by Joy Nash
“Come inside me. I want you so.”
“Ah, Breena…I do not want to hurt you.”
“It would hurt me more, Rhys, if you were to pull away.”
He let out a breath. A sigh of surrender, perhaps. His body tightened, the head of his shaft slid through her folds, seeking welcome. She opened to him, planting her feet and arching upward.
“Bree—” With a flex of his hips, he slid inside.
She experienced an instant of sharp, burning pain. A gasp escaped her lips. Rhys froze. “Gods.”
For long moments they lay that way, joined in body, breathing as one, hesitant to deepen the union. The sensation of being stretched, and filled, was very odd. But not unpleasant. The pain was already fading. A feeling of buoyant expectancy had replaced it.
She wriggled her hips. Rhys raised his head and looked down at her.
“Are you…uncomfortable?” His voice was strained.
“No. But I know there is more than this.”
She thought she saw the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You are right,” he said. “There is this.” His hips thrust forward. “And this.” He drew back.
“Oh!” The sensation was like nothing she’d ever known. Or had even dreamed of. It felt as though he caressed her soul.
He moved again, his hands sliding under her bottom, lifting her, guiding her. She caught his body’s rhythm, and matched it, lifting her hips as he thrust downward. At last she touched him freely, a banquet of pleasure at her fingertips. Her palms stroked his shoulders, his flanks, his buttocks. He groaned, and dropped his head to her neck. His tempo quickened.
He became her world. The only solid thing in a universe of shifting, rolling pleasure. It came in waves, lifting her, urging her, ripping away her defenses, until every protection on her soul was gone. And she did not care, because it was Rhys. Rhys. She was making love with him at last.
The wild pleasure grew, and crested, driving every thought from her head. It was as if her body was made of pure sensation. Pure bliss. And yet there was more. She could sense it.
Rhys’s soft urgings caressed her ear, his accent growing rougher as his own control slipped. “Aye, lass. Let go. Let it come. Let the end take ye.”
It snatched her away hard and fast, hot pleasure slicing through her like the sharpest of blades. She shattered, a thousand bright lights flashing behind her eyelids. Rhys’s mouth covered her, drinking in her cry. He moved inside her, harder, faster, until his own body stiffened, and she felt his seed spurt, warm and welcome, deep inside.
He collapsed atop her, his weight straining the ropes under the mattress. She wrapped her arms around him and tried to still the pounding of her heart.
“I love you, Rhys.”
His body jerked, as if she’d struck him. He did not answer.
After a moment, he rose.
The cool air that rushed between their bodies was almost painful. He shoved himself into a seated position near her feet, and looked at her for a long moment. Then he turned, and rested his elbows on his knees. Dropping his head, he pressed the side of his fist to his forehead.
A sour feeling curdled in her stomach.
“Rhys?”
“Gods, Breena. I’m—”
“Do not say it,” she whispered, horrified. “Do not tell me you are sorry.”
He nodded and looked away. “Then I will not. It would be a lie, in any case.”
He rose and found his clothes. Chilled by the odd shift of his mood, she drew up her blanket as he dressed.
He paused, his hand on the door latch. “There is a stand of oaks to the east of the tournament field, on a bluff overlooking the sea. Do you know it?”
“I do.” She hoped her voice sounded as steady as his.
“Tomorrow, at the tournament, when my illusion takes hold, bring the duchess to the grove, as quickly as you can. Do not delay even an instant.”
She nodded. He opened the door and was gone.
Chapter Fourteen
If he could find shelter, he’d be safe.
Myrddin plied his dove’s wings. His destination was a sheer cliff dotted with gaps and fissures. If only he could reach it, he could dodge death.
A shadow passed over his body, and fell to the earth below in the shape of a hawk. The creature flew above. The cliffs were drawing near. But they were not close enough. He would not reach them in time. And yet, even knowing the truth, Myrddin flapped his wings, desperately.
The hawk screeched. He felt the rush of its dive even before it struck. Gods, Vivian. I am sorry.
He braced himself for the strike. It did not come. He was falling, falling, falling. His wings were useless. No, even worse, they had disappeared entirely.
He bounced on the ground, striking several times before rolling to a stop. He tried to move. He could not.
He had no body. Blades of grass loomed as high as trees. He had shrunk to the size of a grain of wheat. No. He was a grain of wheat. Ah, but at least a grain of wheat was safe from a hawk’s beak. Perhaps, once the predator lost interest, Myrddin could find a way to regain the body of a man.
He heard the hawk land. Nearby, he thought, though he could not see it. He lay waiting, praying it would move off. When he heard the soft clucking, he did not at first understand.
Until the hen’s black eye above him blinked, and her sharp beak descended on a single, discarded grain of wheat.
Breena thought she would never be able to sleep after Rhys left. Her skin tingled. Her emotions were in turmoil, and her thoughts of the day to come filled her with trepidation. Eventually, however, both mind and body succumbed to exhaustion.
Sleep brought no respite from her fears. Just the opposite. Her nightmare was more terrifying than it had ever been. The perspective had changed. In her vision, Breena was no longer a bystander watching Igraine’s murder. Instead, she saw the scene unfold from the duchess’s own eyes. The snatches of terror in her breast were not her own, but Igraine’s.
Silver mist swirled all around her. It filled her lungs thickly. As beautiful as it was, she hated it. It separated her from…what? A power that should have been as natural as breathing. Someone had taken it from her.
A door opened. A man stood on the threshold. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his anger. His footsteps were angry. She shrank back…
Breena came awake with a start, heart pounding, head aching. Her lungs were tight; she gulped great mouthfuls of air. A shaft of moonlight tumbled through the musty storeroom’s single window. Lady Bertrice’s snores rose and fell beyond the door.
She would not sleep again tonight. The walls of her small room seemed to close in on her. She needed the open sky above her to feel whole again. She eased out of bed.
Blessed night air greeted her on the roof terrace. The gibbous moon, just shy of full, cast an ominous band of light on the sea. Morning could not be far off. The wind lifted her hair, causing it to stream behind her. She hugged herself tightly. Though she had no cloak, and her feet were bare on the cold stone walkway, she was loath to leave the small freedom of the outdoors.
She turned, giving her back to the wind. If she leaned over the wall encircling the terrace, and looked hard to her left, she could see over the lower roof of the great hall and into the castle forecourt beyond.
She stared down at the peaked roofs of the tents. Rhys was there, somewhere, with his minstrel friends. Was he thinking of her? Remembering the searing intimacy they had shared? If so, she suspected he was stewing in regret.
That thought hurt terribly. She had no regrets. None at all.
A hot flush rose up her neck, despite the bite of the wind. She touched her lips. The bottom one was still swollen. Her inner thighs tingled with the scrapes from Rhys’s rough beard. Her more private parts twinged when she walked. Her arms ached, and there were faint marks on her wrists where Rhys had bound her. Dear Goddess. She’d spent years dreaming of how it would be when she and Rhys finally made love. The reality had been nothing like the fantas
y.
The Rhys of her girlish imagination had been playful and gentle. So very romantic. He had not been angry, almost savage in his lust. The real Rhys frightened her. She could not deny that. When he’d tied her wrists, and she lay helpless as his hands roamed her body…A deep shudder ran through her. She could not deny that her fear was irrevocably entwined with dark desire. The sweet, twisting sensations he’d conjured…the exhilarating sense of being completely in his control…the blinding pleasure she’d experienced…She wanted to do it all again. She wanted to do it forever.
She suspected he did not. He’d been shamed by his passion; he’d been on the verge of an apology. It did not matter that she had taken as much pleasure as he in their joining—he still sought to protect her. Gods. The man could be such an idiot sometimes. And so stubborn! Why could Rhys not accept the fact that they belonged together? As far as Breena was concerned, after last night, there was no going back.
She rubbed her arms. The fresh air had cleared her mind, but she’d catch her death if she remained barefoot on the terrace much longer. As she reached the tower door, a heavy tread sounded on the stair.
She’d left the door unlatched, and slightly ajar. She peered through crack just in time to see Gerlois disappear down the dim stairwell.
A chill seemed to blow right through her soul. She had not realized the duke had visited the duchess last night. But of course—why else would Nesta have been able to arrange a tryst with Rhys? Cold dread filled her stomach. She all but flew up the stairs. The moon remained three days from full, but last night, her vision had changed yet again. Had her new nightmare been Igraine’s cry for help? One she had not heard?
One level above, the duchess’s solar was empty. Without pause, she ran to the upper level. Soft sobs, muffled behind Igraine’s closed door, flooded Breena with relief. The worst had not happened. Not yet.
Catching her breath, she eased the door open and stepped into Igraine’s bedchamber. A pallet near the door—Nesta’s, no doubt—was empty.
A large bed stood in the center of the space; Breena could just make out Igraine’s huddled form, hidden behind the silk hangings. Her anguish tore at Breena’s heart.
She approached with caution. “My lady?”
Igraine shoved herself upright, a pillow clasped to her chest. “Who…who is it?”
Breena fumbled on a table for flint and tinder. A moment later, the glow of lamplight chased the shadows into the corners. “It is I, my lady. Breena.”
Igraine stared as if she did not recognize the name. She simply sat, motionless, her hair tumbling in a wild tangle about her shoulders. The neckline of her tunic was torn, revealing an angry mark on one breast. Her lips were swollen; her eyes red and puffy. Strands of pewter dulled her aura.
Breena’s heart nearly broke. “Oh, Igraine! What has he done to you?”
The duchess blinked, then pulled the torn edges of her tunic together. “Breena. What are you doing here?” Her eyes flicked to the window. “It is not yet dawn.”
“I could not sleep. I saw the duke descend, and I heard your sob. I thought…you might be in need of help.”
“Help,” the duchess repeated, her tone hollow. “Yes. I begin to believe you are right.”
Breena sat on the edge of the bed. She could speak again of flight, but she sensed Igraine was in need of more immediate care.
She sent a rush of magic through their link. It disappeared as if it never was. The void that existed where Igraine’s magic should have been was empty and desolate. How horrible a fate, to be so disconnected to one’s power. Like touching the world with bandaged hands.
“Is there water?” Breena asked. “I could help you wash.”
Igraine’s eyes closed briefly. “There is water in the basin. I would very much like to wash. I feel so…dirty.”
The water was cold, but Igraine did not flinch. Breena tended the duchess’s bruises and scrapes as best she could. For the wounds of the spirit, she could do little.
She swallowed. “Did he—?”
Igraine understood. “Rape me?” She laughed. “No. Perhaps that would have been more bearable—or at least quicker—than his fists.”
Heartsick, Breena discarded Igraine’s torn tunic, and found another in a trunk. The room was chilled; she stirred up the coals in the brazier and added more from a nearby bucket. Taking up an ivory comb, she began to smooth the knots from Igraine’s red-gold hair.
Breena concentrated on her task. Igraine stared at the window, watching the sky go from black to pink. The comb glided through the last of the snarls in the red-gold hair.
Breena laid the comb aside. Her heart broke for the duchess,who had so great a need of protection. On impulse, she lifted the chain bearing her Druid pendant and drew it over her head.
“Please,” she said. “I want you to wear this. I believe you need it far more than I.”
Igraine turned, a question in her eyes. She touched the dangling silver charm with her forefinger. “Why…I once had a charm like this. My old nurse gave it to me. But Gerlois took it away. He said it was pagan.”
“The three-armed spiral in the center is the sign of the Great Mother goddess,” Breena said. “But the fourpronged cross is the symbol of the Christos. I know him as the Carpenter Prophet. Dafyd calls the Old Ways evil, but that is not true. Both these signs, old and new, are of the Light. Together, they are very powerful protection. Will you wear it?”
Igraine searched Breena’s eyes, and nodded. “If you wish it.”
Breena put the circle of silver chain over Igraine’s head, and drew her hair through it. Igraine looked down at the pendant, then tucked it under her tunic, saying nothing.
Breena separated the strands of Igraine’s hair, and began to braid.
The duchess’s shoulders slumped. “My husband hates me so.”
“I cannot think why he should,” Breena said evenly.
“Gerlois wants a son. I gave him a daughter. He was enraged, and threw her away.”
“That is good reason for you to hate him. Gerlois has no reason to despise you, or to think you are incapable of giving him sons in the future.”
A bubble of hysterical laughter erupted from Igraine’s lips. “Give him sons! How can I? My womb cannot grow a son if my husband cannot plant the seed.”
Breena’s hands stilled. “You mean…the duke cannot…perform?”
“No. That is why he uses his fists.”
“But—your daughter…”
“Gerlois was injured in battle shortly before Morgan’s birth. Since then…” Igraine’s shoulders lifted and fell. “He cannot…stiffen, no matter how I try to rouse him. He says the blame is mine.”
“The fault cannot be yours! No man could fail to desire you. You are so beautiful.”
Igraine’s expression hardened. “My beauty is nothing but a curse.”
“It is only a curse if you do not have the courage to leave him.”
Igraine studied her clenched fingers. “I do not know,” she said at last.
Breena finished the braid and tied off the end. “I do. You cannot remain here. Gerlois will destroy you. Uther is coming for you, Igraine. He will wage war on your behalf whether you wish it or not. You promised yourself to Uther, long before Erbin gave you to Gerlois. The time has come for you to keep your first vow. We leave today.”
Igraine twisted around and met Breena’s gaze. “Truly?”
“Yes. The plan is in place. All you need to do is agree to it.”
Igraine looked down at her clasped hands. After a long hesitation, she nodded. “All right. I will do as you say. I will go to Uther.”
Nesta arrived before dawn with a bucket of hot water, her head down and her forehead marred with a scowl. When she saw Breena with Igraine, her expression turned to one of surprise.
“My lady,” she said as she emptied and refilled Igraine’s washbasin. “Lady Antonia has already dressed your hair.”
“I rose early,” Breena said, “and thought to offer L
ady Igraine my services.”
Nesta eyed Breena’s loose hair and bare feet. “Lady Bertrice is stirring. We are to be at chapel in under an hour. Bishop Dafyd wishes to offer a prayer on behalf of the tournament knights. We must hurry.”
“I will dress quickly, then, and assist Lady Bertrice while you tend the duchess.” Breena crossed the room, pausing at Igraine’s wardrobe, where Nesta was already sorting through Igraine’s gowns.
“You seem out of sorts this morning,” Breena whispered. “Is something troubling you?”
“Only the usual,” she grumbled.
“A man?”
“Aye, what else? That fair-headed minstrel, the one who sang so sweetly at the feast. Promised to meet me, he did. I waited half the night, and he did not appear.” Nesta sniffed. “Faithless louts, men, the lot of ’em.”
Breena hid a smile as she descended the stair.
Tintagel’s chapel, with its lime-washed walls and tall, deep-set windows, might have been a place of Light, if not for Bishop Dafyd’s darkness.
Breena fidgeted with one of her sleeve pins as Dafyd preached of Satan and sin. Her stomach churned. She had not broken her fast, but she doubted she could eat in any case.
Her nerves were wound tight. It was not that she doubted Rhys’s ability to do what he proposed; it was that what he intended to do was so very dangerous. What if Dafyd became aware of Rhys’s illusion before Breena managed to get Igraine away? The thought turned her heart to ice.
At least the cushion she’d been given to kneel upon softened the cold stone floor. Dafyd droned on. Breena’s anxiety heightened. The bishop preached Light, but every word out of his mouth was darkness. She kept her head down, hoping he would not take notice of her. She’d been careful to tuck every strand of her hair under her veil. Nevertheless, the bishop kept glaring at her, as if he expected a demon to leap from her flaming head.
Brother Morfen, as always, stood just behind Dafyd. She was aware of him watching her with his single intense eye. Something in the young monk’s posture and movement seemed odd. His lips were pressed in a straight line, and each movement of his body brought a grimace of pain. Something was wrong. She caught his eye and dipped her chin slightly. He did not acknowledge the greeting.