Page 331 of The Daughters of Avalon
In their purest forms, theSylphkindwere winged creatures, like dragons, both beautiful and terrifying at once. For love of these famed creatures, the kings of Wales had all named themselves the Dragon’s Disciples, and it was for theSylphkindthey’d decorated their banners.
Hic est Draco…
Rhiannon herself was a Pendragon, named for Uther, whose pennants he stole from the true Dragon Lord. Anglesey was said to be the cradle of Wales.Ynys Dywyll,as her people once called it—the Dark Isle. AndMôn Mam Cymru—Mother of Wales. Rhiannon had never been there, but she’d been told much about this sister isle to Avalon. It was said to be riddled withmenhirs—the standing stones of the gods. These days it was Owain Gwynedd who raised the dragon pennant, but Rhiannon knew by the way he spoke of it that her husband had bartered his fealty for the payment of this county in Wales.Helonged to have and hold the Dark Isle.
Hic est Draco…
If, indeed, Morwen was Cerridwen, thenshewas the true mother of Wales, and all its people—Cael included—were honor-bound to rise to her defense.
Was this, then, the crux of Marcella’s story?
Was this her dire warning?
Was it from Cael and not her sisters that she must be wary of betrayal? She thought about that as she filled the tub—an easy enough endeavor with her strengtheningmagik. There was so much moisture on the ground after last night’s deluge, even after a full day in the sun, that it took little effort to gather the moisture into droplets and the droplets into a lovely shower. She stood inside the tub, naked as the day she was born, allowing herself to be showered by the gifts of the Mother, feeling anew the thrill ofmagikhum through her veins and the gentle downpour of cleansing water rushing over her face.
This was what she was made for!
These were the moments when she felt whole!
It could be, in truth, that her husband was still her enemy, but for this one night alone, he would be her lover. This, she knew in her woman’s heart. For better or worse, tonight… they would consummate their vows.
Chapter
Thirty-Two
Cael froze, stunned by the vision that greeted him upon entering the lord’s chamber—the sight both startling and surreal. Never in his wildest dreams could he have conjured an image so fine as the one he saw before him.
Rhiannon.
But Rhiannon as he had never witnessed her before. Gloriously made, unashamed, reveling in the paganmagikthat fed her soul.
The soft curves of her woman’s body were masterfully formed—breasts high, taut and round.
Revealed to him fully, her mons was as dark a copper as the hair on her head.
She stood with palms turned up inside the downpour, eyes closed, while a soft cascade of rain fell over her andonlyher, showering her where she stoodinsidethe tub.
It straightened the curls of her glorious tresses, so it fell like copper satin against her face and proud shoulders, diverting water so it cascaded like a fountain over her breasts, teasing her nipples till they pebbled with pleasure.
Cael’s response was visceral; his body reacted at once, hardening to its full length, unyielding as stone and throbbing for a release long denied.
He wanted nothing more in that instant than to go to her and open his mouth to receive the blessing of water from her bountiful breasts.
“Rhiannon,” he said hoarsely.
Very slowly, she opened her eyes, though if he feared she would conceal herself from his greedy eyes, he feared for naught. Immodesty was her cloak this eve and her ice-blue eyes were feral, her lips curved ever so gently at the corners, into that wicked little smile that set fire to his blood—entirely reminiscent of the smiles she used to give him when she defeated him at Queen’s Chess. And now, even as then, he would gladly lose, with grace, and cede all he owned but for the promise of a kiss from her lush, beautiful lips.
He was a man lost, besotted by his wife. No other woman in his long, strange life had ever put such a flame in his heart.
Only belatedly, he closed the door, hoping to God that no one had been hiding in the shadows of the hall, because, in a fit of jealousy, he thought he might pluck out a man’s eyes only for having taken the liberty of ogling his wife.
His wife.
His.
Wife.
A primitive and fiercely proprietorial instinct swept over him in that instant and he knew that he would kill any man—or woman—if they so much as dared to harm a hair on her head…
