Morwen’s birds could see well enough by night, but by then, they might be roosting. Her mother would use them wisely, positioning them at intervals to watch where they emerged from the woods. That would be their most vulnerable point, but everything would depend wholly upon how intent Morwen was to push those birds to their limits. Already, they had determined she would not. Her birds meant more to her than did any of her daughters. She would not dispatch them when they were at their most vulnerable. She would use them when they were at their best, and rest them otherwise.
On the other hand, she would and could send Mordecai to scout these woods. It was entirely possible he was already in pursuit. Lamentably, no one knew what he was capable of.
Her sister Rosalynde had witnessed his transformation in that woodlot south of Whittlewood and Salcey, but what he was, precisely, nobody but Morwen knew.
His form had been that of a dragon-like creature, with a beak and speared tail. Rhiannon had never in her life even imagined such a creature existed, and all she had known to do was warn her sister to run. In the end, the Goddess had intervened, offering Rosalynde words to bind its mortal form, and yet, despite this fact, Mordecai had somehow returned.
“He can’t change at will,” said Cael. “He’ll come as a man, with all a man’s weaknesses.”
“And you know this how?” ventured Rhiannon, annoyed yet again, though she knew her ire wasn’t entirely rational.
Cael had yet to embrace her, and what should she expect? That he would rush into her arms and beg forgiveness?
Nay.
He wasn’t that sort of man.
And yet… he hadn’t bothered to answer her question, and the simple fact that he and Marcella were still so familiar didn’t set well with her. Instead he and Marcella continued their discourse. Therefore, once Jack returned with his kindling, Rhiannon did to the kindling what she longed to do to both Marcella and Cael.
The fire blazed to life even before Jack could fully retrieve his hand from the pit, and he gave her a beleaguered glance.
Oblivious to their exchange, Cael and Marcella continued to talk.
Jack sat down beside Rhiannon, and said, “I’m sorry.” Perhaps he’d mistaken the reason for her self-indulgence. “I didn’t intend to harm you with the knife.” He cast a surreptitious glance at the lord of Blackwood. “Rather, I only meant for him to think I might.”
“I’m not angry, Jack, don’t worry.”
“You sound angry,” he said.
Rhiannon cast him a pointed glance. “Did you find dinner?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Nay. But I tell you true, if they want something other than what’s in our saddle bags, they’ll have to go get it themselves. I’m weary of being everyone’s errand boy.”
Rhiannon knew precisely how he felt, although she didn’t wish to confess it.
“Alas, I’d like to say I know how you feel,” said Jack, leaning close. “But I don’t. In fact, I can’t say much about your husband’s debt to your mother, but—”
Rhiannon shot him a furious glance. “Because you are sworn to secrecy, or because you do not know?”
Sweet fates. Did everyone but her know about her husband’s debt to her mother?
“Well… I do know his life depends on her good graces,” he finished.
Didn’t everyone’s?
It wasn’t enough of an explanation—and neither had it come from the right person. Incensed beyond measure, Rhiannon tossed a pebble into the flames.
“The fact that he’s here says a lot,” Jack persisted. “Take heart in that.”
Rhiannon offered the young paladin a cutting glance.
Was she so transparent?
Were her feelings so near to the surface that he could read her so easily?
Why couldn’t Cael?
He sat there, discussing ancient relics with Marcella, both their heads together, whispering feverishly, scarcely aware of anyone else in their proximity.
“So you do care for her?” she asked Jack, a little petulantly.
“Aye,” he confessed. “Sadly, she fancies herself more of a sister to me.”
“Why don’t you tell her how you feel?”
He shrugged, then hitched his chin. “Why don’t you tell him?”
Rhiannon frowned. “Because I don’t feel that way,” she persisted.
“And yet… you do,” he argued. “There’s no mystery in the way you two regard one another, Lady Blackwood.”
“Nay, Jack,” she contended. “Art mistaken.”
“Oh? In that case, how about I attempt to kiss you and see how it is that your husband responds?”
“I’m his wife,” she hissed “How do you think he’ll respond? He’s like any other man. He may not want something for himself, but he won’t give it away.”
“That’s not what I see,” Jack argued, and perhaps to prove his point, he leaned closer to Rhiannon, as though to whisper in her ear… so close that she could feel the feathery heat of his breath tickle her flesh.
Before Rhiannon could push him away, her husband stood, unsheathing the sword at his back, deftly and with purpose, then drove it into the ground between them. “Altar boy,” he said. “Get your smooth little arse away from my wife.”
Jack complied at once, with a knowing smirk, and when Cael sat back down to continue his conversation with Marcella, he chuckled and said, “I told you so. That man is so aware of all you do, I can scarcely imagine how he’s keeping his attention on their discourse.”
Much to her consternation, Rhiannon couldn’t hide her answering smile.
24
For the past few hours, it was all Cael could do to keep his attention on Marcella. That man-child was trying his patience—sitting so close to his wife, mumbling things he couldn’t hear into her ear—good Christ, she was his wife, and still he could scarcely believe it!
Only a week ago, he’d feared she would never agree to the bargain. Considering that her eldest sister was to have been his betrothed, he’d expected Rhiannon to continue to deny him out of spite, or in defiance of her mother.
For all these past five years, he’d tried in vain—or so he’d thought—to win her over; and she was no easy mark. In the beginning, the wooing was no more than a diversion, but one night, whilst he’d lain abed… he’d realized… it had been years since he’d last thought of Nesta. It was no longer her face, but Rhiannon’s that appeared to him in his dreams, and it was Rhiannon’s name he oft breathed in the throes of pleasure—self-served, mind you. Much to his botheration, after meeting Rhiannon, he could no more consider a romp in the hay with some nameless wench than he could remember the way it felt to be touched by a woman he loved.
For a while, guilt had plagued him, because Nesta had sacrificed her life to save him, and the least he could have done was to honor her memory. Instead, he’d found himself hard as stone with thoughts of a red-haired termagant whose tongue was as sharp as her wit.
God’s truth. Even weary from travel, she was beautiful, with her dark, copper curls as wild and free as she was.
No doubt, he’d wanted to cheer her when she’d burned that man-child’s hand, and with his own blade to boot. It served the wretch right for testing her so stupidly.