“What manner of unholy place is this?” Frowning, Beltran started to cross himself, but stopped the motion in time. “Forsooth, I can scarcely credit what you’ve told me—that we wander between worlds, outside the realm of men.”
“Thou must choose thine own beliefs,” she said shortly, quelling a flicker of impatience. “If, like the Nazarene’s Thomas, thou must see to believe, I trust what we witness shall persuade thee. Believe firmly enough in the world of men, believe I’m a fraud or a poor deluded fool, and perhaps we’ll come indeed to Ynys Witrin, the Isle of Glass, which is Avalon’s shadow in the mortal world.”
What will it take to make him believe? For the man called God’s Vengeance possessed a will so formidable that he’d wiped out all knowledge of his own divinity.
What had Zamiel called him? The Flame of God, one of four archangels who guarded the Presence. If Beltran had managed to deny even that, how could he ever believe in the gods who ruled this place?
His sharp gaze lingered on her struggling face. “What of you, Rhiannon? What befalls you when we return to my world? Are you still hell-bent on persuading Mary Tudor to sign your infernal treaty? Surely you know if you show your face in London, the bishop will have your head. If you’re lucky.”
Rhiannon shivered and looked away, hugging herself for warmth. Goddess knew, revealing herself so rashly before the Tudor court had been a fatal error. She’d been too heedless and indiscreet, and roused the Catholic faction to full alert against her. The thought of returning to wild-eyed Mary and her Romish henchmen was enough to ice her blood.
“I can’t shrug my shoulders and turn back, Beltran, merely because the way has grown difficult. I’ve seen with mine own eyes the coming of winter to the Summer Lands. Truly, the Convergence is upon us. My mother...”
Her voice wavered. “Queene Maeve, the Faerie Queene, must hover on death’s doorstep. When snow flies in the land of the Fair Folk, I’ll know she is gone. My only hope of saving her and defeating my sister is not the lion who rules England, but the cub in waiting.”
“Elizabeth?” Grunting with exasperation, he pulled at the oars. “That can never be. Spain will tear England to bloody shreds before Philip allows a heretic to sit the throne. Never hope for it.”
“Who art thou to tell me what to hope? I do hope for it,” she said stubbornly. “If a path through the Veil is revealed, I shall make for Hatfield.”
“Better to make for the Tower if you wish to find Elizabeth, with the way this Dudley business is unfolding.”
His voice was rising, echoing over the water. She gestured urgently for silence.
“Please try to remember, Beltran,” she whispered, searching the wall of mist, thicker now, the light so diffuse she could no longer steer by the sun. “If we return—when we return—to the mortal realm, anything may be possible—the Tudors cast down, French or Spaniards on the throne, Rome ascendant or utterly eclipsed by whatever Gods men will worship when yours is forgotten.”
“Damnation! I won’t listen to this blasphemy.”
“I merely wish to prepare thee for all eventualities! When wilt thou open thy mind?”
Uneasily he glanced away, and she knew he would cross himself again if she hadn’t cautioned against it. As his gaze slid past her, his face altered. The oars stilled as he leaned forward.
Heart lodging in her throat, she twisted to search the mist. There for an instant, like a ghost or a mirage, the dark shadow of land appeared. When a curtain of fog swirled across the view, she clasped her hands and prayed for the fortitude to survive whatever waited.
Dear Goddess, please...please let it not be Camelot...let us come anywhere but there.
As though the Goddess listened, the mist parted and rolled away to reveal a sun-drenched shore. Golden apples gleamed among russet leaves—for here, too, the creeping hand of frost had brushed. Above the wooded hills rose the Tor’s whale-shaped bulk, bisected by the path that snaked toward the summit. There against the blue heavens, amid a circle of standing stones, rose a temple of pale marble.
Rhiannon squeezed her eyes closed, her heart overflowing with gratitude and relief, tears stinging her lids. “Lord and Lady be praised! This is Avalon.”
How long had it been since she’d set foot on this shore? For too long she’d shirked these dutiful visits to her father’s tomb, for they’d grown so painful and seemed so pointless. Arthur of Camelot would never wake on her account, no matter how she prayed for it.
This visit, too, might prove pointless. They’d reached the silent shores of Avalon, aye, but she saw no sign their desperate need would be heeded.
How could she hope, when every tear-choked plea she’d ever uttered on this isle had fallen on deaf ears? She’d come only because she knew no other choice.
But what of Beltran, whose orderly God-fearing brain was already balking at where they were and what they must attempt? He’d come farther down the road toward acceptance of her and this place than she’d ever dreamed possible. Yet still he wore his allegiance pinned to his sleeve, or more truly above his heart—the gold-and-steel medallion of a Blade of God.
He wavered on the brink of some great crisis, and his choice would determine both their fates. He would either fall back to the narrow dictates of the militant path he’d always trodden, the very harshness for which his God had cast him out. Or else he’d embrace her way, the path of peace and mercy and forgiveness.
Which way would he choose when the choice lay before him?
* * *
Beltran climbed the steep path in a daze, trudging across ancient terraces cut into the slope, barely aware of the burn in his thighs or the rower’s blisters stinging his palms. When he glimpsed the angry red swelling, he recalled Rhiannon’s caution about the passage of time. Christ, judging by the look of him, he could have been rowing for days.
Before him, Rhiannon scrambled lightly as a fawn, unencumbered by her simple gown the color of rich brown earth and her cream-colored mantle. When her foot slipped on the slope, he leaped to catch her, one arm circling her waist to steady her.
God’s fury, the feel of her supple warmth beneath his hand.
She glanced up with an absent smile and slipped away. She’d seemed preoccupied since they set out...whenever they’d set out...and her distraction was mounting as they climbed. He wondered if she too was dreading the inevitable farewell that loomed before them.
He needed to return to London, set things right with the Archbishop, mollify the Catholic Queen and placate his order. As for Rhiannon, she’d stated her clear intent to go to Hatfield and cast her lot with the Queen’s Protestant heir.
No force under Heaven would induce him to drag her back to the bishop.
Hence their parting was imminent and unavoidable. She was no fool; she knew it as well as he.
How could she ignore so blithely the hum of sensual tension between them? Did she truly believe she’d gone to his bed for honor’s sake? He’d felt how she shuddered beneath him when she climaxed, heard her sharp cry of rapture when he claimed her. The torrid memories set his cock throbbing beneath his codpiece. Grimly he ordered himself back to the business at hand.
He planted his boot on a jumble of rocks, gripped a protruding root and hauled himself over the last rise. Abruptly the grassy summit opened before them—a circle of brooding gray dolmens, the standing stones crumbling with age. Beyond rose the slender columns of a temple in the Gre
ek fashion, the long porticoes silent and abandoned, strewn with a carpet of fallen leaves.
Above soared the vault of heaven, cerulean blue, wisps of cloud scudding before the brisk wind that rippled the long grass. Beneath the wind’s low whistle the world was hushed, as though gripped in enchantment.
They were utterly alone on this island.
Slowly he turned to scan the view. The rolling orchards and meadows of Avalon spread beneath him, blazing in autumn splendor, hemmed by the reed-choked waters of the Summer Sea. Beyond rose a curtain of fog, blocking any glimpse of what lay beyond.
He saw nothing to threaten them, yet his nape tingled. Somehow, he knew they were being watched. Shrugging uneasily, he turned away from the panorama below and strode onto the summit.
“Wait,” Rhiannon breathed, placing a light hand on his arm. “Listen.”
Impatient, he shook his head—then stilled, arrested. Beneath the wind, the faint echo of chanting rose and fell. Too distant to make out the words, but it sounded like Latin.
“Aye,” she whispered. “’Tis the hour of prayer for the monks on Ynys Witrin, which the mortals call Glastonbury. It lies like a shadow over Avalon. We must wait a little, or we’ll find nothing but an empty tomb.”
Beltran quashed the urge to cross himself. He didn’t like waiting here, exposed and alone beneath the vast sky, where anyone could see them.
“How long?” he said tersely.
“Only a little.” Deftly she untied the belt-pouch from her waist. “Sit and rest here on this stone, and I’ll bandage thy hands.”
“It’s nothing, Rhiannon—a trifle.” But she’d kept her distance all day, and it was slowly driving him mad. If she wanted to touch him now for whatever reason, he’d seize the opportunity and make the most of it.
He strode to the fallen column half-buried in knee-high grass. Before sitting, he scanned the horizon once more, assuring himself nothing was out of place. She knelt beside him, graceful as a willow, and unscrewed the lid of a little stone pot. The pungent aroma stung his nostrils, but he barely noticed. All his attention was riveted on her light touch as she caught his hands in hers.
“’Tis a poultice made from marigold,” she said quickly, as though to fill the pregnant silence. “I’m sorry about the smell.”
“I’ve smelled worse.” Before she could anoint him with the stuff, he captured her hands. “Rhiannon.”
His voice sounded foreign in his ears, husky with the craving for her that burned in his blood. Startled, she glanced up at him, eyes wide and wondering beneath her dark brows. Under his heated gaze, color rose beneath her creamy skin.
Nay, you’re not nearly as indifferent to me as you pretend.
“What is it?” Her voice was breathless, breasts rising too swiftly beneath her brown woolen gown. No corset or farthingale, nothing but a shift underneath, and he’d thought of nothing else since he watched her dress. Easy enough to get her out of it.
“You seem flustered, princess,” he murmured, thumbs stroking her soft palms. “Are you remembering the last time I held you?”
“I’m perfectly well. Why should I be otherwise?” Her chin tilted in swift pride. But he tightened his grip and drew her forward, until she knelt between his spread legs. The pale sweetness of violets rose from her skin to surround him.
“Why indeed, Rhiannon? You claim to feel nothing and care nothing for me—for the way your blood sings when you burn in my arms.” He spread her palms over the hard sinew of his thighs, her light touch searing through his hose. “Isn’t that true, princess?”
“I’m no princess any longer.” Her hands fluttered like trapped moths beneath his. “Beltran, there’s no purpose to this. Thou have chosen thy God above any woman.”
A spark of dangerous anger ignited within him. “I’ve failed God and failed my order. I’ve cast them both aside for your sake. Just as you sacrificed your innocence for me.”
The words burst from him, fired by a mad hope he hadn’t realized he was entertaining. “Rhiannon, listen to me. I’ve been thinking about Elizabeth Tudor. Perhaps she can yet be saved from heresy. If I draw her into the true Church, if I persuade her to join her sister’s crusade, we can bring the light of God to this benighted isle. The Archbishop would overlook anything for that, and my order would hail my return. We could go to Hatfield together!”
But she was shaking her head, face poignant with regret, eyes shimmering with tears he despised himself for causing. “Nay, Beltran, I won’t join thy crusade. Thou must abandon this militant struggle, this relentless persecution of the good English people. Last night, I told thee, someone—”
“I can’t give it up. I won’t give it up. And you’re going to admit you want me anyway.”
He hauled her against him and claimed her the only way he could, with the fierce driving hunger of his mouth on hers. Clearly furious at his peremptory handling, she struggled to wrench away, but posed no match for his strength.
He trapped her between his thighs, arms closing hard around her, tongue plunging deep into her honeyed mouth. She was proud and angry, hissing like a cat, gripping his doublet in her small fists but meeting him kiss for kiss. Her tongue dueled with his, sharp teeth nipping his lip in a declaration of war. It was all the challenge he needed to subdue her as he deepened the kiss, crushing her soft breasts against his chest.
She sighed into his mouth and yielded, as she always did for him, arms twining around his neck in surrender. A fierce surge of triumph rolled through him. Swiftly he rose, lifting her slight weight without effort. Her legs wound around his waist, fitting her snug against his codpiece. All at once, he wanted to be inside her, and he didn’t intend to wait.
But first, he’d make her beg for him. He’d demand her confession of how he made her feel. As her mouth clung to his, drinking his kisses like wine, he lowered her to the fallen stone, nudging her legs apart and kneeling between them so their positions were reversed. Swiftly he pushed the soft folds of her skirts aside, hands skimming past her stockings to find the soft bare skin of her thighs. She moaned into his mouth and opened for him, hands clutching his shoulders as though she’d never let go.
“Tell me you want this, princess,” he muttered, calloused palms sweeping over her warm skin, pushing her skirts up around her hips. “Show me your beauty. Tell me you never want me to stop.”
“I don’t,” she whispered, shifting restlessly on the stone as he spread her wide. “Merciful Goddess, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
With a growl of conquest, he surveyed her, a sight so wanton it sent the blood straight to his groin. She sprawled in abandon beneath the open sky, skirts pushed around her waist, her slender thighs parted to expose the plump peach of her cunny, framed by his sun-browned hands. Starving for the sight of her, he spread her wider, creamy moisture glistening on her folds. Her musky scent filled his nostrils. His cock jerked beneath his codpiece like a living creature.
He barely recognized his own deep-throated voice. “Open your gown, princess. I want to see your gorgeous breasts.”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered. Feverishly her hands fluttered to her bodice, tore at the simple laces, pushing the gown open with a boldness that delighted him. Her breasts spilled out, pink nipples tight as if begging for his touch. He couldn’t resist tonguing them, teasing the sensitive peaks to hear her gasp, feel her arch against his mouth. But he wanted much more from her, and he intended to have it.
He lifted his
head and surveyed his handiwork—her face flushed, eyes lidded and gleaming with passion, nipples hard and glistening from his kisses, back arched, thighs spread wide to offer her cunny for his inspection. His heart thudded hard at the sight, blood pounding through his veins, his cock more than ready to thrust into her wet quim.
“I’m going to taste you now, princess,” he said gruffly. “You want that, don’t you?”
“Yes...yes...”
“Beg me.”
For a moment, he thought he’d misjudged his moment, pushed her too hard. He thought the proud royal would leap to her feet, eyes flashing, and put him in his place.
Instead her eyes fluttered closed, head falling back in a gesture of complete trust that made his chest tighten.
“Oh, Beltran...I want you to taste me. My dearest love...”
Blood roaring in his ears, he bent forward and swept his tongue along her deep cleft. Softly she cried out, her salty sweetness flooding his mouth, her little pearl quivering for his attention. He circled and teased her, drawing forth more of her exquisite cream, until she raised her hips and pleaded with him never to stop.
Her responsiveness, the frank eroticism of her innocent desires amazed him. She had none of the shyness and self-consciousness he’d expect from an almost-virgin. Indeed, if he weren’t restraining her with his hands, drawing back to prolong her pleasure as she writhed beneath his tongue, she would have climaxed for him already.
“What a treasure you are,” he murmured, tongue dipping into her channel to gather more of her musk. Her gorgeous quim was weeping for him. “Cup your beautiful breasts for me, princess. Go on—I want to see you do it.”
He raised his head long enough to ensure she complied. She moved as though delirious, cupping her pert breasts in both hands. Of her own volition, her fingers strayed to her nipples, toying with them as he’d done. Her breath escaped her parted lips in desperate gasps. Unable to tear his eyes away, he flicked her hard little pearl with his thumb. Suddenly she was calling out, hips thrusting into his touch, squeezing her nipples rhythmically as her pleasure peaked.
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