Page 253 of The Daughters of Avalon
Why her mother did not call upon Llanthony, Rhiannon didn’t know, but she wondered if it had something to do with a rumor she’d heard that the old goat Ersinius was finally dead.
Reminding herself that no one attending today could possibly guess at the bargain she’d struck with Cael—or that he was aught but a besotted lover—she drew a smile on her face to hide the trembling of her lips.
Her betrothed was solicitous throughout the entire ceremony, holding her hand and making room for her beside him on the chancel, smoothing a loose strand of hair from her face.
For her part, she found herself heartily confused by his ministrations—and perhaps her mother was, as well. Morwen’s disgust was writ plainly upon her face. Although, in fact, she coveted this alliance, she clearly didn’t relish the notion of her daughter winning her husband’s heart—little did she realize.
“Is there any man here who opposes the union?” asked the prelate, and for an instant, Rhiannon thought her mother would speak—and so she did, but they were not words anyone anticipated.
“You sack of bones! There are three witnesses in attendance. Do you believe we’re standing in this joyless crypt for our own pleasure? Nay! Get on with it, you lout!”
The expressions that flitted across the prelate’s face were entirely laughable. Anger, followed by fear. Though he daren’t even look at Morwen to chide her, and one of Cael’s guards coughed loudly to cover a choke of laughter.
The prelate cocked his head to plead his case with Cael, but the lord of Blackwood’s expression remained sober. “Go on,” he commanded the man.
They finished in short order—Christian vows only, though Rhiannon was not of that order, and she doubted Cael was either. Certainly, Morwen was as far from being a good Christian as any woman could be. In fact, standing amidst the shifting light inside the chapel, her mother’s starkly beautiful face twisted under the play of light and shadow, making her appear very much like the demon she was.
All the while, as the prelate sniffed with disapproval, her mother’s lips curled on the verge of a snarl. She remained silent thereafter, looking this way and that, studying the priest, then Cael… then Rhiannon.
Even Cael seemed tense, though he gave her a reassuring squeeze. But the gesture only managed to confuse her more. Throughout the entire ceremony, she stood, deaf and dumb, the moment passing like a dream—good or bad remained to be seen. Although if Morwen thought anything of Rhiannon’s uncharacteristically quiet demeanor, she mistook it for nerves, because after the ceremony was done, and their vows were spoken, they quit the chapel forthwith, and made their way back to the hall uneventfully—all but for one instant, when her mother swept to the fore, preceding them into the courtyard. She cast an impatient glance toward her cauldron, then turned away, and Rhiannon thought she heard Cael sigh in relief. And no matter, he oughtn’t rest so easily… not yet. Now was the Golden Hour when her mother’shudwould be at its strongest. Even wearing these shackles, Rhiannon could feel potential rise in the air like tension. That woman was the scourge of Wales, and the bane of men—not to mention a murderer of her own kindred.
Her sisters were dead now because of her, and if Morwen had her way, she would slaughter the remainder of her daughters, beginning with Rhiannon.
Verily, if her mother turned on her now, she wouldn’t be strong enough to defend herself. Even as she acknowledged thetruth of that, her shackles weighed heavier. Therefore, she kept her mouth shut, and guarded her thoughts, all the while the silver key stung her flesh where it fell between the curves of her breasts.
Soon.
Soon she would be gone.
Bide your time, as Cael suggested.
Hatred tempted her tongue, but prudence kept her gaze fixed upon her mother’s back. And even so, she could feel the witch’s presence as surely as her lips could feel Cael’s very passionate kiss—sweet fates, every time she thought of that kiss, she felt a strange ache in her bosom that teased her all the way to her womb.
He has branded me,she thought.
In all these years, she’d never once dared to think of him that way—not like that! —and it was as though that damnable kiss somehow shone a light on a dark place in her soul where she’d hidden all her feelings.
Now she could no longer lie to herself and claim she didn’t love him… because… against all odds… she did.
Sweet Goddess, how?
How could any sane woman love a man who’d kept her imprisoned for so many years?
And yet…
Swallowing, Rhiannon dared to cast a glance at the man who was risking so much to free her. His hair, dark as coal, glistened by twilight. His cheeks and nose were chiseled hard in profile, and the color of his skin, unlike her own, was sun-kissed and gold. If he sensed her scrutiny, he didn’t look to meet her gaze…
It didn’t feel like a celebration, more a funeral procession. Side by side they re-entered Blackwood’s vestibule and hall, and once there and reunited with their guests, their solemnity ended forthwith. Cael’s lips broke into a hearty grin. He liftedtheir joined hands as though to display them for their guests. Rhiannon’s ever-present bracelet glinted inauspiciously against the flickering torchlight. “Behold!” he said. “The new mistress of Blackwood!”
A round of cheers erupted throughout the hall, and the musicians began to play, and then, and only then did Rhiannon dare to assess her mother…
Morwen’s eyes glinted wolfishly…
As though she knew.
In the nameof King Stephen, Lord Protector of England, Wilhelm and Giles searched every room at Darkwood, including a dirty kitchen, two storerooms, and a “workshop” containing little more than a stained and foul-smelling cot, a rusty brazier and a soiled chamber pot. That room smelled sourly of sex, but there was no one within, nor was there anyone in any room they encountered, aside from an elderly cook, and an impossibly skinny, pale-faced tavern boy.
Considering the innkeeper’s tensions—as though he feared being discovered—and hoping against hope that he might encounter Morwen herself, Giles pressed on, one hand firmly on the hilt of his sword.
