“Well?” she asked. “The guards are gone. Will you speak now, or did the cat get your tongue?”
Cael laughed, though ruefully, wishing for a shot of Marcella’s new brew.
Originally, her mother had intended for him to wed Rhiannon’s eldest sister. It was Elspeth, not Rhiannon, who was the rightful heir to this estate, and her husband should own this demesne. Once that possibility was removed from the table, Cael had steadfastly refused a change in plans. Why, he didn’t know, but he had a sense of it now…
Knowing Rhiannon would never succumb to pressure, he’d protected her all this time. If Morwen realized that she was the only reason they weren’t yet wed, he wasn’t certain what she would do. But he had never coveted Elspeth—not for an instant since meeting Rhiannon. With her dark copper tresses and those feral eyes, she’d stood up to him from the first, and even whilst her gaze was still afflicted, he could harbor no pity for her at all. She’d asked for no quarter and gave none.
Perhaps, in truth, her sister was Blackwood’s heir, but Rhiannon was the Pendragon at heart, and even now, with a shadow of fear clouding her storm-blue eyes, she could set him afire with only a glance. And yet the one thing he knew for certes was that he would never take what Rhiannon would not willingly give, and he understood very, very clearly now: She would never give her heart to anyone.
In the silence that followed after her question, his gaze moved to her window. Already, the sun was beginning to set. The torches along the pathways were not yet lit. Even so, he surmised they had few minutes remaining before Morwen presented herself in his hall.
Blackwood’s defenses consisted of a number of safeguards. Surrounded by woodlands, the castle was built atop a craggy hilltop. And though it was small in terms of fortification, it was easily defensible and completely impenetrable, unless one knew of the narrow path that led to his postern gate.
The climb up was steep, and the barbican was designed to restrict access to the castle’s interior.
Even beyond the first wall, there was a series of narrow bridges built over pits, all filled with pikes. It was carefully designed so that persons seeking entrance to the inner bailey were forced to travel along a narrow path.
On a good day, even in broad daylight, it was impossible to traverse more than one-man deep, and at any time, those bridges could be withdrawn.
Knowing Morwen, she had arrived with pomp and ceremony, escorted by her lackeys—all those Welsh kings she’d gathered to her side, men she’d inveigled with promises. Owain Gwynedd, the self-proclaimed King of Wales; Madog ap Maredudd, Prince of Powys; Maredudd ap Gruffydd, Prince of Deheubarth. The latter ruled with England’s support, though he’d gladly put a blade through Stephen’s eye.
No doubt she would expect Cael to greet her with Rhiannon at his side, but not because she cared to lay eyes upon her estranged daughter; merely so she could test the girl’s resolve.
Squeezing the key in his hand, he realized that wedding Rhiannon per force would not gain him what he truly desired…
Her heart.
Alas, he must confess: He had loved Nesta dearly. He’d adored her sweet, kind heart, and he’d valued her counsel, but he’d never hungered for her body… not the way he lusted after Rhiannon. Even now, despite their circumstances, his body trembled with desire, and he longed to push her back onto the bed and pillage all she had to give—all that he had been promised.
Only what then?
Then she would loathe him.
And yes, he could force her to marry against her will, and hope to God that he could change her mind. But… after five long years of trying and failing, he had a feeling deep down… he would regret the decision for the rest of his days.
Even now, she glared at him as though she would plunge a dagger into his breast, and he believed in his heart that she would if she could—no matter how much he’d risked to serve her. Knowing this, tendrils of anger clutched at his heart. Closing his fist about the key, he placed his hand behind his back, and with the other hand, he reached out to seize her wrist above the manacle, drawing her close, forcing her to endure his proximity if only once in her damnable life.
“Cael,” she protested.
Rhiannon swallowed.
For the first time since their meeting, the look in his eyes thoroughly disturbed her. There was something new and terrible in his demeanor that gave her pause—something angry and desperate.
“W-What are you doing?”
The sound of his voice was achingly low, filled with torment. “The time for games is done,” he said darkly, pulling her closer, and not gently. His arm slid about her waist, pulling her against him, so Rhiannon could feel the hard contours of his body. And even as he restrained her, she felt the evidence of his arousal. “Cael,” she said, though she wasn’t entirely certain it was a protest.
In that terrible, terrible instant, the shocking feel of him awakened something deep inside her that she’d hoped to deny—her nipples pebbled embarrassingly, puckering against his leathers and she swallowed convulsively. “Please…”
“If your mother has her way, you’ll soon be my bride.”
“Never!” she spat, with far more conviction than she felt.
In truth, had the situation been different, she might have welcomed a match with this man.
There was something about Cael d’Lucy that tripped her heart and fired her soul. Never in her life had she met a man who was so much a man—strong, and crude betimes, filled with surety. She lifted her chin defiantly and lied.
“No matter what you do or what you say, you’ll never force me to love you.”
He laughed then, the sound mirthless. “Love?” he asked. “Love? What has love ever had to do with a contract of marriage, Rhiannon?” His black eyes shone. “Do not mistake me, lady, there is only one woman I have ever loved, and she is not you.”
Rhiannon swallowed her words. Why did that bit of truth wound so deeply?
Like a chimera, his emotions morphed between hatred and… something else…
And regardless, despite the obvious disdain he felt for her in that instant, his gaze found her bed, and she noted the unbridled heat that crept into his storm-ridden eyes. Her voice faltered. “C-Cael… w-what do you mean to do?”
In all these years, he’d never even once given her a reason to fear him. Oh, she understood well enough why men cowed before the lord of Blackwood; there was a certain darkness that permeated every room he entered. No less so than any Pendragon before him, he was a dragon lord, inscrutable and cunning, treacherous and exacting. This was one thing Rhiannon never, ever dared to forget. And yet, despite this, though he lusted for her body, he’d never once acted upon his desires, and, yes, she knew—had always known—this was all it ever was for him: a man’s lust.
She reminded herself that there was a good reason he’d never caved to her mother’s demands.
She must not fool herself into believing this man held any measure of affection for her, even if betimes he did look at her with such incredible longing that her flesh prickled beneath his gaze—the way he was looking at her right now.
He inhaled a slow breath, then let it out, as though trying to master his rage.
Was it rage?
Or was it pain?
He said calmly, but angrily, “Once your mother arrives, you will join me in the chapel for our much-delayed nuptials—”