Chapter 13

Thirteen

The hounds were getting close.

Unfortunately, it was impossible to say from which direction they were coming, although Rhiannon feared it must be Cael.

By now, they must have found her ruined gown. She only hoped Marcella's masking potion would do its job and send them searching in another direction.

Unfortunately, they daren't mount until the terrain was even enough to ride, and much to Rhiannon's dismay, it was nearly daybreak before they climbed into their saddles. Only then, finally, they were able to gain some distance from the barking hounds—thankfully, because they were still much too close to Blackwood to take any chances. Any experienced dewine would recognize the scent of magik and intuitively follow it. To hell with those hounds, a nose like Morwen's would smell the tiniest disturbance in the aether.

Essentially, all things were born of the aether, all things returned to it, but if one had the skill to do it, the aether could be manipulated. Still, it was impossible to do so without some form of residua. Ofttimes, with smaller spells, the scent was imperceptible, but it was completely unmistakable with larger-scale manipulations. Knowing that, Rhiannon held back, even with the smallest incantations.

Silently, she followed Jack through the brambles as he cleared a path before them. Directly behind Rhiannon, agile as any man, Marcella followed with her blade in hand, riding as though she were born to her saddle. Her hooded cloak hid her ebony tresses. And her bright green eyes assessed their surroundings with a shrewdness born of experience.

How old was she? Rhiannon wondered.

She behaved as though she were a hundred and Rhiannon's elder, though she couldn't be much older than Rhiannon.

For his part, Jack couldn't be more than nine and ten, though it was difficult to say for certain, because he, too, wore the same concealing cloak. Both seemed far too young to be able protectors.

Dressed in black, the young man shouldered a darkness that belied his youthful countenance, and, even by night, the haunted look in his pale blue eyes was unmistakable. Rhiannon wondered what travails he'd encountered to make him seem so glum. Whatever it was, she suspected it must have something to do with her mother.

What else could convince strangers to aid her against Morwen? Either they owed Cael a great debt, else they loathed her mother so much they were willing to risk life and limb on Rhiannon's behalf. But no matter the circumstances, Rhiannon was grateful, though there was something about Marcella that needled her.

The woman was sullen and suspicious, curt and mercurial—very much like a changeling. One minute she was entirely too solicitous, the next she was snappish, and it seemed to Rhiannon that no matter what she did, the woman was despotic.

Right now, it was impossible to gauge her expression or her mood for the hood she wore. "At this pace, it won't be long before we cross into England," she said aloud.

"Good," was all Rhiannon could think to answer, and then after, the silence grew thick.

Sweet fates.

They weren't even gone one night, and already she found that Cael's face hovered like a ghost behind her lids, threatening to materialize every time she closed her eyes.

I don't love you, she told herself furiously.

I don't even like you.

But it wasn't true.

She loved him with reckless abandon—even more now that he'd dared to risk his life to save her.

Aye, she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that there would be a price to be paid for this. She only hoped that Cael understood what he was doing and that he knew how to handle her mother.

Time and again, she turned to scrutinize the path behind them, trembling with fear, all the while lying to herself and telling herself she didn't care.

But she did.

And if, indeed, Cael's ruse was discovered…

The thought left her sick with fear.

"You love him, do you not?"

Startled by the impertinent question, Rhiannon met Marcella's gaze. "Nay," she lied.

The dewine's lips tilted up at one corner. "Ah," she said, with an infuriating sense of certainty. "I think you do."

Rhiannon cast the woman an annoyed glance. "Why should I?"

"Why shouldn't you?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Rhiannon, with no small measure of disgust. "Perhaps because he's in league with my mother?"

Silence.

"Or, better yet, mayhap because he kept me imprisoned for five long years!"

Marcella flicked her hand dismissively. "Alas, my cousin is a complicated man. And yet, I know he loves you."

Or so he'd claimed, though it didn't suit Rhiannon to dwell on such notions—not here, not now. It would serve her far better to remember the worst of Cael—that he'd locked her away in a tower for six long months before finally affording her the luxury of a bower.

And then he'd allowed her mother's lackey to place her in shackles, then no matter how oft she'd lowered herself to beg, he'd never once considered removing them.

Until last night.

"I don't think he knows what love is," Rhiannon countered.

"Hmm," said Marcella, scornfully. "I wonder how he might prove it?"

Nettled, Rhiannon met her question with stubborn silence, though Marcella persisted.

"Perhaps by setting you free at peril to himself and to all he holds dear?"

Rhiannon fought the urge to fly at the woman and scratch out her eyes. She didn't like Cael's "cousin," and she liked her even less with every passing moment. She was grateful certainly, and she would endeavor to remember her gratitude, but she'd love nothing more than to enjoy a moment of silence. And even so, Marcella persisted. "Wouldn't that be proof enough?"

Rhiannon narrowed her gaze.

Was that resentment she noted in the woman's voice?

Moreover, she had the inescapable feeling that this dewine knew more about Cael's affiliation with Morwen than she was willing to reveal. That bothered her even more.

Who was this woman who claimed to be her husband's cousin? Though curiosity needled her, she refrained from asking, sensing Marcella wouldn't provide any answers.

Cael was no longer her concern, she told herself.

Even now, he might be dead, and, really, she must endeavor to harden her heart. They had a long way to go, and much to accomplish. Cael d'Lucy's decisions were his own, and she couldn't allow herself to take responsibility for his choices, or his affiliations. No one had told him to align himself with Morwen… nor did Rhiannon ever ask to be imprisoned at Blackwood.

Certainly, she'd never asked to love him.

The woman riding alongside her looked too much like a cat who got the cream.

"Why are you helping me?" Rhiannon asked. "For my husband?"

"Nay," the woman replied. "Mind you, I care deeply for Lord Blackwood, but I believe loving you will be the death of him yet, and for what? I cannot believe you ever knew his heart."

Rhiannon winced, confused, more than angry.

It was true, perhaps: There was much about Cael d'Lucy she was not privy to know. But that was not her fault, she told herself. He'd only ever revealed the face he cared to show. And even so… she'd spent so many waking hours in his company over these past five years; shouldn't she know him better than some woman who hadn't seen him in years? Even a cousin?

"He's not the man you believe him to be, Rhiannon."

"No doubt," Rhiannon agreed. "But then, prithee, who is he?"

The dewine shook her head. "That is not for me to answer, my dewine sister. Though if he survives your mother, you might ask him yourself." Then she laughed acerbically. "As to the reason, I'm helping you… why else? 'Tis the will of the Goddess, no doubt."

"I see," said Rhiannon. And perhaps she did—far more than she cared to. It was there in the glint of Marcella's eyes, in the tears she'd disdained to shed. Marcella might, in truth, be his cousin, but the woman might also be in love with him.

The two women shared a knowing glance, and then Marcella huffed a sound of disgust, and put a heel to her mare, moving ahead to take the lead. Meanwhile Jack fell back to ride alongside Rhiannon. "You mustn't concern yourself with Marcella," he advised. "Betimes she's abrasive, though she means well. She's quite protective of Lord Blackwood."

"So, I've noticed."

The young man grinned stupidly, then sighed, watching as Marcella whacked at brambles. "She's not only lovely, but she's clever, as well."

Annoyance rushed down Rhiannon's spine. "So, I must presume."

Jack nodded, ignoring the telltale note of sarcasm in Rhiannon's voice, responding with unreserved pride. "She served the Empress and her house many, many years."

The Empress.Rhiannon's half-sister, though they hadn't really a drop of blood in common. Still, her interest was mildly piqued, and she said, "In what fashion?"

She never anticipated the answer she received. "Marcella is the only woman ever to be assigned to the Papal Guard."