Lord of Shadows (Daughters of Avalon Book 5) Read online

  “Since when have you allowed my daughter the use of my suite in the tower?”

  “Some time ago,” Cael confessed, his shoulders tight as he braced for Morwen’s displeasure. “You must admit, I could scarcely have expected to win Rhiannon over by keeping her in a cell, so I thought it prudent to give her a place of honor. She’s in many ways her mother’s daughter.”

  Morwen huffed in response. “Naturally,” she said, as they arrived in the main hall, and moved toward the dais. “But you needn’t have wooed the bitch. If you were half the man you are purported to be, you’d have dragged my ungrateful daughter before a prelate long before today. Instead, here you are playing nursemaid and catering to her every whim.”

  “Hardly,” he said.

  “I have my little birds,” she reminded him, and Cael tensed, wondering if her “little birds” had already told her about their moonlight brewing. Marcella had been working all night long to prepare the potion, and though she’d finished early this morning, she spent the entirety of the day trying to cover up the smell. Thankfully, Morwen didn’t ask to see her cauldron—though whether this was a good or bad thing was yet to be determined. Instead, she led the way to the dais, comporting herself as though she were already mistress of Blackwood, which, to some extent, she probably was.

  Half his denizens he did not trust. The other half he trusted with his life—and that was a good thing, because tonight, that’s precisely what he had to lose. “Have you any wish to refresh before the feast?” he asked politely.

  “Nay,” she snapped. “Worry not, my lord. The journey here was not too arduous. And, really, I care nothing for my daughter’s nuptials—leastways not beyond the rewards I will reap. You did your job well enough, and, as promised, I will reward you in turn. Too bad you don’t seem particularly inclined to take your payment in my bed.”

  Cael stiffened. “Not if you mean for Rhiannon to believe I have given her my heart,” he said. And then, because curiosity needled him, he dared to pry. “By the by… you never said where you have been sheltering, meistres. Much has trans—”

  “I can be found when there is need,” she replied, and then she said no more. The woman was as cunning as her “little birds.” In fact, wherever she’d kept herself these past three years, she’d kept her whereabouts entirely secret. But Cael suspected she must be close—somewhere she could keep a wary eye on her precious cauldron. And regardless, she had not kept her head all these years without keeping a few secrets. According to his own “little birds,” she’d not called upon Darkwood in quite some time.

  “You brewed my honey wine!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “I thought I smelled mead.”

  It was her preference of drink. And while it was not Cael’s, he nodded to a servant girl waiting to serve them. “I’ll have some as well,” he told her.

  Only then was she appeased. Without bothering to ask which seat to take, she assumed the seat to the immediate left of the lord’s chair—the one that, according to propriety, should be left for his bride. “Let us talk,” she demanded, with a satisfied smile. “We have much to discuss.”

  7

  “And then, once the vows are spoken, I—”

  All chatter ceased abruptly as Rhiannon floated into the hall amidst a billowing cloud of gilded purple. Thereafter, it was all Cael could do to keep his attention on the woman seated beside him—his means for revenge, like that sword that once doomed his soul. And yet… no longer was the object of his lust a spellbound blade, but a flame-haired beauty draped in silvered thread. She was lovely—more so than he could ever have imagined after greeting her fresh from that tumbril five years ago. But the dress…

  Dyed a true purpure, the long flowing sleeves and surcoat were dark and rich. By contrast, the sendal chainse was paler than the palest shade of a new moon.

  Moreover, she’d plaited her thick tresses into lovely braids that fell to each side of her flawless face, completing the look with silver ribbons that were each interwoven throughout the plaits. Altogether, the metallic threads glistened, reflecting the torchlight in such a manner that it appeared she glowed like the sword his hands once ached to hold.

  Enchanting…

  Even her damnable mother was gobsmacked by the sight of her, though she covered her shock with a discreet little cough. “How… beautiful,” she said.

  Morwen herself was stunning for her age—a greater feat than most realized, since no one had any notion of her true age. Not even Cael knew for sure, though he knew who she was and whence she’d come, and that was shocking enough, though not as shocking as the envy that was so palpable in a mother’s voice—conspicuous as the silver threads so masterfully woven throughout Rhiannon’s attire.

  “I… have… never seen… anything… so… exquisite.”

  “Indeed,” said Cael, though she was speaking of the dress, he presumed. He himself was enamored of the woman, and he found himself bitterly envious over the way the shimmering fabric clung so possessively to her curves.

  To cover his stupefaction, he leaned close to whisper into Morwen’s ear, and he had no need to feign the admiration he felt. “A wedding gift from my cousin. So pleased you agree.”

  “Of course,” she said, though Cael could hear envy dripping from her tone. And then she found and grasped a thread of joy, “Didn’t I tell you that dolt would prove useful?”

  “It’s not from Graeham,” he said quickly. “It’s from Marcella. She’s come to pay her respects.”

  Morwen’s smile vanished. “Marcella?” She inspected her fingernails, her expression turning grim. “Really?” she said. “Is she tired of the shrew already?”

  Cael shrugged. “Apparently so. She has assured me that her loyalties are no longer with the Empress, but to the people of Wales. She claims she doesn’t care how the King’s negotiations end, so long as they benefit the realm.”

  “The realm,” Morwen scoffed. “More like, she longs to return to your bed.”

  “Or perhaps yours?” he suggested. “It was never mine that brought her such joy.”

  Her eyes glittered fiercely. “I really don’t care about that! All I care to know is this: Do you trust her?”

  Cael shrugged. “So much as I trust you,” he said easily, and the implication wasn’t entirely lost to Morwen. He watched a veil fall over her eyes, and smiled.

  “Take care,” she said darkly. “Marcella will bring trouble.” And then her gaze returned to her daughter as she added, “Though, in truth, you might be more concerned about Rhiannon.” Her shrewd gaze shifted to the reliquary that lay hidden beneath his tunic—a relic that stung his flesh, and yet, he never removed it. He peered down to discover it was emanating a strange glow, and his brows knit. He’d never noticed that before. Then again, it was the first time in Morwen’s presence that they’d dared speak of the artifact, calling his attention to it… odd.

  “You would be wise to keep that out of her sight,” she advised. “Indeed, she seems content enough for the moment, but she is no fool. You haven’t any notion how much hell she will unleash if she learns what that is.”

  Cael smiled tightly, unable to constrain himself. “Like mother, like daughter,” he agreed, and then he returned his attention to his beauteous bride, who was now making her way through the aisle, greeting vassals as though she knew them all by name—she did not, however. Her time as his ward had not been so reckless as that. Blackwood was full of Morwen’s spies, and he’d made good and certain Rhiannon knew it as well.

  One by one his guests rose from their seats to greet the future lady of Blackwood. The Lord Rhys and his father, Maredudd ap Gruffydd, rose and hailed her as she passed. Rhiannon stopped to greet the man, taking the elder’s hand, and offering him a courteous bow.

  Good girl, he thought.

  It would serve their ruse all the better if her mother believed she came to him willingly, and that she honored the alliance.

  He was entirely relieved to see she’d heeded his advice. Had she attempted an
early escape, there would be nothing he could do to prevent her mother from doing her worst—not so long as she held Cael’s fate in her hands.

  Indeed, Rhiannon was a wise little bird…

  Perhaps wiser than her mother could possibly know.

  But he knew.

  She was passionate, brave, loyal and intelligent, and so much as he’d resisted the bent to admire her, he nevertheless did.

  Never once had he allowed her to win at a game of Queen’s Chess; she’d matched him point for point, and gave no quarter, pursuing him as artfully as a courtier, sealing his fate time after time. She was as cunning as she was lovely, and neither did she need magik to best him.

  Nay, indeed, she was here because she, too, was playing a game, and he wondered… what did she consider to be the ultimate prize?

  The obvious answer was her freedom, but some tiny part of him hoped…

  Would she take some small pride in taking his name?

  “Excuse me,” he said, rising abruptly, intending to play the part of the smitten groom—nor would it be particularly difficult … so long as he didn’t consider the evening’s conclusion.

  God’s bones, he would miss her—far more than he was willing to confess.

  “Of course,” said Morwen, though he felt her eyes boring into his back as he abandoned her upon the dais. Good.

  If she was already warning him about his misplaced trust and affection for her daughter, everything was going according to plan. For everyone’s sake, it was crucial that Morwen believe he, too, had been betrayed. And nevertheless, he was no fool. If she suspected aught was amiss, this was not the time or place she would reveal her hand.

  This was not the greeting Rhiannon had anticipated. Inconceivably, there were looks of adoration as she passed, although she couldn’t help but wonder how much of the pageantry was an act. For all that the hall seemed to abound with laughter, she sensed vipers coiled beneath the tables, waiting for her to pass in order to strike.

  How many of these guests had arrived with her mother?

  How many were loyal to Cael?

  Whatever the case, none of them were Rhiannon’s allies, and precisely as the maid who’d dressed her had made so perfectly clear, no one attending this evening would take her side against Morwen—except Cael.

  Cursing Cael for leaving her to parade herself alone through this hall, she held her breath as she made her way to the dais, encountering a sea of curious gazes—blue eyes, green, brown… only she was acutely aware of one very canny pair of golden eyes, watching every move she made. And regardless, her gaze was drawn, not to Morwen’s, but to the steely pair of eyes of the man who’d risen from his seat and now wended his way toward her…

  Cael.

  Dressed in an elegant black surcoat, his eyes glinted mercurially, begging caution. Clearly, he understood, as she understood, that one wrong word would force an end to their charade, and perhaps to their lives as well.

  Behind Cael, her mother sat very still upon the dais, watching, like a spider waiting to see what prey would wander into her web. But, of course, she was nothing if not clever, and Rhiannon was infinitely grateful that Cael was brave enough—or witless enough—to defy her.

  Surely, he must have some ulterior motive; it simply couldn’t be that he cared for her…

  Catching her by the arm, he drew her close to whisper in her ear. “Kiss me as though you mean it,” he demanded, and then took her face into his hands, as a lover might, cupping her cheeks with such tender ferocity that Rhiannon was momentarily stunned by the gesture.

  Never in her life had she been kissed by any man, but the dark look in Cael’s eyes before he possessed her mouth effectively silenced her protest. For an interminable moment, she was too stunned even to nod.

  Sweet, sweet fates!

  The instant his mouth—hot, wet and persistent—found hers, in full view of so many witnesses, it stole away her breath.

  No one present could call this a lie.

  No one had any true inkling what transpired in the privacy of her bedchamber. For all they knew, this was merely one of many kisses that came before it. “Cael,” she breathed, though she wasn’t sure it was a protest. To any and all watching, there could be no question; they must be lovers.

  “Cael,” she whispered, again, as he grinned, breaking the kiss to peer at her with an odd glimmer in his eyes that could only be mistaken for affection. He caressed her flushed cheek with a thumb and Rhiannon hadn’t any clue how long she clung to him, only that sudden and raucous laughter erupted amidst the courtiers and guests. Rude jests were made.

  “He can’t even wait for the vows,” said a man very gleefully.

  “Look at the lance in his breeches!”

  “I warrant he’ll stab her and good,” said another.

  “There’s no time,” Cael whispered. “Play the part of a besotted bride, and all will go as planned.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “You’ll know,” he promised, and then, what seemed a full eternity later, he finally released her, and then took her by the hand, a beloved lord performing for his audience.

  “Please… forgive my lusty greeting. I am a man too-long deprived,” he said, and then he laughed, and leaned toward Rhiannon once more to say, “Forgive me.” But he pecked her on the cheek.

  More cheers resounded, and now, at last, Rhiannon chanced to look at the dais where her mother remained seated, smiling very tersely. After a moment, she, too, rose from her seat. “A toast!” she shouted, her voice silencing the revelers. “To my beauteous daughter and her dutiful champion!” She tilted her head ever so slightly and smiled disingenuously. “At long last, a daughter of Avalon returns to Blackwood!”

  “Hear! Hear!” echoed the crowd, and Rhiannon swallowed a knot of fear that rose to choke her.

  Morwen was a master at mindspeaking. She could betimes read minds as well—did she know?

  The absence of her mother’s voice in her head was heartening. But, if in fact the shackles effectively blocked her magik, then it was still quite possible she could read the truth in Cael’s mind, no matter if she couldn’t read Rhiannon’s. Forcing her lips into a tremulous smile, her heart remained confused by the man whose hand she held.

  Goddess, please! she begged. Wasn’t it impossible to kiss a woman so profoundly and not have some measure of feeling behind it? Could it be that Cael cared for her? After all these years had he discovered in his heart some measure of compassion for Morwen’s second eldest?

  It was Cael’s turn to speak. “Friends!” he said, grinning proudly. “My lady and I—” He gave Morwen a discreet nod. “Will go speak our vows in the privacy of our chapel, and then return… to celebrate alongside you.”

  Another hearty round of cheers erupted.

  Up on the dais, Morwen took this as her cue. She laid her glass of mead down on the table, and made to join them. Still, her golden eyes slitted suspiciously, and Rhiannon’s heart prickled with fear.

  “In the meantime,” Cael added, his voice carrying like thunder through the hall. “Please, stay! Enjoy libations.”

  Without warning, he jerked Rhiannon’s hand very rudely, turning her so that they preceded Morwen into the courtyard. All the while smiling at folks, he spoke between his teeth. “Guard your words as I will mine. Endure the ceremony with a smile, and you will soon be shed of me.”

  He lifted up her hand to kiss it gently, and Rhiannon felt another prickle rush down her spine—only this time it wasn’t fear. But, nay, could it be anticipation?

  And then a thought occurred to her…

  Did he mean to collect her virginity before setting her free?

  If he did not, would they still be wed in the eyes of the law?

  Did she want a bedding?

  Surely not!

  Goddess, lend me strength, she thought. No matter what he said or what he did, Cael was still her mother’s ally, and simply by virtue of this fact, he was still her mortal enemy.

  How in the name o
f the Goddess could she crave another shocking taste of his traitorous mouth?

  Plagued with thoughts she ought not be thinking, she allowed him to lead her out the door, into the courtyard, and mindlessly toward the chapel, all the while her mother followed behind.

  8

  The scent of decayed lilacs filled the courtyard.

  Even as they trampled sunbaked blossoms, the perfume brought a sting to Rhiannon’s eyes. It was perhaps meant to be lovely, but the effect was cloying—an opinion clearly shared by the pinch-nosed prelate awaiting them inside the windowless sanctuary: No doubt he was incensed to be called from Abbey Dore to preside over a ceremony for “heathens,” only to suffer a megrim over the decor of this Roman-style chapel, with its arched entries, fat pillars and half-finished wooden apse.

  Perhaps the church was meant to be grand in its day, but it was bleak now and hardly equipped to be used in modernity. With cracks in the mortared stone and a pocked and rubbled floor, it was not even so well-kept as the ivy-tangled courtyard that harbored her mother’s cauldron—an eglwys so much as this was, though its ceiling was not vaulted between pillars, but rather an open sky, and its altar was a pagan relic of bygone days. That, too, must have annoyed the Cistercian, judging by his downturned lips. She recognized his order by his robes—crude, undyed wool to proclaim his penury before God. His order also rejected the black robes of their fellows, and his shoes were made of cowhide, not Cordoba leather. However, like most monks, he was tonsured—the crown of his head shaved, leaving a band of hair below his ears, to symbolize his crown of thorns.

  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.