“Aye,” agreed Rhiannon. “’Tis precisely this I fear.”
“Perhaps… so does she,” he suggested, hitching his chin once more at Marcella’s back. “And yet, she must know as I know, that Lord Blackwood would never have summoned aid for you, if there was so little in you to be loved. Therefore, at least for now, you must content yourself to know that your husband is not precisely the man you believe him to be, and that is a good thing.”
Rhiannon nodded.
“Neither is she,” he added, though if Rhiannon hoped he would say more, Marcella turned to cast him a withering glance, and he shut his gob and spoke no more.
There was a lot to be considered, and yet, after a while, one grew weary of self-rumination. Hours later, Rhiannon was still pettish and growing peckish besides.
Now that the initial danger appeared to be over, her stomach grumbled in complaint, and, even after having appeased it with a small stick of smoked beef, she longed for more. Not having been privy to Cael’s plans, she hadn’t touched her supper last night.
At any rate, how could anyone eat seated next to that despicable creature?
Reaching back into her saddlebag for whatever morsel could be found, she fished out a small sack of filberts, her favorite nuts. No doubt this was Cael’s doing. In fact, she had the feeling that half the reason he’d ever deigned to serve her all these years was because he’d enjoyed seeing the brightening of her countenance when he brought her special treats.
And she, of course, incensed by her eternal confinement, had resolved to deprive him even of that.
No matter, there were times she couldn’t hide her joy, and betimes, when caught off guard, her spirits brightened, and she’d lifted her gaze to find him smiling too.
She popped a filbert into her mouth, considering the man’s endless patience, his bigger-than-life presence. She missed his devilish smile and his glinting eyes.
Would she truly never see him again?
There had been no sign of hounds since leaving Brecknock Forest. Wales was long in their wake, and the only sounds of pursuit came from their coursers as, one after another, they trampled over heavy bracken, snapping twigs and disturbing dew-dampened leaves—that, along with the occasional thwack of an errant bough.
“God’s blood,” complained Jack, as yet another branch whipped back to slap him on the cheek, courtesy of Marcella. Evidently, she was still nursing her pique and Rhiannon munched on nuts and held her tongue, taking perverse joy in Jack’s indignation. Annoyed, he called out to the paladin in a deceptively amiable tone, “Thanks for la colée, mon patron—the second one you’ve dealt me today.”
“Be vigilant,” Marcella demanded, unfazed. “Else you will find yourself with a coup de grâce, and it will not be dealt by my own hand.”
Unappeased by her response, Jack argued, “Aye… well, wouldn’t it be wiser to travel by night, when these stupid birds will be roosting?”
“Nay,” she snapped, and then explained. “’Tis not the ravens I worry over, Jaques. They cannot follow our scent like the hounds. Coming into these woods will necessitate coming within proximity of our bows, and Morwen will not risk her precious birds. Rather, she’ll use Blackwood’s hounds to follow the scent and the birds to search hill and dale. This is why we washed Rhiannon’s tunic with a masking philter.”
Taking his blade to another wayward limb, “Jaques” muttered crossly beneath his breath, his mood a bit less affable now than it had been earlier in the day.
Rhiannon couldn’t help herself; she smirked.
By now they were all exhausted, after having traveled most of the night and day without rest, and soon—very, very soon—they would be forced to abandon the woods.
“They can smell,” Jack argued. “I’ve watched them sniff out carrion with my own eyes.”
“Not very well,” Marcella persisted. “In order to smell your merde, they would have to shove their black beaks up your adorable little arse. And besides, grâce à Dieu, you are not rotting nor are you bloody.”
“Not yet,” he persisted. “But I may soon be if you keep flinging thorny limbs in my face!”
“There are no thorns on these branches, Jaques,” she said placidly. “You complain like an old woman, my friend.”
“I felt a thorn,” he said, though it couldn’t be true. His face would have been pocked and marked if that were the case, and it was still smooth as a baby’s bottom—not even marred by chin hairs.
To that, Marcella shot back without compunction, “Simply watch where you are going, Jack. I’ve seen you nodding. Now is no time to sleep.”
Jack grumbled beneath his breath—something about stopping to rest—as Rhiannon popped the last of her filberts into her mouth, then shoved the sack back into her bag.
Marcella was right, of course. Now, when it seemed they should be out of danger; this was when they were most at peril. They couldn’t afford to let down their guard. Morwen was ruthless and persistent. And nevertheless, Marcella’s imperious nature was infuriating. Young as she must be, the woman behaved as though she knew everything. It grated on Rhiannon’s nerves—and evidently, on Jack’s nerves as well, even despite that he’d confessed affection for her.
And nevertheless, Marcella was also right about the ravens. Having lost so many birds already, her mother wouldn’t risk even one unnecessarily. Insomuch as birds loved trees, and trees loved birds, they were, indeed, far less useful in the confines of these dense woods. And because they weren’t particularly tiny, the odds were quite high they would spy a raven before it ever spied them. Quick as they were, they weren’t faster than an arrow, and if either of these two were worth their salt, Rhiannon wouldn’t have to wield her magik, and yet… she could. Even now she itched to flick a flame into Marcella’s beautiful black mane.
How, in the name of the Goddess, could a woman look so stunning without any feminine accouterments. The deep brown stained—almost black—cowl had slipped down to puddle about her shoulders, catching a waterfall of shining tresses into the back of her hood. Even tired, her skin was tawny, and her facial features so dark they appeared to be painted. In fact, in all her life, she’d never seen lashes or brows so thick and black.
To the contrary, Rhiannon felt smelly, dirty, itchy, and only thanks to the braids she’d worn last eve, she didn’t have a rat’s nest for hair. Her skin was pasty from lack of sun—years of lack, in fact. Next to Marcella, she felt like a faded scrap of cloth—and yet, alas, not so washed out that she would be invisible to Morwen’s ravens. At least, not until she could perform a proper protection spell.
“Seems to me, she’d be willing to lose a few, if only for the sake of expediency,” Jack grumbled, as he unsheathed his sword again to hack at another tangle of limbs.
“She will not.”
“How can you know?”
“Because,” Marcella replied. “I heard she’s having trouble breeding them. Those ravens are meant to mate for life, and so many of the mates have been slain. Whatever else they are to her, they are integral to her plan. I promise you, she will not risk even one.”