Rhiannon was not the dragon, but she was a Pendragon, and so it seemed that whatever magik had been imbued into the words, it was strong enough to endure.
The footsteps stopped abruptly in her antechamber. Ready to do battle, she spun to face the door, watching through the crack as her guards silently dispersed.
And there he was… lingering in the shadows, hesitating, and she knew why. After all they had professed, he fully intended to betray her at her mother’s behest.
“What are you waiting for?” she said acerbically.
At long last, the lord of Blackwood revealed himself, sauntering into her chamber with a turn of his lips that revealed the barest trace of a smile.
“Ah, my dear Rhiannon, don’t tell me you missed me?” he asked, with his usual mordancy, though it wasn’t a question, and even if it were, Rhiannon suspected he had long ago surmised the truth—devil take him!
She had missed him, though she’d be damned if she’d ever say so, certainly not to him.
“Hardly,” she said. And no matter that the timbre of her voice seemed laden with contempt, her heart did a telltale leap at the familiar glint in his eyes.
He had no right to be so beautiful, and now she understood Lucifer’s lament—no man with a heart so dark had a right to shine so bright. There were no half measures where he was concerned; his shoulders were impossibly wide, his hair was dark as coal, his lips were sinfully full.
And truly, for a blackguard, he had a very endearing, but telltale habit of holding his chin and brushing a thumb over his mouth when he looked at her, as though he would love to kiss her. It never failed to steal Rhiannon’s breath.
“How sad,” he quipped, and Rhiannon lifted her brow.
“So says the lord with a smicker.”
He regarded her a moment longer, still brushing that thumb across his lips, and then he frowned. “Have I not treated you well enough?”
He had, and so he had.
Far better than her mother would have liked. Had she had her way, Rhiannon would have remained chained to a wall in the tower, deprived even of a window.
“Have I not provided your every desire?”
“Everything but my freedom,” she said easily, never at a loss to remind him.
Clearly, he was in no mood to banter. She saw his countenance darken, and winced. And suddenly he approached her, and Rhiannon took a defensive step backward—not that she was afraid of him.
Rather, it was that she no longer trusted herself in his presence. Having spent so much time alone together, playing Queen’s Chess, supping and drinking, sharing wit and words, she had by now developed very disturbing feelings for her gaoler—feelings that thoroughly confused her.
In truth, Blackwood’s lord was ever gentle, showering her with gifts. And nevertheless, she remained a prisoner. No matter whether she be draped in scarlet, or that her bed was piled high with ermine, she could not for one minute afford to forget what he was: at best, an opportunist; at worst, a murderer—and perhaps even worse than that.
And yet, when she should utterly despise him for aiding and abetting her mother, she found she could not. Instead, she suffered a pang of longing whenever he wasn’t near, and she loathed herself for the inexcusable weakness.
Today, his eyes glinted strangely.
“Is anyone truly free?” he asked, still assessing her. And then he came closer yet, and said, “With the absence of constraints should come great restraint; without it, the strong are said to enslave the weak. It is, as they say, a conundrum.”
Rhiannon frowned. “Ever with the posturing, my lord! Make no mistake, I am not weak.” She lifted her right arm, proffering the right wrist, returning his canny smile. “At least, I would not be without these. Care to test me?”
The familiar timbre of his laughter threatened to warm the cockles of her heart.
“Alas,” he said, standing before her, so desperately close that he could have reached out to brush a wisp of hair from her face, as he ofttimes did. “There has never been aught about you I’ve found to be weak, Rhiannon. In fact, I have come to fear you will be my ruin.”
“Your ruin?”
Sweet fates. He must be jesting!
“Aye,” he said, and Rhiannon took yet another step backward, unnerved by his proximity. “What do you want, Lord Blackwood?” Her nerves were frayed and she was tired of his posturing. It was easy enough to speak drivel whilst he held her in shackles. As for his ruin, there was little about Cael d’Lucy that one could ever mistake for fear, but neither would she cow to him, or apologize for whatever sense of distress he was feeling.
“Your mother is here,” he confessed, at long last, and it was just as she’d feared. Rhiannon’s heart tripped painfully.
“And?”
“And,” he said, without further ado, because, in truth, what more need be said? They both knew well enough that her mother despised her. Whatever the former Lady of Blackwood had in mind for her second eldest daughter, it would simply not behoove Rhiannon.
She swallowed hard, uncertain what more to say.
No matter how lightly she and Cael bantered, no matter how much consideration he gave her, in the end, he was still her mother’s minion, and all she knew for certes this moment was that her time had run out. If Morwen was here after so long an absence, she was returning because it was time to put her plans in motion. Once more, she cursed the manacles for blocking her magik. Without the hud she was hapless as a babe, and it galled her that she felt reduced to begging for freedom—still, she would not.
3
Proud and utterly defiant.
Cael’s jaw worked furiously as the key’s iron teeth cut into his palm. This was not what he had planned.
And nevertheless, having heard the horn blast, here he was—and why? Because he was listening to his bloody heart.
Nay, he thought.
It was not true.
His heart was cold.
It was simple human decency not to wish to see a woman suffer, and whatever he’d become, he was still flesh and blood like any other man.
And yet, because he was flesh and blood, he burned. Even now, he longed to pull Rhiannon into his arms and kiss her fiercely, especially now that their time was so short.
Not once during their time together had he ever felt the desire to rush their wooing. He’d enjoyed their verbal sparring, and hoped to win her for life.
But now the stakes were higher and the time was gone.
Waiting until the last of his guards dispersed, he anticipated the ebbing footfalls…
No matter that these men were loyal to him, he didn’t intend to have an audience. He had a good sense of what Morwen was capable of, and, whether out of fear, love or greed, few men could deny her. She would compel them if she so chose, and she would do her worst if she suspected treachery.
At any given moment, he could not afford to forget that everything he possessed, he possessed through her good will. He had returned to this realm as vulnerable as a babe, and she’d been his benefactor since.
If it weren’t for her recalcitrant daughter, he might already have had all he desired. And somehow, even after five long years, this was where they stood…
Rhiannon was willful and noncompliant.
Much like that first day, she stood facing him now, hands upon her hips, her blue eyes glittering fiercely.