“Praising God to the heavens for saving them,” he said wryly. “I praise God the Blades’ hidebound bureaucrats froze my assets when I vanished. I’ve enough coin to keep them for a bit, until they get their feet beneath them, either here or abroad in some place friendly to Protestants. They’re debating where to go—the Netherlands, maybe.”
“They ought to be praising thee, Uriel.” Over the rim of her bowl, she studied him. “Or is it still Beltran? Either way, I’m thankful for both. But how can thou walk the mortal realm?”
Hitching a booted leg on the rung of his chair, he shrugged. “I inhabit a mortal body, Rhiannon. There’s no place for me now in Heaven.”
“But after? What happens when thy body dies?”
He frowned, eyes lowered to the remnants of their feast. “I’m still sorting out how it all works. I don’t have all the answers. What I do know is that yesterday, I used the killing rage for mercy. For the first time I was able to summon that power, to control it, even to recall it afterward. It doesn’t take a flaming hand tracing letters on the wall to spell out for me what that means.”
His mouth curved wryly. “He’s pleased with my progress, I suppose. Willing to let me keep on with it, and see what other lessons I might learn.”
Rhiannon was still grappling with the implications. For so long, she’d believed him dead to her. Too many questions clamored for answers.
“On Avalon, when thou regained thy divinity,” she said slowly, “I thought thee returned to Heaven.”
“I inhabit a mortal body, Rhiannon, and will until I die—whenever that may be. No man can look upon His face and live. Those are the terms of my exile, set forth by God. When the time comes, I trust He’ll find me worthy for whatever comes after.”
He leaned forward, his gaze probing hers. “Now I want to speak of you.”
The familiar flutter of excitement woke in her belly. Her body reacted to him no differently, it seemed, even after all that had happened.
Vainly she strove to quell the foolish sense of hope bubbling through her. Even if he’d embraced a mortal life, and learned the power of love through mercy as she’d always hoped he would, he was still bound to his order, wasn’t he? Surely he’d never choose to abandon his vows altogether. Why give up his calling if he’d found nothing to replace it?
Therefore, their reunion must be a short one.
Still, she would savor it as long as it lasted.
Beneath his piercing gaze, she lowered her spoon and rose restlessly to pace. “What of me? My fate is clear. I gave up my old life willingly to save thine, and I deemed it a good trade. I don’t mourn the fact that I’m no longer welcome at the Faerie Queene’s chilly court.”
She spared him a wan smile. “Indeed, I feel a bit like a condemned prisoner granted a reprieve. Princess I may no longer be, but I’ll always be a healer, and my needs are few. There must be a place for me somewhere among these folk.”
“You wish to remain here then?” he asked casually. “In Scotland?”
She shook her head. “My plans have not changed, Beltran. My sister Morrigan is not defeated. The Convergence is still coming. My place is at Elizabeth’s side—the best hope for peace in both our realms.”
“You’ll return to England with a death sentence hanging over your head?” He strode toward her, boot heels ringing. “Rhiannon, that’s madness! I won’t allow it.”
Swiftly her chin lifted. Despite all that lay between them, how could he still strike the mutinous spark of her anger so effortlessly? Standing before the fire, she glared at him and resisted the old urge to stamp her foot.
“Thou hast nothing to say about it, my lord! Don’t mistake me—I’ll always be grateful for thine actions on my behalf. But that doesn’t make thee my master.”
“Doesn’t it?” Dangerous purpose flared in his gaze. Jaw knotted, he circled the table and advanced upon her. “Why do you suppose I undertook those actions?”
Pulse fluttering, she glanced about for an escape route. But pride made her stand her ground. She’d never shrunk in fear from his anger, and she didn’t intend to start now.
“Thou saved me for common decency and from a sense of obligation, just as I saved thee,” she fired back at him. “Thou would not have let them burn me!”
“Damnation, girl! Don’t be so bloody stubborn.” He gripped her arms and held her close, glowering down at her defiant face. “You willful, headstrong, imperious creature, don’t you understand me yet? I love you.”
The earth shifted beneath her feet. Her breath suspended in her lungs. Robbed of speech, she gaped at him. “I—I beg thy pardon?”
Could it be possible? Nay, surely his Christian God would not work one of his famous miracles for her benefit. Perhaps the mingling of their magick had confused Beltran, just as it astonished her...
“You bloody well heard me.” He glared. “What’s more, you’re in love with me.”
“Oh, am I?” Her brows lifted. Of course it was true, every word of it. She’d loved him as long as she’d known him, loved him since the night he walked out of storm and legend into battle and death to save her. Divine yet mortal, invincible yet strangely vulnerable, body and soul driven by harrowing torments only she could heal.
“You must be in love with me.” Step by step, he eased her rigid body up against his heat. “There’s no other explanation for your actions, the sacrifices you’ve made for me. The fact that you gave yourself to me. Good God. Tell me you did these things and felt nothing, and I’ll call you an outright liar.”
His voice softened. “And I know Arthur of Camelot’s daughter was never that.”
Still she hesitated, uncertain whether she dared grasp the shining miracle of love that shimmered like a mirage before them. She hadn’t forgotten the Archbishop’s claim; she was far from the only woman in life who’d tempted Beltran from his vow of chastity. Yet somehow, his past no longer mattered. Had he truly said he loved her? Or was it merely something she’d dreamed up during those days of despair, when she lay shivering in her cell and thought of him?
The heat of his body was melting her resistance, dissolving her fear. Cautiously, her hands stole to his shoulders. For the first time since she’d known him, he was wearing white—cream-colored doublet belted over his muscled frame, open around the powerful column of his throat. In her mind, she saw the celestial warrior glittering with mail, dazzling white and gold, his stern beauty as he wielded the flaming sword.
Uriel, Angel of Vengeance.
Beltran, Blade of God.
He was both, and neither. He was like nothing she’d ever known. Yet she never doubted the truth of her heart.
“If thou art certain of thine own heart, then I shall reveal the dearest secret of mine,” she murmured. “I love thee. And much good it will do us when—”
His warm mouth closed over hers, swallowing her objections. His strong arms wrapped around her, hauling her hard against his sinewed frame.
Breathless, she twined her arms around his neck, winding her fingers in the close-cropped golden hair she’d always loved. The blade of his arousal nudged her belly, and heat kindled in her womb.
When he lifted her and carried her across the floor to the bed, she bestirred herself to mount a dutiful protest. “Beltran, there’s much to be done. This is no time for dalliance—”
“Never better,” he growled, arms tightening around her. “With you, I’ve learned to seize my moment. And may there be plenty more like it.”
Excitement sparked through her as he lowered them to the bed, shift riding up around her thighs, his hard body trapping hers against the rustling straw-filled mattress. Clean muslin sheets, still warmed by her own body and smelling faintly of violets, caressed her bare limbs.
She gazed up at him, arms still twined around his neck. The chiseled, sun-bronzed planes of his face filled her vision—a hard man and determined, eyes gleaming with intent and hooded with passion. Already the hard jut of his codpiece nudged between her thighs, making her womb melt for him. Helpless against the urgency that kindled within, she writhed slowly, sensuously against his heat. With a groan, he found the soft swell of her breast, nipple jutting against the thin shift, fingers teasing the sensitive peak until she cried out softly.
“Lord and Lady, Beltran, this is torment!” she gasped, her hand closing over his to still the delicious friction.
“Good,” he rumbled. “I want you tormented. I want you breathless and panting with heat, mad for the way I feel inside you. I want you begging me to taste your sweet honey, as I did that day on Avalon, remember?”
“Goddess,” she whispered, excruciatingly aware of her slick channel spread and waiting for his attentions, barely concealed by her shift. “How could I possibly forget?”
As if he smelled the musk of her arousal on the air, deftly he hooked her shift in his strong hands and tore the fragile fabric down the front. Now she lay wanton and naked beneath him, the extent of her desire exposed—nipples taut and ready for his attention, her woman’s mound pink and blushing under his hungry gaze.
Oh, yes, this was what she wanted.
Boldly she reached to unlace his codpiece, though the unfamiliar points and laces might have daunted a less motivated woman. While her fingers worked with unseemly haste at this task, he shrugged out of his cream doublet and the silk shirt beneath. She murmured approval at the hard planes of his chest, the rippling line of his abdomen, the powerful bulge of shoulders and biceps flexing as he unbuckled his belt.
At last, the bothersome codpiece fell away. She gazed with mingled longing and bemusement at his jutting length, breath snaring audibly in her throat. She’d never had the leisure to look before, amid the haste of their prior couplings. Now she filled her eyes with the proud, potent sight of him. Hers now, he was hers, just as she was his...
Until he tossed aside his breeches and caught her hand in his, wrapping her fingers around his tensile heat. By instinct her hand tightened, exploratory fingers sliding down his length and kneading until he arched into her touch.
“How’s this?” she whispered wickedly, knowing full well he liked it.
“Christ, Rhiannon,” he groaned, head flung back with pleasure, sinew standing out in his throat. “You’re a natural at this.”
She could have done this forever, intoxicated by the novel sensation of having him in her power, being able to heighten his pleasure with the merest touch. But her own urgency was building, the coil of passion tightening in her belly, the slow pulse between her thighs quickening. Even as she stroked him, reveling in his ragged moans and the slow pearls of moisture that wept from his cock, her free hand stole to her own aching cleft. The brush of her own finger against the hard nubbin nestled there brought a moan to her lips.
A little abashed, she stole a peek at his face to find him watching her, gaze riveted to the hand playing between her thighs.
“Aye, that’s it, love,” he encouraged, voice husky with his own pleasure. “Make yourself ready for me.”
The knowledge that he watched her pleasure herself, growing still harder at the sight, was nearly too much. Shameless, she spread herself like a banquet for his delectation, knees falling open, eyes drifting shut. A few more moments of this, and she’d go over the edge—
The calloused warmth of his hands closed over hers, delaying her just before she reached her goal. She nearly mewled in protest. But he lost no time in fitting his searing length against her channel, the dew of her passion mingling with his.
A raw shock of arousal arced through her. Crying out, she twined her legs around his hips and pulled him into her.
He was lightning between her thighs, fierce and tender and crackling with coiled intensity. And the feel of him thrusting into her was pure magick.
Lady of Light, they were both so ready, driven nearly to madness by the prelude to their joining. Beyond reason or restraint, the climax seized her and tossed her high. Helpless in its grip, she dug her bare heels against his flexing buttocks and sank sharp little teeth into the corded muscle of his shoulder.
Spurred by this minor violence, he pinned her fists beside her head and rode her, prolonging her pleasure until she feared she’d die of it.
“Easy, princess,” he pushed out, teeth gritted with effort. “You’ll finish me.”
Forcing her eyes open, she stared fiercely into the burning blue of his gaze.
“Beltran, I can’t bear this,” she panted. “Merciful Goddess, do it now...”
And she gloried in the primal, feminine satisfaction of her lover’s powerful body clenching between her thighs. She shared his low groan of fulfillment as the scalding heat of release flooded through her.
Chapter Twenty
An hour later, an excited burst of voices roused Rhiannon from her satiated slumber and brought her struggling upright in the tangled bed. As Beltran grumbled in lazy protest, she slipped from the solid warmth of his arms. Below, Young John was piping in protest, his voice interspersed with a man’s impatient rumble and a woman’s gentle murmur. Rapid footfalls sounded on the stairs, building swiftly as the entire cavalcade thundered toward them.
Nerves prickling, Rhiannon rolled swiftly out of bed and flung over her head the first garments she could find—an unfamiliar bodice and skirts of sky-blue wool, over a chemise that smelled faintly of lavender soap. Coming fully alert, Beltran sprang out of bed and dragged discarded hose and breeches over his hips.
By the time the door rattled, he was braced before her, Excalibur’s cool steel gleaming in his fist.
“Who goes?” he demanded.
“Goddess curse thee, open this door!” a familiar voice shouted back. “Rhiannon?”
“Bright Lady!” Her heart leapt like a stallion clearing a hedge, from solid earth to soaring in a breath. Springing past Beltran’s bristling form, she unbolted the door and flung it wide.
Her foster-father burst in, crimson cloak unfurling around his lithe frame, salt-and-pepper curls tumbled, gray eyes sweeping the chamber for danger. When he glimpsed Beltran standing en garde, he reached for his saber.
“Sweet mercy, Ansgar! Put up yer blade, man.” Lady Linnet Norwood hurried to his side, her fashionable black riding habit dusty with travel, chestnut-streaked ringlets tumbling in disarray beneath her plumed hood. Her sherry-gold eyes warmed when she saw Rhiannon. “Lord Beltran is a friend, aye?”
Then Rhiannon was running forward to fling herself in her foster-father’s arms. Too late she recalled his injury—but nay, that was two years and more in the past. Lord Ansgar’s arms were strong and steady as ever as they cradled her to his mailed chest.
“Bless all the Gods alike for this moment,” Ansgar said brokenly in the Roman tongue. “Child, are you well?”
“Never better.” Gladly she embraced him, savoring the life and strength and purpose that burned in him once again. “Dear heart, how did you come here?”
Gently Linnet touched her shoulder.
“Glencross Castle lies nearby—my castle, for I’m Countess of Glencross now—”
“Thou art a countess, no less?” Rhiannon was astonished. “Thou’ve risen high since thy return from Faerie, child.”
For an instant, shadows haunted the mortal girl’s eyes, but she hurried past the moment. “Aye, and Glencross’s only a day’s journey from Wythe. We set forth yesterday, as soon as my lord received word.”
“It was a vision,” Ansgar explained, as Rhiannon enveloped Linnet in a warm embrace. “I saw you in the basin when I was shaving. Sent by the Lady of the Lake, I think. She showed me you were here.”
“She has always been kind to me.” Rhiannon smiled. “Ansgar, here is someone you should properly meet.”
She reached for Beltran’s hand and drew him forward. He advanced reluctantly, but at least he’d lowered the sword—a starting point. “This is Lord Beltran Nemesto, Blade of God—”
“No longer,” Beltran reminded her.
“—and my promised husband,” she finished, both triumphant and defiant.
The two men she loved had met, if one could call it that, when Beltran took them captive in the forest. Ansgar had escaped, greatly to Beltran’s annoyance, so she couldn’t say relations between the two had ever been cordial.
But her foster-father had taken his sweet time finding her. If he thought now to raise a fuss, that she chose to love a mortal of her own free will, she’d say a few choice words about his tardy arrival!
But the older man’s lined face creased in a reluctant smile. “The Lady of the Lake spoke also of thee.” Shifting to his antiquated English, he clasped hands with Beltran. “It seems I owe thee a debt of honor, for thy good care of Rhiannon. If anything had befallen my foster-daughter, her father would be greatly wroth with me. I swore him an oath to protect her—a charge I suspect I may now share with thee.”
While they spoke, Linnet was quietly bustling, taking Ansgar’s cloak, sending a wide-eyed John to tend their horses and fetch water for washing. Rhiannon recalled her duty as hostess and poured barley beer for her guests, which they drank thirstily.
Magick by Moonrise Page 31