Chapter 9

Nine

His dark eyes glinted, and his smile transformed his face like to that of a delivering angel's.

For a moment, Rosalynde was too dumb to speak.

There were legends that told of a distant kinsman—the Merlin of Britain, better known to her people as the prophet Taliesin. He was purported to be the most beautiful man in all the realm. For love of him, Cerridwen's own daughter had defied her witch mother, and in turn Cerridwen doomed the entire isle of Avalon to the Endless Sea. This instant, Rosalynde could well believe a face like that could change the fates… this man might well change hers.

She could scarcely believe her good fortune. She lifted a hand to her breast in surprise. "Where do I wish to go?"

"I believe it's what I asked."

But, nay. Of course, he would wish to help her. There was naught surprising about that. She was a woman in distress—and not merely a woman, but a woman of the cloth. What man worth his salt would ever abandon a sister in her time of need?

"We haven't time for twaddle," said the brother, and Rosalynde's hopes were dashed.

She looked from one man to the other, uncertain which of the two was the one in charge. For what it was worth, despite the bigger man's perpetual frown and his aggressive posture, the other man seemed more… well… perhaps dangerous—even if the other did not perceive it.

Like Elspeth, Rosalynde could sometimes read auras and the beautiful man facing her had a thin but distinct thread of black in his life force—no red, which implied to Rosalynde that whatever it was that informed his colors, it was not tied to his emotions. In other words, he could slice a man's throat, but it was not a thing he would do in anger. Fortuitously for her, she didn't sense that throat-cutting was a pastime he was inclined to, else the black in his aura would be more prominent.

Still, it was there, and it gave her pause… and she was glad now that she had taken time to conceal her pentacle. Anyone who might stumble over the diagram who did not understand the Craft might think it to be Satan's work. It most certainly was not. Simply by nature, all dewines were inclined to follow good Christian tenets. Their priests and priestesses were not unlike Christian priests, who in their hearts and minds were closer to God. Her grandmamau claimed all gods were one god, born of the same Great Mother, from whose very womb had sprung the world itself.

Looking back and forth between these two brothers, Rosalynde watched as the handsome man's jaw tightened, though rather than appear frightening, he was more arresting—like the graven image of a golden idol. And mayhap this was why the other one did not take him seriously: He was too stunningly beautiful to appear threatening. Apparently, only Rosalynde sensed the quiet rage burning behind his words. "You return to Warkworth. I will escort the lady myself."

"Giles."

"Wilhelm."

"Nay," said the other man resentfully. "I'll not leave you." And Rosalynde took a defensive step backward.

Giles?

Giles of Warkworth?

Wasn't that the name of the lord expected to wed her sister? And yet, it could not be—if so, he had clearly and inexplicably found her sister wanting, else Seren would be with him now. So far as Rosalynde knew, her sister was supposed to have returned to Warkworth with her betrothed.

Giles's dark eyes shone like tourmalines—as impossibly dark as his hair was fair. "Accompany me, or nay, I will not leave this Sister alone." He turned to cast a pointed glance at his brother and Rosalynde could feel the underlying tension mounting between them. Whatever it was that was troubling these two men, she wanted no part of it.

"Well," she said, considering her mother, "I should be going…" As it was, she feared to tarry longer, and she hadn't any desire to embroil herself betwixt these two siblings. Even so much as she longed to inquire about her sister, she daren't do so. "You may have the mare," she said, waving good-bye, but neither of the brothers bothered to look at her. "I'll be going!" she said louder.

"Nay!" said Giles, turning to stab Rose with a razor-sharp glare, and yet she sensed his anger wasn't directed at her. "I. Said. I. Will. Escort. You."

"Oh. Very well," said Rosalynde, as he turned again to look at the one called Wilhelm.

"And come to think of it, not only will I escort you, my brother will as well."

So now she knew which of the two was in charge… Giles. Giles de Vere. The very one who was fated to marry her sister. What a strange, strange turn of fate, but she couldn't decide whether it was good… or bad.

Right now, it felt more bad than good.

The tension between the two brothers was indisputably brittle. The air crackled between the pair as palpably as it had with her warding spell—which, she realized only belatedly was completely diminished. Giles must have broken her magik when he'd stepped into her pentagram.

Naturally, her first thought was for Morwen… if her mother should happen to peer into her crystal at the moment, there would be naught to keep her from finding Rose. Holding the book close, she frowned.

"As you wish," said Wilhelm, peering down at his boots, looking as though he might suddenly retch… and then, he did.

Rosalynde twisted her lips into a grimace and looked away.

The lord of Warkworth's toothy smile reappeared. "You must pardon my brother," he said. "His ale has gone to his head, and his manners to the devil."

Rosalynde nodded, but the greater part of her only wished she could flee—without these two men in her company. And nevertheless, she had the sense, after watching them, that there was no true discord between them. Quite to the contrary, the one called Wilhelm seemed to care about his lord brother, and she needn't read auras to know it; the truth was there in his eyes. Rather, she sensed there was a certain lack of accord creating some rift between them… and she wondered if it had anything at all to do with her sister. These would not be the first two men to vie over Seren. Scarcely a month after their arrival in London, her sister had already had multiple requests for her hand, and two of those men had reputedly come to fisticuffs.

"I would be… grateful for your help," she said to Giles. "Thank you," she said to Wilhelm.

At the least, she must feel a little relieved for their protection. No matter how good she might be at foraging, her sisters had always claimed she had more valor than good sense.

Frowning still, Wilhelm swept a sleeve across his lips and said, "No worries, Good Sister. 'Tis but poor timing, and 'tis hardly your fault."

Still clutching the grimoire to her breast, Rosalynde offered the man a smile, confused by their demeanor.

"Where to?" asked Giles.

"Neasham," said Rose, a little alarmed by how easily the lie slipped through her lips. And yet, it wasn't entirely unrehearsed. After all, Neasham was run by a small sect of Benedictine nuns, founded in part by the very woman whose habit she had stolen in London—Sister Emma.

"There you go," said Giles, sweeping a hand in his brother's direction. "How convenient. We'll deliver her, with little time lost."

Wilhelm nodded, though sullenly.

"Thank you," said Rosalynde yet again, and, affecting her most benevolent tone, she added, "Because of you, my faith in men is restored." She smiled winsomely, forgetting about her glamour spell and both men turned away, perhaps discomfited by her smile. Rosalynde lifted a brow at the sight of their chagrined blushes, but at least she knew they weren't escorting her for the wrong reasons.

"It seems to me that your good faith in men should keep a bit of caution," Giles said, and he turned to his brother. "Go, on… prepare the horses," And then he addressed Rosalynde again. "Gather your belongings, Sister. We'll be on our way at once. But, if you do not mind, I would ride my own horse…. and you…"

He looked toward his petulant brother, who was already gone to do his bidding, and apparently changed his mind, because he furrowed his brow. "You will ride with me."

Rosalynde covered her answering grin with a hand, and it was all she could do not to giggle. He looked so perfectly disheartened by the notion.