A chill rushed down Giles’s spine. “Let’s go,” he said.
“What about our pretense?”
“We have what we need. We’ll follow the raven.”
9
A talented trio of musicians performed in the center of the room—one with a lute, one with a harp, one with two reeds betwixt his lips. Rhiannon would dearly love to steal one of those reeds and shove it none-too-gently down her mother’s throat, silencing her once and for all. Her nerves were stretched taut as the strings of the minstrel’s lute, and every word Morwen uttered plucked them raw.
Clearly, her mother’s rudeness was not reserved for the prelate. Rhiannon had no choice but to sit and wait as the Golden Hour came and went. By now, her sense of anticipation had long dimmed, and she was beginning to fear that Cael’s offer of freedom was nothing but a cruel jest—or worse, that he and her mother were secretly amusing themselves at her expense.
Moreover, he was behaving very strangely.
No doubt these two had been planning this wedding for quite some time. That became more than apparent as trays laden with foodstuffs whizzed past from the kitchen and fresh pitchers of ale and mead swept through the hall. There was no way—not even through magik—that they could have baked so many trenchers to serve so many guests, not without time and planning. Doubtless, they had been scheming now for weeks, and nevertheless, Cael never once deigned to warn her.
Had he presumed she would balk and hadn’t wished to invite argument when they both knew very well that she hadn’t any choice?
Or perhaps he’d always known he would offer her this bargain she couldn’t refuse?
If, indeed, it was a bargain at all.
“Somehow you’ve managed to win his trust, even with your foul mouth and temper,” said Morwen, the instant her husband quit the dais to approach a young woman Rhiannon didn’t recognize. Morwen watched them both with an undisguised look of disgust, all the while clicking her nails on the chair.
Who can it be?
Whoever it was, her husband was quite pleased to see her, Morwen not so much…
Her manner of dress was not at all that of a servant’s. Fashioned of a beautiful celestine, nearly diaphanous sendal, her gown was trimmed generously with miniver, and despite that it wasn’t so fine as Rhiannon’s purpure, it was, indeed, very, very lovely. So was the woman besides—dark haired, dark eyed, she looked like a Welshwoman, though she certainly didn’t dress like one. She dressed more like a French courtesan.
Jealousy reared unexpectedly, though Rhiannon forced a smile.
“Envy is not your color, my dear.”
Gritting her teeth, Rhiannon ignored her mother’s barb. Her gaze remained fixed on her husband and the strange woman he was speaking with. With one hand behind his back, he bent to lend an ear to some idle chatter, and, in response, the woman laughed—open-mouthed, showing a string of pearly white teeth.
Another stab of envy cut through Rhiannon’s heart.
Sweet fates. In all these years she’d never once entertained the notion of Cael with a paramour. Now, she had to wonder…
But why should she care?
Gods willing, she would be away from this place before sunrise.
Anyway, he’d said so himself: There is only one woman I have ever loved, and she is not you…
Was it her?
Was it that lady?
Distracted, Rhiannon picked at a thumbnail and worried the inside of her lip. Perhaps gleaning more than Rhiannon was comfortable revealing, her mother affected a sympathetic tone. “Poor dear,” she cooed. “You see… this is the problem with men… Once they catch you, they’d sooner let you go.”
Rhiannon stiffened.
Did Morwen know?
Nay, she reassured herself.
Nay. She did not.
She couldn’t possibly, because, in truth, if she did, she would not be taking such unbridled joy in the possibility that Rhiannon might have to share her husband.
In fact, she seemed quite gleeful over the fact—in this, her mother was utterly predictable. She loathed all her daughters that much. Swallowing her disgust, Rhiannon strengthened her resolve. She could not bear the sight of the woman seated at her side. And truly, considering all that Morwen had done, it was all she could do not to murder the hateful bitch where she sat—wrap her manacled hands about Morwen’s elegant throat and squeeze till her eyes bulged and her tongue lolled.
The image pleased Rhiannon immensely, unkind as it must be. Morwen Pendragon was a murderess at best, and no one in this realm could imagine the worst. Rhiannon herself could scarcely conceive it and she knew the truth…
Nay, the woman beside her was not the woman she claimed to be, although when she’d ceased to be Morwen Pendragon, Rhiannon didn’t precisely know. She only knew that the real Morwen was long gone, and what remained in her place was an evil sorceress that not even Rhiannon was prepared to deal with.
Oh, she realized her mother was keeping her alive for some purpose, and perhaps it was this… merely to bind herself to the lord of Blackwood, and once the deed was done… there was naught to say she wouldn’t be well-disposed to kill her. In fact, it was entirely possible that this was her plan all along, and Cael only meant to keep Rhiannon quietly appeased until such time as they were wed…
But, nay, she refused to believe it. Deep in her heart, she sensed a better man in Cael—had always sensed that man, although he fervently denied her claims. There was something good in him; she sensed it in her heart and saw it in his aura as well. No doubt, it was dark—darker than anyone’s she’d ever known except her mother’s—and still, it wasn’t black, and there was a thread of crimson besides. This could signify anger, though it could also be love…
Rhiannon chose to believe in love.
Pleading silently for her husband’s return to the dais, she kept her gaze trained upon him, and said, “Please… do not pretend there is love betwixt us, Morwen. You are not my mother and I am not your daughter.”
“Oh, my dear,” Morwen exclaimed, utterly amused. “But you are, Rhiannon! My dearest, I can assure you: You were dragged squealing from my womb, and you are more like me than you will ever care to confess.”
“Nay! I am not!”
“I beg to differ.”
At long last, Cael cast them a glance. His dark eyes were smoky with unspent passions, and Rhiannon’s heart squeezed painfully. Would he satiate himself once she was gone? With that woman? The thought pained her more than she might have realized.
“I wouldn’t worry,“ said Morwen, as though she’d read Rhiannon’s mind. “The eyes have but one language, my daughter. Judging by the look he’s giving you now, I’d say the man is hopelessly besotted. In truth, ’tis more than enough to put me off my dinner.”
He is?
No, he wasn’t!
Not with Rhiannon.
Surely her mother meant that he was besotted with that woman he was speaking to?
She frowned, because he did seem to like her overmuch, and to the contrary, she and Cael fought far too oft. And then she sighed, because she didn’t know what a besotted man should look like, and it galled her that her own mother should find the notion so utterly appalling. It would seem that on a day like today she might dredge up some small shred of good will in her awful bag of bones. But she didn’t sound pleased when she said, “I’ve known that man a long time, and let me tell you, I’ve never once seen that look in his eyes. Take care if you are not already deflowered, my daughter. I suspect he will pound you till you bleed.”