The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  God’s bones! His thief was a woman—a nun.

  She lay sleeping peacefully, her wimple askew and her veil concealing only half her face. Even so, Giles found himself tongue-tied, and would have roused the girl, except… there was something about her that disoriented him.

  He’d seen her face before, if only in his dreams. But nay… this girl was like a chimera—undefinable at the edges…

  Tilting his head, Giles studied the nun, and couldn’t say whether she was young and lovely… or if she was old and unattractive. Her nose wavered between pert and small to hooked and crooked. But… if he looked very, very intently, her skin appeared so perfect as to seem translucent…

  Aching and sore from her crude bed, disoriented from her fitful rest, Rosalynde cracked her lids and found a strange pair of eyes peering down into her face—not Arwyn’s nor Elspeth’s, who each had violet-blue eyes, and not Seren, whose eyes were the silvery blue of a winter sky, nor Rhi, whose eyes were gold, like a wolf’s. Nor were they precisely like Morwen’s eyes—so uncannily black that one could scarce see where her pupils ended and her irises began… these were the eyes of a stranger.

  Squealing, she scrambled to her feet, only belatedly remembering to retrieve her book. Her heart hammering with fear, she nevertheless bent to seize it, and noticed that the man didn’t bother to stop her.

  He merely stared.

  “Who are you?” she demanded to know.

  “Who am I?” he asked, his dark eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “You know… I wondered the same about you.” He was still posed on one knee, making no effort to rise, but his gaze shifted to the mare grazing nearby.

  Rosalynde blinked. “I—”

  His lips curved into a roguish grin. “Perhaps the horse got your tongue?”

  Rosalynde blinked, completely at a loss for words. For this very occasion, she’d had an entire fabrication prepared, but at the instant, all thought fled her head.

  Fortunately, his eyes never once alit upon her grimoire, so he mustn’t have been sent by her mother. If so, he’d have seized the book by now and probably killed her long before she’d chanced to open her eyes. Repairing the veil with a hand, Rosalynde studied him as he watched her. And still, he cocked his head as though awaiting some response.

  Behind him, a movement caught her attention, and her eyes widened fearfully as she caught sight of yet another man—a giant, with arms as big as trunks and a body like an ox.

  “Don’t worry about him,” the man declared. “My brother is harmless.”

  The giant rose to his full height and snarled, and Rosalynde hugged her book tighter, not entirely certain he spoke true. His “brother” was scowling at her as though he’d like to rip her limb from limb. It was all she could do not to run.

  “I—” Her gaze returned to the kneeling man, who, by now, had still made no move to rise, and, in fact, he put an elbow to his knee and leaned forward, staring rudely.

  His voice was smooth as honey. “Tell me, Sister, is that—” He pointed to the mare. “Your horse?” He lifted his finely-hewn chin, and Rosalynde had a terrible sense that his question was a trap. If she answered in the affirmative, he would assign his harmless brother to do his worst.

  “Not precisely,” she said, with a lift of her chin, and realizing a nun would never affect such hubris, she lowered her gaze.

  Whatever chimera Giles thought he’d imagined was gone. It was, perhaps, no more than a trick of the light.

  Weary as he was after the long night’s journey, he raked a hand through his hair, shaking off his fatigue.

  Scarcely dressed for the weather, this woman stood shivering, clutching her book with a look of desperation that called to his heart. Her countenance was indisputably matronly, and this was meant to be kind. She had jowls, like a hound, and her nose was crooked, as though it had been broken many times. Much to his dismay, he was relieved when she repaired the veil, but it wasn’t like him to be so ill-affected by anyone’s appearance, and therefore, even before she began her woeful tale, he suffered the grave misfortune of feeling sorry for her, and favorably predisposed to helping if he could. “I hired a guide in London town,” she was quick to explain. “Once we were on the road, he beset me and stole my purse.” She shook her head, jowls jiggling as she pressed the tome to her breast. “I was afraid… so I hid.”

  Who in God’s name would burgle a poor nun? Frowning, Giles peered back at Wilhelm, who was scowling now as well, although perhaps he was more offended that Giles would have called him harmless.

  “A guide, you say?”

  Wilhelm said naught, but he lifted his brow, as though to challenge Giles. But, what, in God’s name would he have Giles do? Leave the poor woman distraught? She was alone, in treacherous woods reputed to be full of brigands.

  “Aye, sir,” she said.

  “You paid him? How much?”

  The nun sighed despondently. “I had five gold marks. He took it all but left me the mare.”

  Wilhelm gave a low whistle and Giles shook his head.

  “Good Sister. Did no one e’er advise ye ne’er to travel with so much gold, especially through these parts?”

  The woman straightened to her full height—not at all formidable, though her demeanor would have him believe she thought otherwise.

  “Aye, sir, and yet, where do you suppose I should have left my purse?” She looked as though she might weep, even with the impertinent tilt of her head. “I left home with all I owned, to offer my worth to God.”

  Giles blew out a sigh. “Well… I suppose it will have to be God’s score to settle,” he said. “But I’m sorry to inform you that the mare is not yours. She is mine.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Yours?”

  “Aye, she’s mine. So, it seems, your guide burgled me as well, and if God does not settle the score, I may yet tend to him myself…. only the fool will have to stand in line.”

  “Well!” She exclaimed, with as much animus as Wilhelm was displaying. “That fish paste!”

  Giles found himself chortling. “What is your name?”

  “Rosalynde.”

  “Aye, well, Sister Rosalynde, you mustn’t fret,” he said, hoping to soothe her. “We’ll not leave you stranded. Only tell me, where is it do you wish to go?”

  Chapter 9

  His dark eyes glinted, and his smile transformed his face like to that of a delivering angel’s.

  For a moment, Rosalynde was too dumb to speak.

  There were legends that told of a distant kinsman—the Merlin of Britain, better known to her people as the prophet Taliesin. He was purported to be the most beautiful man in all the realm. For love of him, Cerridwen’s own daughter had defied her witch mother, and in turn Cerridwen doomed the entire isle of Avalon to the Endless Sea. This instant, Rosalynde could well believe a face like that could change the fates… this man might well change hers.

  She could scarcely believe her good fortune. She lifted a hand to her breast in surprise. “Where do I wish to go?”

  “I believe it’s what I asked.”

  But, nay. Of course, he would wish to help her. There was naught surprising about that. She was a woman in distress—and not merely a woman, but a woman of the cloth. What man worth his salt would ever abandon a sister in her time of need?

  “We haven’t time for twaddle,” said the brother, and Rosalynde’s hopes were dashed.

  She looked from one man to the other, uncertain which of the two was the one in charge. For what it was worth, despite the bigger man’s perpetual frown and his aggressive posture, the other man seemed more… well… perhaps dangerous—even if the other did not perceive it.

  Like Elspeth, Rosalynde could sometimes read auras and the beautiful man facing her had a thin but distinct thread of black in his life force—no red, which implied to Rosalynde that whatever it was that informed his colors, it was not tied to his emotions. In other words, he could slice a man’s throat, but it was not a thing he would do in anger. Fortuito
usly for her, she didn’t sense that throat-cutting was a pastime he was inclined to, else the black in his aura would be more prominent.

  Still, it was there, and it gave her pause… and she was glad now that she had taken time to conceal her pentacle. Anyone who might stumble over the diagram who did not understand the Craft might think it to be Satan’s work. It most certainly was not. Simply by nature, all dewines were inclined to follow good Christian tenets. Their priests and priestesses were not unlike Christian priests, who in their hearts and minds were closer to God. Her grandmamau claimed all gods were one god, born of the same Great Mother, from whose very womb had sprung the world itself.

  Looking back and forth between these two brothers, Rosalynde watched as the handsome man’s jaw tightened, though rather than appear frightening, he was more arresting—like the graven image of a golden idol. And mayhap this was why the other one did not take him seriously: He was too stunningly beautiful to appear threatening. Apparently, only Rosalynde sensed the quiet rage burning behind his words. “You return to Warkworth. I will escort the lady myself.”

  “Giles.”

  “Wilhelm.”

  “Nay,” said the other man resentfully. “I’ll not leave you.” And Rosalynde took a defensive step backward.

  Giles?

  Giles of Warkworth?

  Wasn’t that the name of the lord expected to wed her sister? And yet, it could not be—if so, he had clearly and inexplicably found her sister wanting, else Seren would be with him now. So far as Rosalynde knew, her sister was supposed to have returned to Warkworth with her betrothed.

  Giles’s dark eyes shone like tourmalines—as impossibly dark as his hair was fair. “Accompany me, or nay, I will not leave this Sister alone.” He turned to cast a pointed glance at his brother and Rosalynde could feel the underlying tension mounting between them. Whatever it was that was troubling these two men, she wanted no part of it.

  “Well,” she said, considering her mother, “I should be going…” As it was, she feared to tarry longer, and she hadn’t any desire to embroil herself betwixt these two siblings. Even so much as she longed to inquire about her sister, she daren’t do so. “You may have the mare,” she said, waving good-bye, but neither of the brothers bothered to look at her. “I’ll be going!” she said louder.

  “Nay!” said Giles, turning to stab Rose with a razor-sharp glare, and yet she sensed his anger wasn’t directed at her. “I. Said. I. Will. Escort. You.”

  “Oh. Very well,” said Rosalynde, as he turned again to look at the one called Wilhelm.

  “And come to think of it, not only will I escort you, my brother will as well.”

  So now she knew which of the two was in charge… Giles. Giles de Vere. The very one who was fated to marry her sister. What a strange, strange turn of fate, but she couldn’t decide whether it was good… or bad.

  Right now, it felt more bad than good.

  The tension between the two brothers was indisputably brittle. The air crackled between the pair as palpably as it had with her warding spell—which, she realized only belatedly was completely diminished. Giles must have broken her magik when he’d stepped into her pentagram.

  Naturally, her first thought was for Morwen… if her mother should happen to peer into her crystal at the moment, there would be naught to keep her from finding Rose. Holding the book close, she frowned.

  “As you wish,” said Wilhelm, peering down at his boots, looking as though he might suddenly retch… and then, he did.

  Rosalynde twisted her lips into a grimace and looked away.

  The lord of Warkworth’s toothy smile reappeared. “You must pardon my brother,” he said. “His ale has gone to his head, and his manners to the devil.”

  Rosalynde nodded, but the greater part of her only wished she could flee—without these two men in her company. And nevertheless, she had the sense, after watching them, that there was no true discord between them. Quite to the contrary, the one called Wilhelm seemed to care about his lord brother, and she needn’t read auras to know it; the truth was there in his eyes. Rather, she sensed there was a certain lack of accord creating some rift between them… and she wondered if it had anything at all to do with her sister. These would not be the first two men to vie over Seren. Scarcely a month after their arrival in London, her sister had already had multiple requests for her hand, and two of those men had reputedly come to fisticuffs.

  “I would be… grateful for your help,” she said to Giles. “Thank you,” she said to Wilhelm.

  At the least, she must feel a little relieved for their protection. No matter how good she might be at foraging, her sisters had always claimed she had more valor than good sense.

  Frowning still, Wilhelm swept a sleeve across his lips and said, “No worries, Good Sister. ’Tis but poor timing, and ’tis hardly your fault.”

  Still clutching the grimoire to her breast, Rosalynde offered the man a smile, confused by their demeanor.

  “Where to?” asked Giles.

  “Neasham,” said Rose, a little alarmed by how easily the lie slipped through her lips. And yet, it wasn’t entirely unrehearsed. After all, Neasham was run by a small sect of Benedictine nuns, founded in part by the very woman whose habit she had stolen in London—Sister Emma.

  “There you go,” said Giles, sweeping a hand in his brother’s direction. “How convenient. We’ll deliver her, with little time lost.”

  Wilhelm nodded, though sullenly.

  “Thank you,” said Rosalynde yet again, and, affecting her most benevolent tone, she added, “Because of you, my faith in men is restored.” She smiled winsomely, forgetting about her glamour spell and both men turned away, perhaps discomfited by her smile. Rosalynde lifted a brow at the sight of their chagrined blushes, but at least she knew they weren’t escorting her for the wrong reasons.

  “It seems to me that your good faith in men should keep a bit of caution,” Giles said, and he turned to his brother. “Go, on… prepare the horses,” And then he addressed Rosalynde again. “Gather your belongings, Sister. We’ll be on our way at once. But, if you do not mind, I would ride my own horse…. and you…”

  He looked toward his petulant brother, who was already gone to do his bidding, and apparently changed his mind, because he furrowed his brow. “You will ride with me.”

  Rosalynde covered her answering grin with a hand, and it was all she could do not to giggle. He looked so perfectly disheartened by the notion.

  Chapter 10

  Few things in life were mere coincidences, and if there was one thing that separated the heart of a dewine from the hearts of ordinary men, it was that a dewine understood intuitively never to ignore a gift from the aether.

  Clearly, these two men were meant to be part of Rosalynde’s destiny, and she understood they were sent for a reason. She only prayed that reason would see her safely delivered to Aldergh, and to Elspeth… not to Morwen.

  Considering their demeanors, she watched them both carefully. It would be just like her mother to send a beautiful demon to do her dirty work. Thankfully, she didn’t get any sense of maliciousness from either of the two.

  The one called “Wilhelm” dutifully inspected his brother’s mare, perhaps to be certain Rosalynde hadn’t somehow despoiled the beast. But despite the feeling of rancor she sensed from him, there was nothing about his actions that gave Rosalynde any indication he conspired against his brother. Rather, he very meticulously tightened the cinches, checked the length of the stirrups, adjusted the lord’s saddle and patted the twin satchels. Finally, after having discovered the lump of her cloak, he peered inside the satchel, pulled out the garment, then gave Rosalynde a bewildered glance, before shoving it back down into the pack.

  She had the sense Wilhelm didn’t entirely trust her, though if he believed she’d lied about her circumstances, he didn’t confront her. And that was a good thing because she hadn’t any viable explanations to give him. For one, she couldn’t begin to explain why she wasn’t wearing h
er mother’s cloak in the middle of winter, when he and his brother were heavily weighted beneath fur coats. She simply didn’t wish to wear the foul garment, and at the instant, she wasn’t cold. Her warming spell was burning strong.

  The same might not be true for her glamour spell, she realized, and if she was meant to travel with these men, she must soon reinforce her spell. After all, she hadn’t missed that odd look Giles gave her when she awoke—as though he couldn’t quite fathom what or who she was.

  Sad to say, it was impossible to know how long she had remaining before the spell faded, because she was only a novice and most of her philters and spells were untried.

  Until yesterday, the grimoire had remained locked in her mother’s trousseau, and she and her sisters had barely had any time to study it alone. Naturally, it was Rosalynde, with her tinkering skills, who’d learned to pick the lock, and nevertheless, during these past six months, there had been so few opportunities, and they’d only had any at all because they’d persevered, realizing that the only chance they had to defeat Morwen was to learn the Craft.

  Hopefully, by now, Elspeth, too, must realize they needed magik to defeat Morwen. Men alone hadn’t any chance against her—not kings, nor queens, nor sons of kings. So much as the newly appointed Count of Mortain believed he had some hold over Morwen Pendragon, he most certainly did not. He was her mother’s poppet, no more, and Morwen was evil incarnate. Not even Elspeth would believe it if they told her what atrocities they had witnessed at Darkwood—depravity beyond imagining. Even now, all these months later, Rosalynde still shuddered to think of it…

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the blood-soaked biscuits… Morwen’s familiar plucking at the crumbs… those shining black eyes so full of knowing.

  Forsooth, she didn’t know which she feared most—Morwen, her wicked birds, or Mordecai, with his unfailing eagerness to please the Dark Witch of Bannau Brycheiniog. Alas, she could only deal with one problem at a time… and right now, the problem was her fading glamour…