Page 121 of The Daughters of Avalon
“You knew him?” Giles asked, dismissing his brother, and turning to question Rosalynde, with one brow arched and his pupils darker than they had ever appeared before. They penetrated her to her very soul, probing her secrets and promising to reveal them.
Alas, it was past time to confess.
Come what may, she could not keep thatgrimoirefrom her mother without help—and clearly, this man had what it took to keep her safe. There was no doubt in her mind now: He was sent by the Goddess.
“Aye,” Rosalynde said, clutching her side, grimacing with pain. “I knew him.”
“And?”
She winced, more over the pain of her confession than over the pain in her middle. “Alas, I have a confession to make,” she said, looking Giles’s straight in the face. “I am neither a nun, nor am I in route to Neasham.”
He tilted her a knowing glance, his black eyes shining, his gaze betraying little surprise. “And is that all?”
She might as well confesseverything. “Nay…. I was the one who stole your horse…”
Both his brows lifted now, and still he pressed her, “Something more?”
Rosalynde shook her head sheepishly, realizing the words must be said. “My mother’s name is Morwen,” she said, tears forming in her eyes, and she then buckled to her knees, the edges of her vision blackening as pain shot through her side.
Chapter
Nineteen
In a motion equally as fluid as his effort on his horse, Giles re-sheathed his sword and swept Rosalynde into his arms, leaving Wilhelm and the horse to follow. “You’re injured,” he said, in a far gentler tone than she’d expected. And yet, even as Rosalynde clung to her Book, she was terrified.
That was Mordecai—her mother’s disciple—but what in the name of the Goddess was he?A gargoyle?
Her brain still could not reconcile what she’d witnessed.
Wilhelm recovered himself far more quickly than she did, hurrying ahead, snatching a blanket from the back of his horse and shaking it out as Giles carried Rosalynde over and placed her gently atop it. He laid her down with such care that it made her throat tight.
She peered up, clutching his tunic. “Thank you,” she said, groaning in pain as he released her.
“I beg pardon, but…” His gaze fell to her waist, where her gown was soaked with her own blood, and Rosalynde blinked, glancing up again, meeting his gaze. “I would see what damage was done.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” she lied, and tried to push him away. Even now, she didn’t wish to explain. If he would just leave her be andgo away, she would heal herself and be done. Already, the blood flow was ebbing. If he hadn’t already determined who Morwen was, she was beginning to doubt the wisdom in revealing herself.
He caught her by the wrist and said, “I would see it with my own eyes… with your permission and your pardon.”
Realizing he wouldn’t let it go, Rosalynde nodded dumbly, and let him push her gently back onto the blanket. He produced a knife from his boot and sliced the gown at her midriff, so he could see her wound, but still salvage some semblance of modesty.
“There’s a lot of blood,” he told her, his face crestfallen, and Rosalynde peered into his dark eyes, her own eyes filling with telltale tears as she lifted her hand instinctively to heal herself. Not understanding her intent—perhaps thinking her too modest, he once again caught her hand, holding it firmly in his own. “I don’t know how deep it is,” he said. “You shouldn’t disturb it.”
Rosalynde was afraid… though not about the wound. For the first time in her life, someone besides her sisters was looking at her… perhaps not with love, but concern, and it begged her to speak her truth. She lay exposed—literally—and trust was the only means to her salvation.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, she shook free of his hand, holding his gaze, and pleading with her eyes for him to allow her to do what she must.
Giles frowned but didn’t resist, and she peered down to inspect her wound. Now that the shock was wearing off, it was beginning to ache, but not for long. She put a hand over the torn flesh and whispered the necessary words—not out loud. It wasn’t necessary, and she would be embarrassed for him to hear her. Slowly, her flesh began to close before his eyes.Theycouldn’t see hermagikworking, but they could witness the end result—healed flesh, only stained by blood as proof of what she hadendured. Except the burn on her palm remained. Healed though it might be, the scar remained dark… and she glanced down, moving her dress to find that her puncture marks were black as well.
Alas, there was no sense holding anything back now…
These men, too, had suffered by her mother’s hand, and if anything, it gave her hope of convincing them to ally with her. She had no doubt any longer that Giles was her champion—hers, not Seren’s. No one could have done what he did, and she would be dead now without his help.
Without being asked, Rosalynde proceeded to explain all that she dared to explain, beginning with the details of herglamourspell. It wasn’t much different than a lady withmaquillage, she told them, only this face paint was not powder or cream, it was a mask woven ofaether, a suggestion by the Goddess to give mortal eyes what she wished them to see.
She went on to explain about thegrimoire, as well—how important it was to deliver the Book to Elspeth. Alas, Aldergh was the only place she knew to take it. Her sister Rhiannon was being held at Blackwood by agents of her mother’s, and she had no hope of infiltrating that stronghold without help—nor could she ultimately be certain thegrimoirealone would be enough to give Rhiannon the means to overcome her captors. After all, the only place she felt certain would receive her without sending her back to Stephen was Aldergh. Malcom Scott had once been a vassal of the Usurper’s, but he was no longer. Stephen had named him an enemy to the crown.
“I know who he is,” said Giles.
