The Chalice and the Blade (The Chalice Trilogy)

by Janzen, Tara

  Magic. Beltaine magic.

  She looked back to Dain and found him much closer, startlingly close, no more than three yards away. Their gazes met, and her mouth went dry. There was still a hint of madness in his eyes, and behind the madness, desire. ’Twas a palpable thing, reaching for her across the short distance of sweet grass and lavender.

  She wet her lips and nervously watched as his gaze tracked the tip of her tongue. A slow, hot ache pulsed to life between her thighs. He had kissed her and made her yearn for more than kisses. Now he stood before her, wild and silent, promising more than she could imagine. What did he know, she wondered, that put such desperate need in his face?

  Did she dare hold her ground and find the answer?

  He walked closer, stepping forward with a soundless tread, and she grabbed her skirts and fled, proving herself too great a coward.

  Dain followed, keeping pace with her, yet indulging her with the illusion of freedom. Her booted feet fell lightly upon the earth, racing through shafts of golden moonlight and night-blooming flowers wet with silver dew.

  They ran together, with him subtly guiding her toward their destination. She did not know it yet, but she was already becoming his. The stars were wrapping them together with distant light. The wind was binding them with its soft caress, enveloping them one with the other.

  At the first rise of the land, he slipped to her left, forcing her to move to the right, onto the lower path. The trail quickly narrowed and grew darker as the woods thickened on either side. Wyche Elm Pass towered above them, yet they continued to descend. Soon he had no need to guide her, for the earth itself delineated the path. Moisture entered the air, warmer than the breeze. Woodland ferns unfurled their fronds and brushed against her skirts. Mosses grew over the rocks.

  He was taking her to a place beyond the cavern of the grotto, where the grass was softer than goosedown, where water bubbled up warm from the ground, and the trees made a nested bower graced by slivers of the moon. Carved from the rock that formed the base of the hills, the glade had only one way in and out—the path they were on, with him closing in behind her.

  Dain sensed the moment when she realized she was running into a trap. She hesitated slightly, her pace slow but ’twas already too late. What looked like the darkness of night between the trees ahead was the exposed face of the limestone. There was no going past it. When she understood, she whirled to confront him, and he was already so close, her gown swept against his legs.

  Rebellion burned brightly in her eyes. Her hair had been tangled by the wind and fell in tumultuous disarray to her waist. Her hands were white-knuckled as they gripped her skirts. She tried to dash by him, but he raised his arm to block her escape, the unintentional threat of Ayas enclosed in his palm. She tried the other side, and he did the same—then he walked forward, pressing her ever backward, gathering her against the rock wall. When she could go no farther, when her body lay up against the stone, he placed a hand on either side of her shoulders, and there they stood, not touching, but close enough for him to feel the shallow, uneven expulsions of her breath and the heat rising off her skin.

  Warm, honeyed, female scent. He wanted to fill himself with her.

  She did not look at him, but kept her head bowed, her chest rising and falling with the need for more air in her lungs. She had run far. His own breath came hard too, but had naught to do with the run from Deri. Tonight he was the Horned One, and with the stamina of a hart, he could have chased her for leagues without tiring. Catching her, though— Ahh, that made air hard to draw, and thoughts hard to order, and words impossible to speak.

  He lowered his face to the crown of her head and rubbed his cheek across her hair, giving himself a small pleasure to keep from devouring the whole. It wasn’t enough. It never could have been. A flame curled to life in his groin, and he let his mouth slide lower, holding her pale, tangled curls away from her face so he could nuzzle her with his lips and tongue. He kissed her downcast lashes and her eyebrows, her scratched cheek and her temple, and heard a small sound catch in her throat. He traced every delicate curve of her ear and warmed her skin with his breath, and he felt her tremble. She was musky sweet, like life, and salty with sweat, so lovely and erotic in her acceptance of his touch. She could have pushed him away with a fingertip—he used no force—but she did not. She stood silent and quivering in his embrace, the Goddess to his Horned One, a willing doe in heat. He smelled the scent upon her, that sensual ripeness known to every rutting stag, and it intoxicated him. He opened his mouth on her neck, tasting, and pressed his phallus against the soft curves of her body, giving in to his most heartfelt desire.

  “Jesu,” she gasped, and he groaned, letting the heat pour into him. She had wanted, she had asked, and now he was giving.

  Reaching up, he buried Ayas in the tree limb arching above them, then brought his hand down to cradle her head in his palm. He kissed her hair and shifted nearer to her, closing his body around hers and relieving her of her pack—the beginning of her déshabillé. Unbidden by him, the crystal began to glow, bathing them in soft blue light. ’Twas as close to pure magic as he’d seen by the river, a stone working with no trickster to manipulate it, and he wondered what had called forth the dreamy incandescence, whether ’twas the carnal power of the sex he and Ceri were conjuring, or the aching tenderness he felt for the woman in his arms. There was wonder in both, and even more so for having them together.

  Aye, a tender carnality was what he felt, that he could take her with all the crude simplicity of an animal and love her with all his man’s heart.

  One tug freed him from his loincloth; the Damascene clattered unheeded to the ground. Deft fingers made impatient with need unlaced her gown and kirtle and discarded them into a pile on the grass, leaving her in the linen chemise. He bunched that soft cloth into his hands and brought it up around her waist, exposing her skin to the night and the heat of his body.

  She grew utterly still beneath his hands, speaking to him in a voice so soft that even though her mouth whispered close to his ear, he could not hear her words through the haze of lust driving him. He held her hips, and her soft, damp curls welcomed his forward thrust, their mere touch more tantalizing than any well-taught flutter of tongue. She was slick and warm, and no doubt sweet.

  The vision proved impossible to resist. He bent his head and nuzzled and licked her breasts through their soft linen covering, working his way down to the bareness of her belly, and then lower still. He kissed her deep, his mouth open on her vulva—the hidden secret place between her thighs—exploring every fold and finding her most luscious and sensitive spot to savor with his tongue. Gasping, she pressed herself closer, and excitement surged through him.

  Ceridwen fought panic even as she opened for him, her knees weak, his hands and body her sole support. She was hot, so very hot, and frightened, and desperate to have him close. There was madness in his touch, and she had caught it. The pulse of the earth was beating in her veins, rising through the soles of her feet and urging her on to an unknown end. The trees were alive around them, and the stars above them, their silent energy and light rushing through her. If he was god, then she was goddess receiving the cosmos. She had tried to tell him, repeating to him in a whisper the songs being sung in the forest and the sky, but her words had melted into a sigh of unutterable sensual delight as that part of him called “cock” by the cleric at Usk had slid between her legs, high up against her most private area that not even the cleric had named.

  Then his mouth.

  Good God, she feared she might die.

  But ’twasn’t death that overcame her as he plied his tongue ever more quickly, then sucked on her ever so gently. No, ’twasn’t death a’tall, but ecstasy—pure and clean and untouched by any thought. The flash of pleasure suspended time, arcing through her like heat lightning before the aftermath rolled through her, rippling like a succession of waves, nurturing places inside herself she had never felt.

  She sank to her knees, and he
took her in his arms, laying her down in the tall grass and in the same move pushing himself inside her, filling her. The pain was sharp, and quickly over. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek, his mouth, ran her tongue along the curve of his jaw, tasting salt and man. To have him so close was a gift. He was Dain, the mage of Wydehaw, untouchable, and yet he touched her and made her feel whole. Sweet Jesu, no wonder he had longed for this. Groaning, he partially withdrew, and she murmured a soft protest.

  By the light of the crystal and the moon, she saw the flicker of his smile. “Shh, Ceri, shh. I can go nowhere other than deeper inside you.”

  And he did, slowly sliding back into her, then withdrawing and coming on again, filling her with wondrous pleasure. His smile faded as each thrust built in intensity. Silky hair and feathers fell over his shoulders, drifting back and forth across her breasts with his movements. ’Twas so beautiful to watch him, his muscles flexed and straining, to feel the strength and power of his body striving for release. She caressed his back from shoulder to buttocks and felt the tremors running through him. She held him and whispered gentle urgings, for now she knew what had put the desperation in his face. The pagan magic of Beltaine was incontestable.

  Yet ’twas more than the golden moon causing tension to gather all along his body. His breath quickened, and with the knowing ease of a woman, she shifted beneath him, taking him deeper, holding him tighter. His thrusts came faster, then he thrust once more and held, a low groan rising from his throat.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw his seed spill out of him and into her, the rich, creamy fluid flowing up against the opening of her womb. He was the river; her body was the yielding earth. She followed the life-giving stream deeper, into a sanctuary hidden in a soft, warm cave, the core of her being—and a voice whispered to her in the dark . Kael.

  ~ ~ ~

  Madron woke with a start. She had not meant to sleep. She swept a few straying strands of hair off her face and blinked. Time had passed. How much?

  She pushed out of the maple chair and walked quickly to the cottage window, where her nimble fingers made swift work of opening the shutters. She bent forward over the sill, looking out and up at the sky. The Eve of Beltaine was over, thank the gods, the ruby wash of morn breaking on the eastern horizon, but daylight alone was no balm for the strange and disagreeable night she’d spent. Something was gravely amiss. The woods were still silent.

  The trees had stopped talking to her at dusk—Rhuddlan’s doing, without a doubt—and her mind would find no ease until they spoke to her again. ’Twas as nothing for the elf-man to close her out of the forest’s scented murmurings. She’d always known his skills far surpassed those of the other Quicken-tree. Truly, she had once believed that the trees spoke only on his command—a smitten girl’s fallacy, she’d later learned. The trees acknowledged no earthly lord. Yet the rowans did his bidding; they’d carried Quicken-tree messages to her since the time of Edmee’s conception, and always during the fire festivals such as Beltaine, his intent on those nights to lure her back into the fold.

  A small drop of morning rain fell through the trees and plopped onto the sill. Madron caught it up, with the pad of her finger and brought it to her mouth. There was taste, fresh and dear, but no hint of anything more.

  Rhuddlan was keeping something from her.

  Chapter 20

  Dain held Ceridwen in his arms as dawn breached the night, his body half covering hers. Her gown and kirtle were haphazardly tossed over them for warmth; her chemise was tangled about them both. Silk ribands trailed down the pale, creamy contours of her body, looping onto her breast and coming back up, dipping into the curve of her waist and rising again over her hip like a meandering silver stream. She had drifted into a light sleep—trusting soul. Her faith might redeem him yet. Or mayhaps she had felt it too, his total surrender.

  He wanted her again. Her hand was soft on his hip, her fingers delicate in their unconscious caress. He kissed the corner of her mouth, and she stirred, but did not waken. Just as well. He had not been so gentle. There was blood between her thighs and on her belly where his half-aroused penis rested, and blood on him as well. Such was to be expected, and despite the evidence of pain, her desire had been clear. She had wanted him and welcomed him.

  The color of the sky changed while he held her, from velvet-black to midnight-blue to a chatoyant pearl-gray, the last sending rich, lustrous light running down through the trees, glazing branches and picking up an edge of gold from the east before reaching the forest floor. Birds. began their morning songs with the dawn, tee-yairing and chir-rupping their calls.

  Being careful not to disturb her, he eased out of their grass nest and went to clean himself in the small freshets of hot water flowing from fissures in the stone and gathering in rock basins at the bottom of the limestone wall. They were offshoots from the grotto pool that steamed and bubbled inside the cavern. When he was finished, he wadded together a handful of spongy moss and soaked it in the water, getting it hot and wet.

  Back at her side, he cleaned her and pressed the warm moss between her legs and against her mons, knowing the heat would soothe.

  Her lashes fluttered open on a sigh and closed on another. “Dain,” she murmured.

  He lay down beside her and kissed her again, letting his mouth linger on hers and warm her lips. Her response was to tease him with her tongue. He smiled and felt her do the same.

  “Are you god or demon this day?” she asked when he raised his head. Her hand came up to trace the blue band painted across his face.

  “Only a man.” She was beautiful beneath him, her smile not so innocent, her body the loveliest haven, so essentially female. “And you? Goddess or demoness?”

  “Whatever you wish... for another kiss.” Her smile took a sultry turn as she tunneled her fingers through his hair and pulled his head back down. She plundered his mouth, her tongue deliciously sensual, tasting and exploring.

  Her blatant seduction tantalized him, going straight to his groin and bringing him fully erect. So she would play the demoness for him? Mayhaps he would teach her how. For now, though, it would not take much to have her again as the angel-woman. ’Twas no more than the length of his cock from where he was to where he wanted to be. Yet he held back, losing himself in her kiss, but taking no more.

  “Dain?” She pulled away and looked up at him, her question clear.

  “’Tis too soon after your first time, Ceri.” He smoothed her hair back from her brow. The long silvery-gold tresses were spread out around her in every direction, a brilliant, mussed pillow strewn with leaves. “Your body is tender, and I would not hurt you again.”

  “And what of you?” She glanced down to where they touched.

  A grin teased his mouth. There was no shyness in her question. ’Twas as if she, too, realized that what was now between them went beyond the tangent boundaries of skin and bone, beyond the ever-shifting surfaces of emotion. She was his, and he would have no other. He had not known that love, that the act of love with her, would bind him so greatly or grant such a heady sense of freedom.

  He brushed his thumb across her cheek and watched her eyes drift closed. Her hand trailed up his ribs and under his arm, before coming across his shoulder. They were tangled together as surely as her clothes, their legs intertwined, strands of her hair intermingled with his and flowed over their chests and arms. His gaze wandered down to her breasts and hips. Every curve enchanted him, so very pale against his darkness, so rounded against his much larger, more angular frame. Her allure was incarnate, needing no conscious effort. She simply was, and he wanted her.

  “Lying this close to you, it would take little more than your hand to please me,” he told her. Desire was in him, fed by lust into a heavy need, and he would have it assuaged.

  “My hand?” Her lashes rose in a leisurely sweep.

  “Aye.” He interlaced his fingers with hers and brought them to his mouth, pressing his suit. She was willing and curious, and it was for her tha
t his loins ached.

  Ceridwen watched in fascination as he opened their clasped hands and laved her palm, then her fingers, one by one. His tongue was soft and wet and moved over her hand with the ardency of a hungry cat licking cream; a big cat, like a rampant lion with his mane of wild hair falling over the two of them and snaking across their torsos. His eyebrows were drawn toward each other with the depth of his concentration; his lashes were lowered into dark crescents on blue pagan cheeks.

  She had not thought one’s hand capable of being seduced, that there was so much sensitivity in her fingers and in the skin between her fingers. He proved her wrong with every caress. She was entranced, and she wanted more. She wanted to touch him, to discover the part of him that had been inside her.

  Dain felt the same need—to have her touch him. Thus when her skin was warm and moist, he slipped her hand down his chest and closed it around his phallus. Heat... luscious, erotic heat. He groaned, showing her the way of it, the varying rhythms of stimulation and the one that created the most intense pleasure for him. She kissed his face as she stroked him, proving herself adept at divining his desires, the silky pressure of her hand and lips giving him a glimpse of heaven. Even with his guidance, her touch was so very different from his own, delightfully, profoundly different, marking him with a deep rush of feeling, adding an element of tender care where for too long there had been only animal need.

  With an ease born of empathy, he moved his hand from around hers and into the triangle of curls between her legs; and he bent his head to her breast, bringing her into the same swirling chaos consuming him. Her nipple was incredibly soft in his mouth, a lure for his tongue, just as her lush folds were a lure for his fingers. She was gratifyingly wet, the moisture he slid into like nectar, no different, for he remembered the wondrous, womanly taste of her vagina. He had thought to never know such again, to never again have the deepest scent of a woman infusing his pores. Then Ceri had come to him.