wafting before her. He could not suppress the wholly inappropriate hardening of his cock.

  She stood beside him, just visible in his peripheral vision, hesitant, shivering. His first instinct was to pull her into his arms and warm her. But because he had some measure of honor left, he did not.

  “Why are you here?” Her teeth chattered a little. She rubbed her arms. “The whole village is asleep.”

  “You are not.”

  She did not answer. He did not rise, nor did she move to sit. He glanced up at her, but could not discern her expression in the darkness.

  “But you should be asleep,” he said. “Did you follow me, Bree?”

  “Yes,” she confessed. “I woke and…I needed air. I opened my shutters, and saw you leave Trevor’s roundhouse. When you did not return…”

  “You should not have come after me. You should be in bed.”

  She hugged herself more tightly. “I…have not been able to sleep much of late.”

  He caught the tremor of fear in her voice. “The silver visions?” he asked sharply. “Have they returned?”

  “Yes, the visions…” She blew out a white plume of breath. “But that is not all. You were gone so long. Even Gwen was frightened for you. As for me…I think of you often, Rhys. Especially at night, when I…” Her voice faltered.

  Dear gods in Annwyn! He did not want to hear this. She stood so close now, her skirt brushed his knee. Exactly when she’d moved, he did not know.

  She sat down beside him. He fought the urge to put his arm around her. Or get up and run. He wasn’t sure which he wanted to do more.

  “The ground is wet,” he said.

  “I don’t care.”

  A heavy silence fell between them. It lengthened into awkwardness. The night seemed to contract around him, until the darkness contained nothing but the lap of water on the shore, the shush of Breena’s breathing, and his own pounding heart.

  He inhaled her scent. She must have put rose oil in her bathwater. It was a Roman fragrance, very much prized by wealthy women. The aroma seemed to draw a thin, straight line between them. He did not try to cross it. He knew better.

  Unfortunately, she did not. “Will you stay the winter in Avalon? I…I do hope so. Everyone has missed you.” She paused. “I have missed you.”

  He was ashamed at how fiercely he drank in those four words. She had missed him. His cock responded, even as he fought to remain detached from a rush of tangled emotions. In the grand scheme of things, it did not matter that Breena missed him.

  “I’ll stay perhaps a sennight,” he said. “Until the harvest feast. After that…I must go.”

  She uttered a sound of dismay. “But that is hardly any time at all! Gwen will not have it, Rhys, I am telling you that right now. She will not allow you to—”

  “My sister has no authority over my comings and goings.” The words were harsher than he’d intended.

  Breena sucked in a breath. “I…I didn’t mean to imply th
at she did. Only…only that she loves you. She misses you dreadfully when you’re gone.”

  “No one should miss me. I am not a part of Avalon.”

  “How can you say that? Why, you’re the most important part of us! Without you, the sacred isle would be all but deserted. Most of us are here only because you brought us.”

  It was true. Of Cyric’s original small band of Druids, only Mared and Padrig remained. And Gwen, of course. All the others…dead. Or lost.

  As Rhys was.

  “I’m used to wandering,” he told her. “I am more comfortable on the road.”

  “What nonsense! You could not possibly be.”

  He made no reply.

  “Mared says in the past, when Cyric was alive, you visited far more often, and stayed longer. But now that your grandfather is dead, and your freedom greater, you stay away. Rhys, is it…is it because of me? Do you…do you hate me so much?”

  He turned so abruptly she lurched backward. He grabbed her arm to steady her. He released her an instant later, as if he’d touched a hot coal.

  “I could never hate you.” He swallowed. “How could you imagine such a thing? You are like a sis—”

  “I am not your sister! I never was, and I don’t want to be. Rhys, I lo—”

  “Gods in Annwyn, Breena!” He jerked to his feet. “Do not say it. Please.”

  She stared up at him. “Why not? It is the truth.”

  “What you want from me can never be the truth between us.”

  Slowly, she pushed to her feet, regarding him with sober eyes. “Rhys. You are shaking.”

  He was. He turned and paced a few steps away. His hand went to the back of his neck. He needed some space.

  But her voice followed. “I understand now why you rejected me that day at my father’s house. I know why you flung all those hurtful words at me. I was too young for what I was asking of you. But, Rhys, that was four years ago. I’m no longer that girl. I’m a woman now.”

  He clenched his teeth. Gods. Aye, she was a woman. A lush, tempting…

  Her words battered him. “There’s no longer any need to push me away. Don’t you see? I love you, Rhys. I always have, and I always will. And I think you l—”

  Something snapped inside him. He spun around, and stalked toward her. “Breena, stop. Before you say something you’ll regret.”

  “No! I won’t. I’ll say what’s in my heart. I lov—mmph!”

  He’d covered her mouth with his palm. His other hand gripped her shoulder. “Don’t,” he pleaded. “Don’t.”

  Her eyes were huge. In the moonlight they looked gray rather than the clear blue he knew them to be. And in them…a spark of dangerous, feminine knowledge.

  Her lips parted. Her breath bathed his palm. Before he could react, before he could even think, she tasted his skin with the tip of her hot, wet tongue.

  The tiny point of moisture caused his brain to seize. His cock, already more than half hard, flashed into full arousal. And still, he might have resisted. Might have pulled back completely, and retained some shred of his honor.

  If she hadn’t pressed her open palm on his stomach. And slid it downward, slowly.

  He grabbed her wrist and yanked it away. The sudden movement caused her to pitch forward. Her body fell against his, her soft round breasts squashed against his chest. He opened his mouth to scold her.

  She went up on her tiptoes and kissed the words from his mouth.

  Her lips were sweet honey and spice. He could not summon the strength to resist claiming a small taste. He licked them, parted them, drank in her innocence like water from a pure stream. She opened beneath him like a spring blossom. Her artless response fired his blood; the kiss turned hot, and hard. He pulled her close, one hand anchored at her nape, the other slipping down to cup her bottom.

  Mindlessly, he ground himself against her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth in a savage parody of what he wanted to do to her body. She should have protested. Should have pushed him away, slapped him, screamed for help…anything to stop this madness. Instead, she ignited like living flame in his arms. She returned his kiss, in full measure. She clung to his neck, and purred deep in her throat. Like a cat, she rubbed her body against him.

  He was an instant away from throwing her down and taking her right there, in the mud. Gods. Nay. He couldn’t. Panic closed his throat. His next breath caught no air at all.

  He grabbed her wrists and wrenched them from his neck. She gasped, but did not protest. He meant to release her, push her away, but some dark demon inside him would not allow it. Instead, he forced her wrists to the small of her back, and anchored them in one hand.

  Her head fell back, and a low moan escaped her lips. The lust that surged through him then was stunning in both darkness and strength. His hand, trembling, covered the lush globe of her breast. The peak hardened against his palm.

  “Gods, Rhys,” she gasped. “Yes…”

  He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, his chest heaving, his body and brain battling like gladiators in the arena. This yearning, this torment…it was too much for a man to bear. More than anything, he wanted to surrender. But it was wrong. Very wrong.

  Her lips nuzzled his ear. “Gods, Rhys, I’ve missed you. I love you so. And…I knew you loved me. I knew it. Marcus and Gwen will be so glad…”

  Marcus.

  Marcus, glad to find Rhys mauling his beloved little sister on a muddy beach? Rhys thought not. The man would be enraged, and rightly so. A homeless wanderer was no fitting mate for Breena. Even worse, Marcus was the one man who knew the kind of sexual encounters Rhys craved—they’d often hunted whores together in their youth. On occasion, when they’d been short on coin, they’d even shared a woman between them.

  Aye, if Marcus were to stumble upon Rhys right now, he would waste no time in beating him to a bloody pulp. And Rhys, for his part, would not lift a finger to defend himself.

  It took every dram of his strength, but at last he forced his hands to his sides and stepped back. Released from his grip, Breena swayed, blinking up at him with hazy eyes.

  “Rhys? What is it? What is wrong?”

  “Everything. This…this cannot happen between us, Breena. It is not right.”

  “What?” She lifted her hands. “Of course it is right! We belong together. I have always known it.”

  “Nay,” he said. “We do not.”

  A beat of silence ensued. “But…you wanted me. Just now. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t! I felt it, Rhys.” Her throat worked. “Quite plainly. You cannot deny it.”

  He forced a laugh. “What you felt was the natural reaction of any man, to any woman. It meant nothing.”

  Her breath hissed through her teeth. “I do not believe that for a moment. You want me. Why can you not admit it? I’m no longer a girl. I can be your wife now. I can travel with you. Help you find initiates for Avalon. Why, I am certain that my Sight can be of help—”

  “No,” he ground out. “You cannot travel with me. The very thought is absurd.”

  “Why? I would like to travel. Marcus has covered the distance from Rome to Caledonia! I’ve never even seen Londinium.”

  “Breena, my travels are not a lark. I do not visit fancy inns. Just the opposite. I seek out the lowest, meanest places. Or the wildest ones. That is where I am most likely to find what I’m looking for.”

  He felt her hesitation. But it lasted no more than a heartbeat. “I’d happily stay in those places, Rhys, if it meant we could be together.”

  “You only say that because you cannot imagine what it is like. The privations of Avalon are trial enough for you, even with Marcus’s improvements! You could not be content sleeping before a stranger’s hearth, or on a low tavern’s flea-ridden pallet. Or perhaps a stinking stable or barn would please you? Or sometimes, Breena, there is no roof at all. I often sleep in the open, even in the rain, and count myself lucky if a brigand does not murder me in my sleep.”

  “Rhys—”

  “I have
nothing, Breena. Nothing but the clothes on my back, my harp, and my duty.”

  “Oh, Rhys, that’s just not true! You have a family, and people who love you. And a home. Right here, on Avalon.”

  His laugh was low and bitter. “Avalon is not my home. My grandfather made certain of that.”

  “Cyric is dead. And you said yourself that Gwen has no control over your comings and goings. You could live here if you wanted.”

  “Nay,” he said. “I could not. And you know that. You know of Cyric’s visions of Britain’s future.”

  “I know he saw two possibilities. One was a nightmare—Britain torn by war, plundered by barbarians from over the sea. The second was a bright dream—a strong, peaceful Britain, ruled by a Druid king. But Rhys, to my mind, neither vision makes sense! Where is the Roman army in Cyric’s vision? Britain is one of Rome’s most prosperous provinces. The legions would never tolerate barbarian raiders. Still less, a Druid king.”

  “Aye, I know. Gwen and I have discussed the mystery at great length. Both visions seem unlikely. But Cyric was a powerful Druid. These visions cannot be devoid of meaning.”

  “What if they are? What if Cyric was wrong?”

  “Then I will likely never know it. But I cannot take that chance.” He sighed, and dragged a hand down his face. “I cannot say I understand any of it. I can only tell you that even with Cyric in his grave, I do not dare go against his command. My grandfather’s visions came from the Great Mother.”

  Breena gripped his arm. “If you tell me it is the will of the Great Mother that you wander, Rhys, I believe you with all my heart. But it doesn’t have to keep us apart! If you love me even half as much as I love you, we can find a way. I am not as pampered and as fragile as you make me out to be. I can travel with you, truly I can. It would be hard, yes, but you would not hear a word of complaint from my lips.”

  “And when you are with child, what then? Am I to allow my pregnant wife to sleep on a stranger’s floor? Have you birth my babe in a barn? Shall I haul our children the length and breadth of Britain in the rain and snow?”