Swift with urgency, her words tumbled out. “Beltran, for pity’s sake, don’t invoke thy Deity in this place. ’Tis like dropping a stone into a still pond. It causes ripples, as thou hast seen. Above all else, we must pass unnoticed here.”
His mind groped to make sense of this chaotic speech. Carefully he spaced his words. “Where are we?”
“At my house in the Summer Lands.” She paused when his brow furrowed, demanding more. “In the Faerie realm.”
Superstitious dread flared within him, but he quashed it.
“Don’t be absurd,” he said roughly.
Caution invaded her features. Glancing down, she nibbled her lower lip. “Thou remember nothing?”
Of course he remembered. How not? Until the day he died, he’d remember her bewitching grace, spinning in the dance, her lithe shape silhouetted against the fire. He’d remember the warmth of her pert breasts cupped in his palms, nipples hard and tight as cherries with desire for him. He’d remember the hot wet slide of his fingers through her cream-soaked cleft, the way she’d arched into his caress, her low throaty moans as he massaged her throbbing quim.
God, the way she’d looked when he bent her over, her sweet bottom upturned, back arched, legs spread to expose her swollen folds, flushed and glistening with dew. The way she’d smelled, the perfumed musk of arousal mingled with the fragrance of violets.
The intense surge of satisfaction that made him roar like a lion when her tight channel gripped him.
The tremors of her climax milking him until he spurted inside her.
“I remember everything,” he growled, voice thick with passion. Already he was hard and aching.
But her green eyes were troubled as they lingered upon him. “Beltran, there’s something I should tell thee. Last night...there was a visitor here. Do thou remember?”
Absently, he shook his head. Christ, the pope himself could have been here last night and it wouldn’t have stopped him. He’d been burning to tumble her. And now that he’d given in to the impulse and flung himself headlong into sin, he intended to stay there a while, damn it.
“Beltran,” she began, resolute.
“Not now, princess. Let me see you.” Before she could think to protest, he tugged the deerskin down.
Breasts lush and silken as peaches, God save him, her pink nipples already peaking beneath his stare. Navel tucked like a jewel against her tiny waist. Her cross-legged position, like a Yuletide gift, exposed her beautifully to his hungry gaze. The plump petals and deep rose cleft of her cunny blushed under his attention.
God, she was perfectly formed. And she fit him like a glove. He remembered that well enough.
Then he glimpsed a spot of crimson, like a rose petal, staining the bedclothes. The knowledge hit him like a fist.
“Damnation, Rhiannon!” he blurted, dismayed.
She’d been a virgin, and he’d all but raped her last night.
He’d given in to lust before in his life. But he made it a rule never to deflower an innocent, just as he never trifled with a woman who belonged to another.
Confused, he rubbed his forehead, forcing order to his thoughts. “I thought—that day in the garden at Hatfield, the way you touched me, the things you whispered in my ear...”
Suddenly, with startling clarity, the pieces fell into place. The sorcerous fog that shrouded his memory, the ripe curves of the woman wearing Rhiannon’s face, too voluptuous for a girl of her slimness—the full figure of a mature woman. The way she’d undulated against him like a cat in heat, the bold words she’d breathed, her hot little tongue darting into his ear as she described exactly how she was going to suckle him.
Not Rhiannon.
No doubt it was more trickery from that malignant sister of hers, like the monstrous serpent that reared from the water, like the magick that swept them through the mists into this other realm.
Slowly he shook his head. “Rhiannon, I was out of my mind last night. I make no excuse for it. I should have realized...”
Realized you were a virgin.
“I would have stopped, if I’d known,” he said lamely.
More likely, I would have seduced you properly, damn it.
“Thou need not speak of it,” she said quickly, her lashes falling. Rose color stained her downturned face. “Thou art a Blade of God, sworn to serve thy Deity. If not for the magick, I know well what happened between us would not have been thy choice.”
That wasn’t it at all. God’s fury, he’d been craving her like wine since the day they’d met. But he could hardly tell her that. What could he offer her? Nothing but shame and dishonor—a few days of stolen pleasure with a renegade apostate who’d turned his back on his obligations, chosen sin and damnation over duty. He’d taken from her, roughly and without consideration for a maid’s tender state, the virtue she must have preferred to save for the lucky bastard she’d marry some day.
He’d brought the bishop down on her. And on himself. If he abandoned his vocation and his vows for her sake, the Blades would hunt him down like an animal, like the villain he was.
Summoning all his discipline, he pushed those worries aside and went straight for the immediate issue. He braced against the unpleasant truths she might tell him.
“Rhiannon, did I hurt you?”
“A little.” Her head lifted with the swift pride of a princess. “But I’m no coward to quail from a bee-sting. The pain was naught compared to the...the pleasure of it. Of course I knew women enjoy the business in the natural way, just as all living creatures must. But I never dreamed it could feel like that.”
Again her lashes swept down, demure as any virgin. But the low throb of passion in her voice told the tale of what he’d made her feel. The knowledge made triumph surge through him, a primitive male satisfaction that made him want to roar like a lion.
“I’m glad to know you enjoyed it.” Idly he wound a gilded tendril of her hair around his fingers. “As the more experienced one between us, I feel obliged to point out that, if I’d been in my right mind, I would’ve made you feel more than mere pleasure. I would have had you begging me, just as I promised.”
Her rosy blush deepened, but her chin tilted mutinously. “I’m a royal princess, Beltran. I’m not in the habit of begging a man for anything.”
The wicked impulse seized him to prove it was no idle boast. No doubt she was tender, after last night’s indulgences. But if he put his mind to it, he could make her burn for him.
“Do you question my ability?” he murmured. “You’re challenging me to prove it.”
Cat-quick, she leaped to her feet and whirled to snatch a shift. The movement treated him to a flashing glimpse of her lissome back and the sweet bottom he’d gripped when he mounted her, now maddeningly out of reach.
Christ, she was made for loving. For his loving, and he wanted to hear her admit it.
He pushed to a sitting position and reached for her.
A surge of dizziness rolled through him. The world blurred around him. He cursed and gripped his aching head. He wouldn’t be sprinting like a satyr through the house after her or anyone else in this condition.
When his vision cleared, she was bending over him—barely decent, Lord save him—slender limbs spilling from her muslin shift. She pressed a cup upon him, leaf-green eyes warm with concern.
“Thou mustn’t try to rise so swiftly,” she rebuked him. Her soft hands folded his fingers around the cup, cool
and dripping between them. “Goddess, thou nearly died last night! Now sip this slowly.”
“Don’t coddle me, girl,” he said irritably. But he couldn’t deny his mouth was dry as dust and tasted worse. He sipped the crisp brown beer and found it ambrosia. As the cold wetness slid down his throat, he grunted approval at the nutty taste.
She looked modestly pleased by his appreciation. “’Tis my own brewing from the summer wheat. I enjoy such household pastimes, the brewing and baking and spinning, when I can. Rest here awhile, and I’ll fetch thee a rich rabbit broth with herbs to build thy blood.”
Already she was bustling about, her steps quick and light. To his eternal disappointment, she slipped on a gown of fine-woven brown wool, then twisted her hair into a thick loose braid. It was a crime to cover all that beguiling beauty. But he supposed it was for the best, unless he wanted to violate her again.
Suddenly he cursed. “What of the bishop? What of Edmund Bonner and my men? Did they follow us though the mist?”
“Nay, we left them behind, combing the shores for us. No doubt they’re convinced thy Lucifer spirited us away.”
In the midst of rigging a tripod over the brazier, she hesitated. “We must return thee to the mortal realm as soon as we may. Time flows differently here in the Summer Lands, and we’ve already lingered far too long. If we wait much longer, thou may return to find a hundred years or more have passed beyond the Veil. It’s happened thus before.”
Normally he would challenge this pagan nonsense, but suddenly he was no longer certain what he believed. And that would be a problem, wouldn’t it, when he returned to the fold?
The world wasn’t what he’d believed—what he’d been arrogantly certain it was. Did other creatures like Rhiannon dwell peacefully in the hidden places of the earth, more women and men and children with her innocent beauty, their souls brimful with love and compassion like hers? If they did, he no longer had the stomach to bring the Inquisition roaring down on them.
Grimly he mastered his chaotic thoughts. He swung his legs out of bed and reached for his hose. His head ached, but his vision stayed clear.
“How soon can we leave?” he asked.
“The sooner the better, as I’ve said.” She busied herself strewing herbs into the stewpot, the savory aroma making his empty belly growl. “Morrigan will know we’re here, if she doesn’t already. We lack the strength to fight her in this place where she’s strongest, and where thy God holds little sway.”
She paused, her countenance grave and troubled. Keenly attuned to her moods as he was to his own body, his instincts prickled in warning.
“What is it, Rhiannon?”
Her gaze flickered toward him. “It’s merely—I’m hoping I have the power now to bring you through the Veil. ’Tis possible I could no longer pass unaided from the mortal realm to this one. But I may still be able to pass the other way, with help.”
Frowning, he pushed to his feet, only a little unsteady. Refusing to indulge the floor’s annoying tendency to sway beneath him, he scooped up shirt and doublet. “Why would you be unable? You managed well enough last time.”
She nibbled at her lip, considering. “I might as well tell thee the truth, since thy welfare may hinge upon it. There is great power bound up with the virgin state, which is why it was so valuable for the healing spell. When I surrendered...what I surrendered...I lost that maiden power. I’m only half-Fae to begin, and my magick has never been great. I fear I may have lost what little I possessed.”
Undeceived by her light tone, he stared at her and felt his heart turn over in his chest. That she’d made such a sacrifice for him was astounding. Her selflessness touched him in a way he hadn’t expected and was ill prepared to deal with.
Impatiently he brushed aside the implications for himself. He ought to be considering what it meant for her. Tossing his garments aside, he strode bare-chested to her side. Gently he gripped her arm to draw her away from the bubbling stewpot, and tilted her chin to meet his gaze.
“I’m humbled and honored by your gift to me, Rhiannon. I scarcely know what I’ve done to merit your generosity, after the way I’ve hounded and persecuted you.”
Again that wild-rose blush tinged her cheeks. Her eyes seemed to glimmer with some vast and secret knowledge that saddened her. “I’m a king’s daughter, Beltran. My honor is life itself to me. Thou saved me, didn’t thou, not once but twice? Last night I merely returned the favor.”
Her simple logic should have reassured him. But for some reason he didn’t like hearing that she’d given herself to him for honor’s sake, to repay a bloody debt.
With a smile, she slipped from his grasp, and he quashed a pang of loss. He scowled but let her go. He had to resign himself to letting her go, somehow.
“You mentioned getting help from some quarter,” he said when they were seated at the table, hungrily devouring the succulent stew and sopping up the juices with a hunk of fresh barley bread. “Do you have many allies at your court?”
“At Camelot?” Her ash-dark brows winged up in surprise. “Where my sister is? We shan’t pass a hundred leagues from there if I can avoid it. Nay, I’m thinking of the hallows.”
He looked at her blankly.
“Those who worship the Goddess revere four sacred hallows, one for each element—dish of earth, spear of air, the sacred cup of water mortals call the Grail, and the sword of fire, which last appeared in England as King Arthur’s blade Excalibur. Both dish and spear are well beyond our reach. And the Grail too is beyond Morrigan’s reach. She cannot hope to claim it while Queene Maeve lives.”
He struggled to subdue raw disbelief. She had no reason to lie to him, and he’d learned Rhiannon never lied. Her actions had earned her the right to be trusted—or at least not mocked for her beliefs, whether they were Christian or nay. He swallowed a mouthful of bread and spoke with what calm he could muster.
“That leaves the sword of fire. Excalibur.”
As he spoke the name, an odd tingle swept over him, as though a ghostly wind had stirred his hair and garments. With difficulty, he focused on her words.
“Of the four relics, the only one within our reach is Excalibur—and only if its guardian will lend us its magick.” She paused, face solemn, her bright eyes fixed upon him. “I shall never lie to thee, Beltran. The way is risky. Even if we succeed, I’m not certain ’twill be sufficient. It may be I still cannot part the Veil. But we must try, and quickly, before Morrigan tracks us here.”
Frowning, he gripped the dagger belted at his waist. The loss of his prized sword had dismayed him—and alarmed him, if danger threatened. Could this be a message from God, the Lord’s way of telling him he should pursue this mad quest for a legendary blade to replace the one he’d lost? He’d be mad as a loon to think so.
“You say the way is risky.” He studied her. “How so?”
“Distance is an odd thing in the Summer Lands. The Faerie Queene rules at Camelot, the place my sister schemes to fill. Once it was a mortal keep, the court where Arthur ruled with his Queen Guinevere, but it slipped behind the Veil during the last Convergence. The Grail resides in Camelot—the Cup of Truth, sacred to the Goddess—though Morrigan cannot touch it.
“But Excalibur rests in Avalon, the holy isle, which was once the Christian Isle of Glass. Sometimes the mists lie thick between these sacred places, and the distance between them is vast indeed. But...”
She paused. “As thou have witnessed, the mists are thinning as the
Convergence draws near. The distance between places in Faerie is shifting. Possibly, without my magick, I won’t be able to find the sacred isle. Possibly we’ll blunder though the mists to find ourselves someplace else entirely.
“If we can’t find Avalon, we may come to Camelot instead—and Morrigan. Though we fly from peril, we may be walking straight into her arms.”
Chapter Seventeen
The mist rolled thick over the Summer Sea, somber white swirling over the slate-gray surface. Rhiannon sat in the prow of the little coracle, bleached smooth and silver with age, and felt her senses tingling, alert for any whiff of magick.
She should be utterly riveted on their desperate goal. She must devote whatever minor magick she retained to steer their course—not toward the high cliff where Camelot perched like an eagle, rampant and mantling for blood, but toward the green meadows and golden orchards of the sacred isle of Avalon.
Instead her gaze lingered on the powerful black-clad figure, hood flung back from his tawny head, seated midship with oars gripped in his fists. Smoothly he pulled and drew, pulled and drew, putting his back into the chore of propelling them through the still waters. Strain though she might, she heard nothing but the susurrus of water slipping past the hull, the rhythmic splash of oars digging deep, and Beltran’s steady breath like a bellows. Tirelessly his keen blue gaze scanned the mist.
“How much farther do you reckon?” He pitched his voice low, for she’d warned him that sound carried on the Summer Sea, and theirs might not be the only craft plying these waters. “We’ve rowed a good hour.”
“Longer than that.” Shivering, she chafed her arms beneath her woolen mantle. “As to how much farther we may drift, I cannot say.”
She paused. “Remember well what I told thee—think not of Avalon, nor the sword, or for certain we’ll never come there. Wish thyself anywhere else. If we fail, we may wander the Summer Sea forever.”
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