Chapter 25

Twenty-Five

Cael could barely concentrate on the business at hand for all his lusty thoughts of his wife. Therefore, he slipped away when he could, to find himself a quiet spot, thinking everyone would be better off if he could only reduce a bit of tension.

He couldn't do much about their current circumstances, nor the travesty hanging over their heads, but there was something he could do to relieve a bit of stress—or, at the very least, settle the beast in his breeches.

Devil take him, he wanted naught more than to drag his new wife into these woods and consummate their vows at long last, but this was not the time for that.

Moreover, he should have enough bloody sense not to choke his cock alone in these woods, with his travel companions not more than twenty yards away and a wolfhound sniffing at his heels. But evidently, he didn't, and there was only one small comfort he could embrace—that he was still human enough to have a man's desires, even amidst the chaos surrounding them. But it was a youth's appetite he enjoyed of late, and this was nothing to crow about. He was a besotted auld fool, whose modicum of good sense now faltered whenever faced with his beautiful, willful bride.

Such as it was, Cael couldn't even begin to conceive why it was that he was compelled to make excuses in broad daylight, or why he thence put his back against a tree, or why he then unlaced his trews, or pulled out his cock—only to piss, he reasoned. But that wasn't true, because he stood there with the beast in his hand a moment too long, and then he stroked himself a few times for good measure, moaning with pleasure over the feel of the hot, tight flesh in his hands.

But there was that bloody hound, with its bright wolflike eyes fixed upon him…

Still, intent upon his pleasure, he shut his eyes, envisioning Rhiannon's face—not the way she appeared tonight, with that mile-long scowl—the way she oft looked when she trounced him at a game of Queen's Chess, her soft, sultry lips curved ever so slightly with that beauteous smile, and her steel, blue eyes glinting with bravado…

The dog whined and Cael opened his eyes.

"Truly? Are you going to do this to me?" he inquired of the wolfhound. "I allowed you to come along, and I fed you."

Scowling at the dog, he once again tested his own bravado, stroking himself a few more times, his skin hot and engorged. But the dog whined yet again, and his manhood wilted in his hand. Finally, he let his hand fall away, and growled at the dog, nonsensical as the gesture should be.

Shaking his head, still half mad with lust, and completely unsatisfied, he tugged up his breeches and laced up his trews. "Bloody hell," he said, scowling at the hound. "I thought you were supposed to be man's best friend. God's truth, you're no friend to me!"

The dog whined pitifully, and Cael bade him to follow with a snap of his fingers. Together, man and dog started back in the direction of their camp.

Evidently contented with the outcome, the animal scampered up beside him, wagging its tail, and peering up at Cael with an unmistakable look of admiration. And, despite himself, it melted his heart precisely as it had when he'd first tried to shoo it away after leaving Blackwood.

God only knew, the rest of the pack had been pleased enough to run free, and Cael knew that they would eventually return home, as they always did after a hunt; hopefully not before Morwen departed. Clearly, this one had a soft spot for Cael, as he did for it. He was getting soft in his old age.

With a sigh, he reached down to scruff the animal's thick fur. "Mayhap you can find a way to soften your lady's mood," he conspired with the animal. "It's the least you can do."

Long before there were grimoires, or even words for that matter, the hud simply was. Therefore, even despite lacking a true grimoire, there was no spell Rhiannon shouldn't be able to cast, given the will to do it.

Even before her mother had clapped her in irons, she'd already begun to understand this experientially: that spells didn't require words, nor did they necessitate herbs or rites. Rather, all these things only helped the caster cast: words for focus, herbs to facilitate manipulation of the elements, rites to channel the energy of the hud, and to honor the Mother Goddess by whose grace all things were made possible.

Essentially, all things were summoned or banished, created or destroyed, transformed or reformed. And while it might seem there should be many, many nuances, or that, by virtue of these differences, it left too much to be explored, she had also come to know that all spells essentially belonged to the same two classifications, and that each had a genesis in either acceptance or denial. Therefore, if one viewed the world under these simpler terms, it was easier to channel the proper energy for a given spell.

Fundamentally, belief opened up all possibility, and emotion was the energy's source.

So, then, theoretically, she shouldn't even need to know what was possible in casting, she only needed to believe it was possible and to put heart and soul into the spell.

At least she hoped these things were true.

The time was coming soon to face Morwen—not a month from now, nor a year, but any moment…

Considering both protection spells and offense spells, she tried to open her mind and her imagination.

She only wished she could discuss such things with her sisters, because in the end, she needed their help—a truth she hadn't ever considered before realizing how wrong she was about her role in the world.

In the meantime, she was grateful to have Marcella. The paladin was as close to a dear friend as Rhiannon had ever known, complicated though their relationship might be—and despite Marcella's obvious affection for Cael.

And yet, truly, one could not control who they loved. Simply because Marcella held some strange affection for Cael, it didn't mean they couldn't be friends. Intuitively, she trusted the paladin's word. She would never betray herself, nor her word, and no matter how she'd felt about Cael, she was still willing to put an arrow through his heart in defense of Rhiannon. This was proof of her honor.

Considering these things, Rhiannon stood checking her cinches, after returning her supplies to her satchel.

Marcella and Jack were both busy repairing the campsite, and all together they were preparing to depart.

Supper had been mean, only a bit of salted beef, and a bite of pan. Evidently, Jack had meant what he'd said, and the memory of his rebellion made her smile.

Only when Marcella had asked where the cony was, he'd shrugged and told her she must have forgotten to procure it. Then, he'd offered to go find her a proper butcher, but his tone was so acerbic that it was impossible to mistake his meaning. There wasn't any butcher around for leagues, and neither did he intend to go searching.

For his part, Cael had made some excuse, then disappeared into the woods, perhaps to tend to his ministrations. No one dared follow him, except for that wolfhound, who, like Rhiannon, clearly longed for some attention.

What a silly fool she was, yearning for Cael's embrace and his kisses.

How was it even possible that she was so concerned with something so ridiculous as kisses when the fate of England was now at risk? At any instant, Mordecai could descend upon them—and God help them all if it should happen to be Morwen. None of them were prepared to face her mother yet—not even Rhiannon, and certainly not Jack or Marcella. And nay, most especially not Cael. Morwen would tear out his heart sooner than she would listen to a word from his mouth.

"Rhiannon…"

She turned to find her husband emerging from the woods, with the wolfhound at his heels.

He stopped, and the dog stopped beside him, and Cael immediately buried a hand into the animal's thick fur—as tall as it was, he barely had to stretch.

Still rather annoyed, even despite having discovered that he wasn't so immune to her as he might like her to believe, she turned her back on him and continued repairing her saddle. "Am I supposed to forget everything you said to me at Blackwood simply because you are here?"

"Nay," he said.

Rhiannon continued to repair her gear. "We are not aligned, you said. And what is more, you gave me every indication that if you were made to pursue, you would do your worst."

"Aye, Rhiannon, but I also said?—"

"You said a lot of things," she interrupted.

"I said I love you."

Rhiannon stiffened.

"I truly meant it."

Tears pricked at Rhiannon's eyes and she daren't turn—so easily did he melt her heart.

Nor did it help much to see a grown man traipsing about with an overgrown pup—like an endearing little boy.

No one in all her life had ever said they loved her.

Not even her sisters, because the sentiment was always understood.

"Rhiannon," he said again, gently, and Rhiannon swallowed hard as she sensed him moving near. He reached out to touch her elbow. "I am here… because it occurred to me that, whether I live or die, I must do so for you…"

Rhiannon swallowed again, uncertain how to respond.

There wasn't time to stand on ceremony, she realized. Death would come for them all, and much to her dismay, she had desperately feared Cael's time had already come—only fate had intervened and given them another chance.

She couldn't help herself. She turned to fling herself into his arms, tears burning her eyes, even as she buried her face against his gambeson.

"I thought you were dead," she said, and he placed his arms around her, holding her close. "I thought?—"

"What?"

Rhiannon shook her head, not wanting to say what else she'd thought—that he'd pursued her only to return her to Blackwood… to her mother… and worse.

We are not aligned, he'd said.

Together, they stood, embracing for the longest moment, and finally, at long last, he acknowledged what Rhiannon was only thinking. "Did you believe I intended you harm? That I could speak my love for you, kiss you so passionately, then harden my heart enough to come and slay you?" She nodded brokenly, her throat too thick to speak, and he squeezed her tighter. "I suppose I did imply so much, did I not?" He laughed then, ruefully, as he smoothed the tangles from her hair. "In truth, Rhiannon, I thought I must. I considered it a matter of life or death, and yet… once I returned to face your mother… I realized then and there that there was only one good reason to die… It wasn't for her."

Rhiannon still couldn't find her voice to speak, but there was so much she wished to say…

"I meant every word I said, Rhiannon. 'Tis true, though I didn't know it until I said it; I loved you from the moment you first opened your mouth—so brave and true. But you must have suspected so much? Did you not? Why else would a grown man eschew his duties for hours on end to sit in a lady's bower over a game he could never hope to win?"

Rhiannon choked on her laughter. It was true. He was miserable at Queen's Chess. "I assumed you let me win," she said with a watery laugh. "After all, you're the commander of the King's Rex Militum. Stratagem should come easily to you."

He sighed heavily, as his hand continued to caress her hair. "Aye, well… I must presume our King is a poor judge of character."

Rhiannon laughed again, and though often she would have continued to spar with him—cutting him with her words, because a sharp tongue was the only weapon she'd ever had—she embraced him fully, laying her head over the spot where his heart beat strongest.

"Rhiannon," he said again, and this time her name sounded more like a caress.

Hapless to do aught else, she lifted her eyes to meet Cael's, and her breath caught at the intensity of his gaze.

"Before witnesses, and before God, I have pledged you my troth," he said. "But here, now…" His hand slid from her waist, tickling her back, appearing between them to lift her chin. "I pledge you my loyalty and my life. Where you go, I will follow. Every moment of the time we have remaining, I pledge these to you."

Rhiannon didn't know what to say.

There was naught in the fathomless depths of his eyes that called him a liar, and yet, she couldn't speak those words herself. She would not choose him over all, nor risk her sisters' lives for him. "Thank you," she said, at a loss. And then, her husband did, what she sorely hoped he might do: He ceased with more words, lowering his mouth to hers, and thoroughly kissed her—not with the fervor of his first kiss, but tenderly, and full of promise, coaxing love words from her lips, as urgently as his hands held her.

Still, she could not say them, though she didn't know why. The need to speak aloud what was heartfelt was nearly as potent as the burn of magik through her veins.

And still, she refrained…

"Time to go, lovers," shouted Marcella.

Cael ended the kiss abruptly, smiling down at her.

Rhiannon felt the separation like the rending of a limb. "Little does she realize," she quipped, scarcely aware that it sounded like a lament.

He winked at her. "We'll remedy that," he said, and Rhiannon shivered over the promise in his eyes.

She wanted to say that it wasn't what she'd meant, but wasn't it? Even now, her body thrummed where he'd touched her and… more. Deep down in her womb, she felt a desperate need to be filled. Sweet fates, her desire was as potent as Marcella's philters.