Clearly, she wasn’t so hard-hearted as she wanted people to believe—fortunately for him, else she would never have come to love him. Only now he knew she did, despite that she’d yet to say those three precious little words.
“You did what you had to do,” he told her gently. “They would have proven to be disadvantages. I know how difficult it is to resist your mother’s call.”
“And yet… you did?” She furrowed her brows. “Did you not?”
The breath caught in his lungs. How to properly address this—and should he do it right now?
“Alas, I must confess, even now ’tis not so easily done.”
“I see,” she said, with a note of discord, her voice turning icy. “So, then, what keeps you by my side, Lord Blackwood?”
Love, he thought.
Pure and simple.
Love so impassioned, he longed to fall to his knees and kiss her feet. “I spoke true. I’m here for you.”
He recognized the storm brewing in her eyes.
It raged within him as well.
“What now if she tests you? Who wins?”
Even through her sarcasm, he heard uncertainty in her voice and it was nearly his undoing.
What, indeed, would he do?
It was an honest question and deserving of an honest answer, but Cael frowned, averting his gaze, because he didn’t know how to reply.
In the end, defying Morwen could cost him his life—or, at the very least, his soul.
And yet, did he still have a soul in his body?
How did one extricate the essence of one’s being and wholly unite it again? After all, one did not simply dismantle a dog as one did a plough.
Admittedly, he oft felt cold inside—ravaged, wasted, little remaining but an empty carcass.
Were it not for one thing… this small thing… he might think himself already spent. That one small thing was the spark of his heart flame reignited by Rhiannon—and nevertheless, would that be enough when faced with the end, as it naturally must come?
Would he truly be strong enough to die for what he loved… this time?
Alas, though he had the reliquaries in his possession, he was still ignorant of their power, and if Morwen should wield them against him, would his resolve crumple like a decrepit auld cairn?
When it mattered most, would he choose love over life?
Or life over love?
Cael liked to believe he had a definitive answer…
But did he?
Truly?
It was easy enough to speak what he knew in his heart to be the right and honorable thing to do under these circumstances, but would he act upon his words?
And this was the thing that haunted him most… all those many moons ago, when Nesta begged him to allow her to sacrifice herself in order to save his life… he’d let her.
Instead, he should have denied her and allowed her to live out her life in peace… without him. He should have closed his eyes evermore, and let it be so.
But nay, he had not. He’d given her assent.
Delirious or nay, he’d nevertheless made a choice. And perhaps he’d hoped it wouldn’t cost her life, but she did say it would, had she not?
Only speak the word, and I shall gift you my life!
Aye, he had said, and so she had… and here he was.
And then, when he’d sworn to honor her memory forever, what had he gone and done? He promptly forgot her and gave his heart to another.
He’d given it to Rhiannon.
But… was he truly capable of the selfless love Nesta had displayed? Or, when push came to shove, would he betray his own heart? And this time, if he failed, he’d never find comfort in vengeance…
This time if he failed, he would long for death.
They breached the gate without contest and Rhiannon averted her gaze.
“Forgive me,” he begged.
“For what?”
“For everything I have done,” he said, and once again, his wife dared to look at him, her demeanor hardened again.
“What about for the things you did not do?” she asked, and gone was the soft, sweet young woman who’d slept so peacefully in his arms.
Cael swallowed, tormented.
Why, indeed, had he not set her free?
Because he was afraid she would leave.
Because he was afraid to die.
Because he was a greedy bastard intent on revenge.
More than anything, he longed to pull her into his arms, and kiss her desperately, tell her again and again that he loved her—as he knew, he should have long ago.
She was, he feared, much like a cat, nearly gone feral—one instant curious and longing, the next ferocious and distant. “Ask me no promises, I’ll give you no lies,” she said, tossing his own words back at him. God’s truth, it was nothing less than he should expect from the defiant woman he’d come to know and adore. And nevertheless, it struck him a doubly painful blow, because, in truth, he didn’t deserve anyone’s forgiveness, much less hers.
Nor was he entirely certain he would ever earn it.
In the end, he decided, this was not the time for a heartfelt discussion, not with so many curious ears. So, he let it go, leaving her question to linger between them.
What now if she tests you?
30
Dismounting in the courtyard, the entire entourage approached the keep together.
No groomsmen came running, nor did any sign of life catch anyone’s eye, save for one lone cock pecking about a garner.
Cael commanded the wolfhound to stay, and the solemn beast lay down beside the horses to wait.
Inside the castle, it was equally as dismal.
Amdel’s hall was dark, its walls covered with smoke-stained, sagging tapestries. The sour scent of spoilt rushes made Cael’s nostrils flare as their boots clicked along rough stone tile. Following the light of a lone, flickering torch illuminating the recesses of the great hall, they entered to the resounding boom of a clap. Thunderous against the silence, it cut through the room, echoing harshly against bare stone walls.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
There, they discovered the brat prince seated atop the lord’s dais, hunkered down in his chair, drunk and belligerent, his eyes bloodshot and angry as he glared at both Warkworth brothers, leading the way into the hall. “Lauds!” he shouted. “Lauds!” And then he laughed maniacally. “Shall we toast to your perseverance, my lords?” He clapped again, and this time the sound was hysterical.
“Guards!” he called. “To me! To me!” But no one came.
No. One. Came.
The hall remained empty of footfalls, except for their own, until all who were present came to a wary halt before the littered dais.
The Warkworth brothers immediately moved to one side, Jack and Marcella to the other, just in case Eustace attempted to run, though he scarcely wiggled a toe. In fact, his gaze followed Giles and Wilhelm as he sank further into his chair, and said, wiggling a cup, “Drinks, anyone?”
“You’re a sot,” said Giles.
“And you, my lord de Vere! You’re but a lackey, though you believe you’re a very wise man. My auntie Matilda keeps you by the short hairs of your cock.”
Giles unsheathed his sword.
Cael knew the brothers longed to silence him forever for his sins against Warkworth, and, in truth, he would like to hand them both a torch. The King’s son was a waste of human flesh—a bag of bones with no redeeming qualities aside from the potential enrichment of good soil.