Page 128 of The Daughters of Avalon
Even when he’d first laid eyes upon her beautiful sister, he hadn’t felt this way—even knowing that she was meant to lie beneath him. He had never once looked at Seren Pendragon as anything more than a Morwen spy—an agent for his ruin.
Now, in truth, if he must confess this fact—if only to himself—he hadn’t felt this confused by any woman since his first blush—not since Lady Ayleth. And even then, he never felt this… overwhelming desire to claim her for his own… to put his seed in her belly. He wanted to imagine her with his daughters at her skirts and his son suckling at her bosom…
As profane as it might seem… he wanted to suckle there himself…
And yet he was already betrothed, and this was no matter he could easily resolve—not when so many people depended upon the success of his charade.
At least for the time being, he must not embrace the way he felt. Later perhaps… but only perhaps.
And regardless, she must be famished—as famished as he was for the velvety sweetness of her skin.
“Thank you,” she said, and he struggled to recover himself, removing the twin goblets from the tray he’d brought. Taking his time, settlings his thoughts, he placed them on the table, and then picked up the flagon, intending to indulge himself until his mutinous cock could no longer stir.
At any rate, his mouth felt entirely too parched…
“Would you like somevin?”he asked, clearing his throat, and when Rosalynde didn’t immediately reply, he gestured toward the goblets.
“Yeah… please… thank you, my lord.”
My lord… the words sounded oddly formal in this richly adorned bower, when all week long he had been merely Giles, and they’d slept scandalously close, even sharing one blanket. And yet, in all that time, it had never once occurred to Rose to be embarrassed by their proximity—not even with her ruined gown. It wasn’t in her nature to be self-conscious. Only now, she felt painfully shy for the first time in her life, and she averted her gaze, examining the room.
Unlike the rest of the nunnery, the guest rooms were well fitted, if modestly so, with soft linens and sapphire blue curtains hanging from irons above a small, high window.
It wasn’t particularly a surprise, for despite that these nuns created such beautiful fabrics and gowns, Sister Emma herself had worn the simplest of dresses. The priory was the same—humble for the women who dwelt here, but snug and fit for their guests.
It was late now; the sun was already setting. Its rays impaled the leaded glass—not so fine as thewaldglasat Llanthony, and yet beautiful anyway, separating the sun’s hues over the white-sheeted bed—violet, blue, red, green, gold.
Beside the simple canopy, a small brazier burned very low, but still hot enough to warm the room. Alas, to Rosalynde’s dismay, it seemed that all its warmth crept into her cheeks.
Freshly scrubbed from her bath, she felt naked, exposed, even despite the lovely gown she wore. There was no wimple to hide the red of her hair, no veil to hide the trembling of her lips—nor, for that matter, anyglamourspell to hide her true face. She was precisely who—and what—she was, and if she must be judged by her looks alone, she would never, ever measure up to her sister.
And still, she dared to hope… if only because of the look Giles gave her as he came through the door… as though she must be the most beautiful maiden in all the realm. He was still gazing at her that way…
His gaze never left her as he poured thevinin both their goblets, and then he set the flagon down again, and once he was through, he lifted one goblet for Rosalynde to take. He gave her a heart-tripping smile, as he said, in jest, “To our continued ability to breathe.”
“I suppose ’tis one way to put it,” Rosalynde said, laughing softly, taking the goblet.
“And how else would you put it,Sister Rosalynde?”
Sister Rosalynde.
Her gaze shot up, only to realize he must be teasing her—for the first time ever, and now that he dared to her cheeks grew warmer still. Embarrassed, because she had ever meant to deceive him, Rosalynde lifted her glass, returning his smile. “Alas,” she protested. “I haven’t a gift for words, my lord.”
He lifted a golden brow, his lips curving ever-so slyly. “To my knowledge, Lady Rosalynde, you’ve never had a loss for any words,” he said, and her face burned hotter, until she felt the flush ignite her bosom. “And nevertheless,” he said. “Never fear,as it seems to me you have more than your share of gifts already—not the least of which is your smile.”
Rosalynde’s heart tripped wildly.
Very shyly, she lifted her goblet to her lips, grateful for the sweet elixir to calm her nerves—and Goddess please, she planned to drink alottonight, if only so she could forget that she meant to lie with her sister’s intended.
And no matter… she knew in her heart that Seren would be the first to sanction this union. Seren was not capable of envy, and neither could she possibly have any affection for Giles de Vere—not like Rose did. After all, how could anyone endure such trials and not be bonded?
Unbidden, the Goddess’s words came back to tease her, and she flushed hotly, because if those words were not imagined… if, in truth, they were to be believed… they must already be wed in the eyes of the Goddess… and still… not once had Giles dared to acknowledge what had happened.
Rose understood that he must not have experienced them. Such things were not meant for the ears of common men—and yet, he was hardly, in the true sense of the word… common.
Whatever the case, she had no compunction about what she was about to do—none at all. She had been taught to revel in all that made her a woman. Her ancestors had been pagans, who, instead of being ashamed of the act of procreation, had been taught that the creation of life was the greatest gift to be bestowed upon the world, and if she could thank Giles, she would thank him with her body and her soul.
Only what she felt for him was more than gratitude. She felt something deeper. She felt…love, for what was love after all, but a higher form ofmagik,born of faith, trust and devotion?
