Page 309 of The Daughters of Avalon
“The fact that he’s here says a lot,” Jack persisted. “Take heart in that.”
Rhiannon offered the young paladin a cutting glance.
Was she so transparent?
Were her feelings so near to the surface that he could read her so easily?
Why couldn’t Cael?
He sat there, discussing ancient relics with Marcella, both their heads together, whispering feverishly, scarcely aware of anyone else in their proximity.
“So, you do care for her?” she asked Jack, a little petulantly.
“Aye,” he confessed. “Sadly, she fancies herself more of a sister to me.”
“Why don’t you tell her how you feel?”
He shrugged, then hitched his chin. “Why don’tyoutellhim?”
Rhiannon frowned. “BecauseIdon’t feelthatway,” she persisted.
“And yet… you do,” he argued. “There’s no mystery in the way you two regard one another, Lady Blackwood.”
“Nay, Jack,” she contended. “Art mistaken.”
“Oh? In that case, how about I attempt to kiss you and see how it is that yourhusbandresponds?”
“I’m his wife,” she hissed “How do you think he’ll respond? He’s like any other man. He may not want something for himself, but he won’t give it away.”
“That’s not what I see,” Jack argued, and perhaps to prove his point, he leaned closer to Rhiannon, as though to whisper in her ear… so close that she could feel the feathery heat of his breath tickle her flesh.
Before Rhiannon could push him away, her husband stood, unsheathing the sword at his back, deftly and with purpose, then drove it into the ground between them. “Altar boy,” he said. “Get your smooth little arse away from my wife.”
Jack complied at once, with a knowing smirk, and when Cael sat back down to continue his conversation with Marcella, he chuckled and said, “I told you so. That man is so aware of all you do, I can scarcely imagine how he’s keeping his attention on their discourse.”
Much to her consternation, Rhiannon couldn’t hide her answering smile.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
For the past few hours, it was all Cael could do to keep his attention on Marcella. That man-child was trying his patience—sitting so close to his wife, mumbling things he couldn’t hear into her ear—good Christ, she washiswife, and still, he could scarcely believe it!
Only a week ago, he’d feared she would never agree to the bargain. Considering that her eldest sister was to have been his betrothed, he’d expected Rhiannon to continue to deny him out of spite, or in defiance of her mother.
For all these past five years, he’d tried in vain—or so he’d thought—to win her over; and she was no easy mark. In the beginning, the wooing was no more than a diversion, but one night, whilst he’d lain abed… he’d realized… it had been years since he’d last thought of Nesta. It was no longer her face, but Rhiannon’s that appeared to him in his dreams, and it was Rhiannon’s name he oft breathed in the throes of pleasure—self-served, mind you. Much to his botheration, after meeting Rhiannon, he could no more consider a romp in the hay with some nameless wench than he could remember the way it felt to be touched by a woman he loved.
For a while, guilt had plagued him, because Nesta had sacrificed her life to save him, and the least he could have done was to honor her memory. Instead, he’d found himself hard as stone with thoughts of a red-haired termagant whose tongue was as sharp as her wit.
God’s truth. Even weary from travel, she was beautiful, with her dark, copper curls as wild and free as she was.
No doubt, he’d wanted to cheer her when she’d burned that man-child’s hand, and with his own blade to boot. It served the wretch right for testing her so stupidly.
In fact, now that she was free from her manacles, there was no telling what powers Rhiannon possessed, but if that was a small inkling…
“Are you listening?”
Marcella’s eyes impugned him.
