Chapter 19

Nineteen

Elspeth sobbed quietly.

For better or worse, now the truth was spent. She had confessed herself to this man—this stranger who'd been placed in her path—her champion so Rhiannon had claimed.

After all, she'd placed herself—and her sisters—at risk, and for all their differences, she should not be trusting this man, or any man.

She couldn't look at him now for fear of the repulsion she'd spy in his eyes, for Elspeth was truly someone to be reviled according to the faith of this land.

And what was more, she was kin to a king whose daughter Malcom fought so vehemently to oppose—in favor of a blackguard who'd stolen her father's throne.

For that matter, despite his pretty title, he was a Scots-born mercenary, who'd sworn his allegiance to her cousin. If he should decide to forsake her here and now, there would be naught she could do. For all that was said and done, theirs was an impossible bond.

Once again, Malcom placed a hand on hers, reassuring her, and Elspeth dared to lift her gaze to his, tears glistening in her eyes. Only, by the look on his face, she realized that, somehow, he had already gleaned so much of what she'd yet to say.

Could it be that he would not revile her? Could it be that despite their differences, he would stand for her? Look to your champion, Rhiannon had said. Look to your champion.

Daring to trust him, Elspeth willed Malcom to open his heart to the truth, because she understood now that if she didn't place herself at his mercy, she would remain powerless to do aught to help her sisters. For better, or worse, he was her champion in truth.

"You healed my wound," he said, acknowledging his suspicions, and it wasn't a question, Elspeth realized.

She nodded soberly. "Whilst you slept."

He studied her a long moment, shaking his head. "I would not believe it had I not witnessed it with my own two eyes. Witchery, I presume?"

Elspeth winced. She didn't like that word, but mostly because of what it meant to others. She was a dewine, a child of the Earth Mother—a Maiden pledged to the hud. But for all he knew of the Craft, witchery was as good as any word she might use.

Taking a deep, deep breath, she confessed it all. All the while, Malcom listened… with a hand to his shoulder, rubbing idly at the spot where his wound had been, as though requiring proof.

But of course he would! It was not something he could swiftly embrace.

Only fearing she would lose her nerve if she stopped to consider what she was doing, she rushed on to tell him the rest—everything, everything, including the vision she'd had about her mother and her sister. Alas, some things were greater than the sum of one, she realized—or even five—and now she understood that Morwen was building herself a dynasty unlike any that Cerridwen had ever aspired to, and unless she and her sisters prevented it, Morwen, herself, would someday rule Britain. Her poppets would be kings.

To all her revelations, Malcom merely listened, and if he believed she could be tetched in the head, he didn't say so. To the contrary, he seemed to be taking her seriously, and when Elspeth told him about her vision, the color drained from his face. "Do you know where she could be?"

"En route to the priory, I presume."

He made a gesture toward his head, then tapped a finger at his temple and twirled them. "Can't you warn your sisters, somehow? Speak to their minds, as you did with me?"

Elspeth shook her head, frowning. "It doesn't work that way, Malcom. Though I am quite certain they already know. Even if Rhiannon has not seen it, Morwen was bound to hie there as soon as she learned. We knew the very day I left that she was bound to go."

He rubbed at his chin, considering all that she'd said. "I have heard much tittle-tattle about your mother, though I never believed it."

"Aye, well, you must believe it," Elspeth told him. "She is treacherous and there is much more I could say, but I would not have you look at me the same way you would look at her."

"I see," he said, raking a hand through his hair.

"I am not some evil sorceress, Malcom… I am a dewine," she explained. "Born of the blood of Avalon. I cannot turn anyone into a toad, nor can I create something from nothing."

His brow furrowed. "What can you do?"

Elspeth shrugged. "Not as much as my sister, more than you."

"That tells me naught, spinner of words." He smiled. And yet despite the smile, his blue eyes were full of turmoil—believing her, not believing her. But, thankfully, he did not seem to be afraid of her, because it was fear that was ultimately responsible for all the atrocities men had committed against her people. But he was conflicted, she realized, and his eyes needed to see to believe.

Resigning herself to the fact that most men were not born to comprehend this long-buried part of their beings, Elspeth prepared to show him. But there was only so much she could do without a proper ritual. Still, determined to win him, she held his gaze, willing him to believe, and without any movement on her part, she cast out the torches—all of them—bathing the room in shadows.

"Did you do that?"

"Aye."

In the darkness, she heard him swallow, and then and only then did she return the flames to the torch, but only to one—the one closest to the door.

And just to be sure, she fed the remaining torch her force, until the flames rose high enough to lick the ceiling, brightening the room so it looked like the inside of a kiln. Only after she was satisfied that he understood it was her doing, she returned the flame to its natural state, and revived the cressets. With a furrowed brow, Malcom peered up at the ceiling, at the black soot she'd left behind and stared in wonder. But, lest he mistake the truth, she said, "I am little different from you, Malcom. We are both children of the Goddess, save that you and your people have forgotten her, and she has forsaken you. You must believe in magik, or it cannot exist."

"And your song?"

"All true, though men will doubt it—as you must doubt me."

He rubbed his brow. "I cannot say I am clear on the particulars," he confessed. "But I do not doubt you, Elspeth. Only tell me what you need of me, and I have said I would help."

Tears of gratitude sprang to her eyes. "Thanks to my sister, I cannot return to Wales," she confessed. "So I must ask it of you in my stead."

He dropped his hand into his lap. "You want me to go back to Wales?"

Elspeth nodded. "To Llanthony," she explained, and, with a dull ache in her heart, she reached out, brushing a hand over Malcom's forehead, over his scar, begging him, despite knowing full well that this one bit of guile was the one charm no woman should ever abuse. And yet she was desperate, and she would give anything—including her body—if Malcom would but champion her sisters as well. "I would have you bring them north," she said.

He was quiet a long moment, and then his lips curved ever so slightly. "How far north? he asked, and Elspeth dared to grin, realizing he was jesting with her.

"As far north as you mean to go," she said, withdrawing her hand, but he placed his hand over hers, pressing her palm to his face, and sliding it to his cheek. Despite his moment of good humor, he said very soberly, "You would have me interfere in my king's affairs?"

Elspeth begged with her eyes. "I cannot abandon my sisters," she said. "If you will not go, I must try." And then, rising to her knees on the bed, she looked Malcom straight in the eyes.

She didn't know what it was she meant to say… or do… but she would do or say anything to sway him. "Please, Malcom…"

Like an angel's touch,the hand on Malcom's cheek compelled him—and even more irresistible was the way she regarded him, with those watery violet eyes.

God's truth, he didn't know how or why, but he was bound to this woman, for better or worse, and he was beginning to fear it would be for the worst. Cael d'Lucy. King Stephen. Morwen. The list of his potential enemies was growing by the second.

A maelstrom of thoughts whirred through his brain—confusing thoughts he daren't give credence or voice to… but one thing he was not confused about was the way he felt about Elspeth.

She sat before him, as bewitching as any siren, her crimson gown spilling behind her, and her golden-red curls catching the torchlight like copper threads.

When she leaned forward so unexpectedly to press her lips to his, Malcom discovered he couldn't deny her—or himself—and no matter that he suspected her motives, he pulled her into his embrace, like a man starved. If she were some pagan goddess, bent on seducing him to her will, he would no more refuse her than he could have abandoned her in Wales.

At the touch of her lips, every part of him shuddered. Her kiss aroused a hunger inside him he didn't wish to deny. Heat suffused his loins as desire consumed him, and by all that was holy, if she had bewitched him, Malcom didn't bloody care. In that instant, he would have walked through the very fires of hell for her, and he would do anything she asked—anything, including betray his king. After all, if a man was not fighting for his home and his people… who the hell should he fight for?

Kissing her deeply, tasting the depths of her sweet, sweet mouth, Malcom prayed she would not tease him, and, then, somehow, sanity returned, and he managed to get hold of himself and push her gently away, fighting his desire to take her here and now.

Never in his life had he taken advantage of any lass in need and he didn't intend to begin now.

Suddenly, he didn't know if he was angrier over the fact that she would tempt him, or that he so desperately wanted to engage her. But more importantly, he would do exactly as she bade him. "You need not pay me in such a manner, Elspeth. I will go," he said, rising from the bed, abandoning her with arms wide.

Her luminous eyes were glassy with passion, and some part of him wondered how well-versed she was in the art of seduction—certainly she knew her part well enough to seduce him. The evidence of his lust could hardly be missed. He was hard as stone, and not even his tight breeches could hide it. He longed to free himself and feel her sweet lips in places too wicked to say.

His eyes glittered fiercely, but not with malice. And regardless, his words were far from affectionate. "I will do all you ask of me and more," he promised. "But on the day you lie beneath me, Elspeth, that day you'll be mine. Heed me well, I'll not turn you away next time, so think on that whilst I am gone." He swiped a hand across his mouth, to erase the taste of her lips, afraid that if he could taste her he might refuse to go.

Elspeth sat,reeling.

If she'd meant only to persuade him, their kiss affected her more deeply than she could have possibly foreseen. Through the haze of her passion, she felt his withdrawal acutely like the severing of a limb. And then she realized what he'd said, and her eyes grew round. "You will go?"

"Aye," he said. "I will go."

"What will you tell Beauchamp?"

"I will say you are with child—my child," he said vehemently. "And having only discovered this fact, I am returning now to fetch your sisters, before we travel too far north. You will have need of them in your confinement."

Stunned, Elspeth stared at him, her fingers drifting to her mouth. Already, her lips were swelling over the fervor of their kiss, and her body ached for him in ways she could not comprehend. And yet, far more than she craved Malcom's kisses, she coveted her sisters' safety.

He took a dagger from his boot and set it on the table. "For you," he said. "I have no cause to believe you will have need for it, or I'd never leave you, but here you are, just in case."

And then he went after his saddlebag and searched for and found a few silver and gold coins, discarding them, too, atop the table. In all, six coins fell from his fingertips. "Again, should you have need of them."

Elspeth sank from her knees, watching with wide eyes.