“I did,” Marcella confessed. “I would have done anything for Morwen in those days.”
“Anything?”
Marcella didn’t immediately respond, and Rhiannon afforded her a small change in topic. “So you said Cael came to supplicate my case to the Guard? Did he oft have business with the Church?”
“Ah, Rhiannon… there is so much I am not at liberty to say, but I suppose he did. Often, our dictums were… shall we say… very well aligned.”
“So, then, he answers to both the Guard and the Rex Militum?”
“Alas, my dear Lady Blackwood. ’Tis not so simple as that.”
“Please… call me Rhiannon. I haven’t any notion how to behave as the lady of a great house. But, at any rate, I consider you to be my friend.”
“As you wish,” said the paladin dutifully, but there, again, was a smile in her voice.
Rhiannon smiled as well, and they rode for a while longer in silence. Rhiannon felt, for the moment, content. However, it was important to her that Marcella understand exactly how she felt, and she wanted the paladin to understand she was at peace with her past with Cael, whatever that might be. “He cares for you, I think.”
There was no need to say who she meant.
Marcella sighed impatiently.
“May I inquire something of you?”
“Of course.”
“Do you love him still?”
“Nay, Rhiannon. I do not. Not the man he has become.”
“But I don’t under—”
“Please,” Marcella interrupted, “suffice to say that not every wetted wick is worth keeping lit.”
Heat suffused Rhiannon’s cheeks, and Marcella turned to peer over her shoulder to see where Jack might be. Finding him well out of hearing range, she confessed, “Alas, your husband was not my only mistake; there is Jack as well.”
Rhiannon lifted a hand to her lips. “Sweet fates!” She giggled nervously. “Who haven’t you lain with?”
The paladin snorted. “Not you,” she jested. “Care to remedy that?”
Rhiannon’s blush burned hot. “Nay! Sweet fates! I-I did not mean that to be so disparaging… ’tis only…”
“Promiscuity is unnatural for a woman?”
Rhiannon nodded quickly.
“Alas, mon amie. A woman’s desires are not so different from a man’s. And besides…” She eyed Rhiannon’s attire. “If you wear a man’s breeches long enough, you’ll find it affords you liberties you never imagined.”
Rhiannon laughed softly, though she tugged at her leathers, and then, confessed, “You know… I… I… was wondering. I have… never lain with a man…”
The whites of Marcella’s eyes widened visibly. “Not even—”
Rhiannon shook her head, embarrassed.
“I assumed—”
Rhiannon shook her head again, her face burning so hot now that she was grateful for the cover of darkness.
“Oh, my,” said the paladin, and then she grinned at Rhiannon until Rhiannon could spy the whites of her teeth as well. “Well then… please allow me to do you the honor of explaining the joys of congress.”
And then she did. And out of everything Rhiannon had heard so far, this was the most shocking of revelations—not because she didn’t already know what should transpire between a man and woman, but because there were so many ways to accomplish the task.
27
Late, late into the night, as a misty rain began to drizzle down, Rhiannon found herself struggling in the saddle.
Pulling her woolen cloak more tightly about herself, she donned the hood as well, tugging it down over her face.
Compelled to despite her resolve, her eyes closed of their own accord, and not even the dampness soaking through her cloak was enough discomfort to keep her from teetering in the saddle.
Forsooth. If her mother should appear right now, she would be ill-suited to do aught more than fall at her feet, face down in the muck—like King Stephen.
How embarrassed he must have been—the sovereign of England with a gob full of mud. And nevertheless, Rhiannon might have enjoyed seeing that—though not more than she would have enjoyed the sight of his sour-faced wife lying there beside him.
Deliriously, she thought, “That’s not very nice, Rhiannon.” The poor lady is already dead. But then again, because that was so, she already had a gob full of muck, now didn’t she?
That wasn’t Rhiannon’s fault.
Half insensate, Rhiannon seized a handful of her horse’s mane only to help steady herself, refusing to complain. If everyone else could endure so long, so, too, must she.
“Just a little further,” she coaxed herself.
Like a black-clad guardian angel, Cael appeared by her side. With barely any effort, he plucked her from her saddle, dragging her into his arms, where he tucked her against him and said, “Rest, my love.”
My love…
My love…
Was she really his love?
Could one truly love despite being aligned elsewhere? Every day of her confinement, he had reminded her of the debt he owed her mother. And more… that he’d desired everything Morwen desired—most importantly, an end to the regime that answered to an unscrupulous Empire. Betimes he spoke as though he had a personal grievance against the Church, and Rhiannon oft wondered why.
He wasn’t a dewine—never the hunted, always the hunter! He was an executioner, a man to be feared. And yet… Rhiannon didn’t fear him, and she never had.
Aside from those first few months that he’d kept her in the tower, Cael d’Lucy had never once mistreated her.
Even then, he’d come to keep her company, talking with her for hours, standing outside her gaol, even without a chair. Conversely, at least Rhiannon had had a cot to sit on, and betimes whenever she’d wept, he’d opened her cell and come to sit by her side, gently wiping the tears from her cheeks. She’d known then that, deep down, where it mattered, Cael d’Lucy’s heart was good. In fact, before her mother had delivered the shackles, she might easily have found a way to escape, still she never tried.
Why?
Because of him.
It wasn’t only because she’d had a vision of their fates. Admittedly, some small part of her had lived for each moment when he’d come to console her.
In the beginning, she’d believed it was pity that compelled him—pity for her affliction, pity for her circumstances.
The child in her had clamored for some simple human connection, and the woman in her had laid her tear-stained cheeks in the crook of his neck and inhaled the very masculine scent of him—a scent that to Rhiannon had been oddly familiar, though she’d never met Cael before that day, fresh from her tumbril.
Nay, he would never hurt her.
She sensed that truth deep in her soul.
Somehow, she’d always trusted that Cael would defend her, despite everything.
She felt his chest expand with a contented sigh as he pulled the edge of the cloak over her face, taking care to keep the rain from her, and Rhiannon lost the battle to stay awake. They’d been traveling too long now, with her nerves on edge, and now that she was in her husband’s arms, she hadn’t any spirit left to muster. Closing her eyes, she rested her cheek against his leathered chest, and slept like a newborn babe. When she reopened her eyes again, the first blushing of morning light had begun to unfurl.