Page 318 of The Daughters of Avalon
“Promiscuity is unnatural for a woman?”
Rhiannon nodded quickly.
“Alas,mon amie. A woman’s desires are not so different from a man’s. And besides…” She eyed Rhiannon’s attire. “If you wear a man’s breeches long enough, you’ll find it affords you liberties you never imagined.”
Rhiannon laughed softly, though she tugged at her leathers, and then, confessed, “You know… I… I… was wondering. I have… never lain with a man…”
The whites of Marcella’s eyes widened visibly. “Not even?—”
Rhiannon shook her head, embarrassed.
“I assumed?—”
Rhiannon shook her head again, her face burning so hot now that she was grateful for the cover of darkness.
“Oh, my,” said the paladin, and then she grinned at Rhiannon until Rhiannon could spy the whites of her teeth as well. “Well then… please allow me to do you the honor of explaining the joys of congress.”
And then she did. And out of everything Rhiannon had heard so far, this was the most shocking of revelations—not because she didn’t already know what should transpire between a man and woman, but because there were so many ways to accomplish the task.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Late, late into the night, as a misty rain began to drizzle down, Rhiannon found herself struggling in the saddle.
Pulling her woolen cloak more tightly about herself, she donned the hood as well, tugging it down over her face.
Compelled to despite her resolve, her eyes closed of their own accord, and not even the dampness soaking through her cloak was enough discomfort to keep her from teetering in the saddle.
Forsooth. If her mother should appear right now, she would be ill-suited to do aught more than fall at her feet, face down in the muck—like King Stephen.
How embarrassed he must have been—the sovereign of England with a gob full of mud.
Rhiannon might have enjoyed seeing that—though not more than she would have enjoyed the sight of his sour-faced wife lying there beside him.
Deliriously, she thought, “That’s not very nice, Rhiannon.”The poor lady is already dead.But then again, because that was so, she already had a gob full of muck, now didn’t she?
That wasn’t Rhiannon’s fault.
Half insensate, Rhiannon seized a handful of her horse’s mane only to help steady herself, refusing to complain. If everyone else could endure so long, so, too, must she.
“Just a little further,” she coaxed herself.
Like a black-clad guardian angel, Cael appeared by her side. With barely any effort, he plucked her from her saddle, dragging her into his arms, where he tucked her against him and said, “Rest, my love.”
My love…
My love…
Was she really his love?
Could one truly love despite being aligned elsewhere? Every day of her confinement, he had reminded her of the debt he owed her mother. And more… that he’d desired everything Morwen desired—most importantly, an end to the regime that answered to an unscrupulous Empire. Betimes he spoke as though he had a personal grievance against the Church, and Rhiannon oft wondered why.
He wasn’t adewine—never the hunted, always the hunter! He was an executioner, a man to be feared. And yet… Rhiannon didn’t fear him, and she never had.
Aside from those first few months that he’d kept her in the tower, Cael d’Lucy had never once mistreated her.
Even then, he’d come to keep her company, talking with her for hours, standing outside hergaol, even without a chair. Conversely, at least Rhiannon had had a cot to sit on, and betimes whenever she’d wept, he’d opened her cell and come to sit by her side, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. She’d known then that, deep down, where it mattered, Cael d’Lucy’s heart was good. In fact, before her mother had delivered the shackles, she might easily have found a way to escape, still she never tried.
