Page 312 of The Daughters of Avalon
Moreover, he should have enough bloody sense not to choke his cock alone in these woods, with his travel companions not more than twenty yards away and a wolfhound sniffing at his heels. But evidently, he didn’t, and there was only one small comfort he could embrace—that he was still human enough to have a man’s desires, even amidst the chaos surrounding them. But it was a youth’s appetite he enjoyed of late, and this was nothing to crow about. He was a besotted auld fool, whosemodicum of good sense now faltered whenever faced with his beautiful, willful bride.
Such as it was, Cael couldn’t even begin to conceive why it was that he was compelled to make excuses in broad daylight, or why he thence put his back against a tree, or why he then unlaced his trews, or pulled out his cock—only to piss, he reasoned. But that wasn’t true, because he stood there with the beast in his hand a moment too long, and then he stroked himself a few times for good measure, moaning with pleasure over the feel of the hot, tight flesh in his hands.
But there was that bloody hound, with its bright wolflike eyes fixed upon him…
Still, intent upon his pleasure, he shut his eyes, envisioning Rhiannon’s face—not the way she appeared tonight, with that mile-long scowl—the way she oft looked when she trounced him at a game of Queen’s Chess, her soft, sultry lips curved ever so slightly with that beauteous smile, and her steel, blue eyes glinting with bravado…
The dog whined and Cael opened his eyes.
“Truly? Are you going to do this to me?” he inquired of the wolfhound. “I allowed you to come along, and I fed you.”
Scowling at the dog, he once again tested his own bravado, stroking himself a few more times, his skin hot and engorged. But the dog whined yet again, and his manhood wilted in his hand. Finally, he let his hand fall away, and growled at the dog, nonsensical as the gesture should be.
Shaking his head, still half mad with lust, and completely unsatisfied, he tugged up his breeches and laced up his trews. “Bloody hell,” he said, scowling at the hound. “I thought you were supposed to be man’s best friend. God’s truth, you’re no friend to me!”
The dog whined pitifully, and Cael bade him to follow with a snap of his fingers. Together, man and dog started back in the direction of their camp.
Evidently contented with the outcome, the animal scampered up beside him, wagging its tail, and peering up at Cael with an unmistakable look of admiration. And, despite himself, it melted his heart precisely as it had when he’d first tried to shoo it away after leaving Blackwood.
God only knew, the rest of the pack had been pleased enough to run free, and Cael knew that they would eventually return home, as they always did after a hunt; hopefully not before Morwen departed. Clearly, this one had a soft spot for Cael, as he did for it. He was getting soft in his old age.
With a sigh, he reached down to scruff the animal’s thick fur. “Mayhap you can find a way to soften your lady’s mood,” he conspired with the animal. “It’s the least you can do.”
Long before there weregrimoires,or even words for that matter, thehudsimply was. Therefore, even despite lacking a truegrimoire, there was no spell Rhiannon shouldn’t be able to cast, given the will to do it.
Even before her mother had clapped her in irons, she’d already begun to understand this experientially: that spells didn’t require words, nor did they necessitate herbs or rites. Rather, all these things only helped the caster cast: words for focus, herbs to facilitate manipulation of the elements, rites to channel the energy of thehud, and to honor the Mother Goddess by whose grace all things were made possible.
Essentially, all things were summoned or banished, created or destroyed, transformed or reformed. And while it might seemthere should be many, many nuances, or that, by virtue of these differences, it left too much to be explored, she had also come to know that all spells essentially belonged to the same two classifications, and that each had a genesis in either acceptance or denial. Therefore, if one viewed the world under these simpler terms, it was easier to channel the proper energy for a given spell.
Fundamentally, belief opened up all possibility, and emotion was the energy’s source.
So, then, theoretically, she shouldn’t even need to knowwhatwas possible in casting, she only needed to believe it was possible and to put heart and soul into the spell.
At least she hoped these things were true.
The time was coming soon to face Morwen—not a month from now, nor a year, but any moment…
Considering both protection spells and offense spells, she tried to open her mind and her imagination.
She only wished she could discuss such things with her sisters, because in the end, she needed their help—a truth she hadn’t ever considered before realizing how wrong she was about her role in the world.
In the meantime, she was grateful to have Marcella. The paladin was as close to a dear friend as Rhiannon had ever known, complicated though their relationship might be—and despite Marcella’s obvious affection for Cael.
And yet, truly, one could not control who they loved. Simply because Marcella held some strange affection for Cael, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. Intuitively, she trusted the paladin’s word. She would never betray herself, nor her word, and no matter how she’d felt about Cael, she was still willing to put an arrow through his heart in defense of Rhiannon. This was proof of her honor.
Considering these things, Rhiannon stood checking her cinches, after returning her supplies to her satchel.
Marcella and Jack were both busy repairing the campsite, and all together they were preparing to depart.
Supper had been mean, only a bit of salted beef, and a bite ofpan. Evidently, Jack had meant what he’d said, and the memory of his rebellion made her smile.
Only when Marcella had asked where the cony was, he’d shrugged and told her she must have forgotten to procure it. Then, he’d offered to go find her a proper butcher, but his tone was so acerbic that it was impossible to mistake his meaning. There wasn’t any butcher around for leagues, and neither did he intend to go searching.
For his part, Cael had made some excuse, then disappeared into the woods, perhaps to tend to his ministrations. No one dared follow him, except for that wolfhound, who, like Rhiannon, clearly longed for some attention.
What a silly fool she was, yearning for Cael’s embrace and his kisses.
How was it even possible that she was so concerned with something so ridiculous as kisses when the fate of England was now at risk? At any instant, Mordecai could descend upon them—and God help them all if it should happen to be Morwen. None of them were prepared to face her mother yet—not even Rhiannon, and certainly not Jack or Marcella. And nay, most especially not Cael. Morwen would tear out his heart sooner than she would listen to a word from his mouth.
