“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.