Intuition was itself a form of magik. All creatures were born with a sense of it—men, women, even dogs, cats and birds… it was imperative to listen.
“Shall I wake Ellie?”
“Nay,” said Seren, without bothering to consider. “Let her sleep. She has her hands full with the boys. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
Rosalynde smiled fondly. “Why don’t you come back to my room?” she suggested. “We’ll snuggle like the old days.”
Whilst at Llanthony, all five sisters had slept together in the same bed, and regardless, far from being a burden, it was the one thing Seren most missed.
“I think I will,” she said, abandoning the sword. At the door, she handed the pricket to Rose so she could lock the room.
13
The hounds were getting close.
Unfortunately, it was impossible to say from which direction they were coming, although Rhiannon feared it must be Cael.
By now, they must have found her ruined gown. She only hoped Marcella’s masking potion would do its job, and send them searching in another direction.
Unfortunately, they daren’t mount until the terrain was even enough to ride, and much to Rhiannon’s dismay, it was nearly daybreak before they climbed into their saddles. Only then, finally, they were able to gain some distance from the barking hounds—thankfully, because they were still much too close to Blackwood to take any chances. Any experienced dewine would recognize the scent of magik and intuitively follow it. To hell with those hounds, a nose like Morwen’s would smell the tiniest disturbance in the aether.
Essentially, all things were born of the aether, all things returned to it, but if one had the skill to do it, the aether could be manipulated. Still, it was impossible to do so without some form of residua. Ofttimes, with smaller spells, the scent was imperceptible, but it was completely unmistakable with larger-scale manipulations. Knowing that, Rhiannon held back, even with the smallest incantations.
Silently, she followed Jack through the brambles as he cleared a path before them. Directly behind Rhiannon, agile as any man, Marcella followed with her blade in hand, riding as though she were born to her saddle. Her hooded cloak hid her ebony tresses. And her bright green eyes assessed their surroundings with a shrewdness born of experience.
How old was she? Rhiannon wondered.
She behaved as though she were a hundred and Rhiannon’s elder, though she couldn’t be much older than Rhiannon.
For his part, Jack couldn’t be more than nine and ten, though it was difficult to say for certain, because he, too, wore the same concealing cloak. Both of them seemed far too young to be able protectors.
Dressed in black, the young man shouldered a darkness that belied his youthful countenance, and, even by night, the haunted look in his pale blue eyes was unmistakable. Rhiannon wondered what travails he’d encountered to make him seem so glum. Whatever it was, she suspected it must have something to do with her mother.
What else could convince strangers to aid her against Morwen? Either they owed Cael a great debt, else they loathed her mother so much they were willing to risk life and limb on Rhiannon’s behalf. But no matter the circumstances, Rhiannon was grateful, though there was something about Marcella that needled her.
The woman was sullen and suspicious, curt and mercurial—very much like a changeling. One minute she was entirely too solicitous, the next she was snappish, and it seemed to Rhiannon that no matter what she did, the woman was despotic.
Right now, it was impossible to gauge her expression or her mood for the hood she wore. “At this pace, it won’t be long before we cross into England,” she said aloud.
“Good,” was all Rhiannon could think to answer, and then after, the silence grew thick.
Sweet fates.
They weren’t even gone one night, and already she found that Cael’s face hovered like a ghost behind her lids, threatening to materialize every time she closed her eyes.
I don’t love you, she told herself furiously.
I don’t even like you.
But it wasn’t true.
She loved him with reckless abandon—even more now that he’d dared to risk his life to save her.
Aye, she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that there would be a price to be paid for this. She only hoped that Cael understood what he was doing and that he knew how to handle her mother.
Time and again, she turned to scrutinize the path behind them, trembling with fear, all the while lying to herself and telling herself she didn’t care.
But, she did.
And if, indeed, Cael’s ruse was discovered…
The thought left her sick with fear.
“You love him, do you not?”
Startled by the impertinent question, Rhiannon met Marcella’s gaze. “Nay,” she lied.
The dewine’s lips tilted up at one corner. “Ah,” she said, with an infuriating sense of certainty. “I think you do.”
Rhiannon cast the woman an annoyed glance. “Why should I?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Rhiannon, with no small measure of disgust. “Perhaps because he’s in league with my mother?”
Silence.
“Or, better yet, mayhap because he kept me imprisoned for five long years!”
Marcella flicked her hand dismissively. “Alas, my cousin is a complicated man. And yet, I know he loves you.”
Or so he’d claimed, though it didn’t suit Rhiannon to dwell on such notions—not here, not now. It would serve her far better to remember the worst of Cael—that he’d locked her away in a tower for six long months before finally affording her the luxury of a bower.
And then he’d allowed her mother’s lackey to place her in shackles, then no matter how oft she’d lowered herself to beg, he’d never once considered removing them.
Until last night.
“I don’t think he knows what love is,” Rhiannon countered.
“Hmm,” said Marcella, scornfully. “I wonder how he might prove it?”
Nettled, Rhiannon met her question with stubborn silence, though Marcella persisted.
“Perhaps by setting you free at peril to himself and to all he holds dear?”
Rhiannon fought the urge to fly at the woman and scratch out her eyes. She didn’t like Cael’s “cousin,” and she liked her even less with every passing moment. She was grateful certainly, and she would endeavor to remember her gratitude, but she’d love nothing more than to enjoy a moment of silence. And even so, Marcella persisted. “Wouldn’t that be proof enough?”
Rhiannon narrowed her gaze.
Was that resentment she noted in the woman’s voice?
Moreover, she had the inescapable feeling that this dewine knew more about Cael’s affiliation with Morwen than she was willing to reveal. That bothered her even more.
Who was this woman who claimed to be her husband’s cousin? Though curiosity needled her, she refrained from asking, sensing Marcella wouldn’t provide any answers.
Cael was no longer her concern, she told herself.
Even now, he might be dead, and, really, she must endeavor to harden her heart. They had a long way to go, and much to accomplish. Cael d’Lucy’s decisions were his own, and she couldn’t allow herself to take responsibility for his choices, or his affiliations. No one had told him to align himself with Morwen… nor did Rhiannon ever ask to be imprisoned at Blackwood.