The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Twice she’d attempted to slip away, twice Giles warned her against wandering. The second warning left her cold. “Of all the woodlands to choose, Sister Rosalynde, you made your camp very close to Darkwood,” he explained.

  Rosalynde stiffened. “Darkwood, my lord?”

  “Aye,” he said. “’Tis no wonder your guide led you to these parts. These woods have long been a haven for brigands, cutthroats, and more of the like. Rich as they might be with quarry, even King Henry wanted no part of them.”

  He and Wilhelm shared a meaningful look, and Wilhelm shook his head ever so slightly.

  Giles turned to wink at Rosalynde. “As tempted as I am to seek out your thief at a nearby inn, I’d rather reimburse you myself than deal with that den of miscreants. And besides,” he said, with a lop-sided grin, “it seems my brother is afeared.”

  To that, Wilhelm cut him a mean glance, but Giles ignored him. “Five gold marks, you say?”

  Rosalynde nodded, but reluctantly, because she still had all her money hidden in the hem of her gown.

  “Worry not, Good Sister. I will provide you the entire sum, especially since I do not intend to part with the mare. But you must be content with a few silver marks until I can send you the rest… if you will trust me.”

  Inexplicably, Rosalynde did trust him. Though, sad to say, he had little cause to trust her as she’d been lying to him from the very moment he’d happened upon her. “How… kind,” she said, struggling with her guilt.

  He would give five gold marks to a stranger he’d only just met? He must have plenty more, and never mind, because she shouldn’t take a penny.

  Giles de Vere must be a champion, indeed, and there could be no doubt he was sent by the Goddess, but… what could possibly have happened in London to change her sister’s fate? Had Giles repudiated Seren?

  That seemed… utterly… impossible.

  There was naught wrong with Seren. Her sister wasn’t merely lovely; she was as kind and gentle. She was gracious and good in all she did, and no one could fault her for anything— certainly not the likes of Giles de Vere.

  The merest possibility of him repudiating her sweet sister did more than confuse Rosalynde; it tempered her gratitude, even as some terrible, terrible part of her—some part she couldn’t explain and didn’t wish to acknowledge—was oddly gleeful their union wasn’t ordained.

  But why? Why would she feel this way?

  If Giles was such a goodly man, why should she begrudge Seren that boon? Rather, she should be pleased for their union, not relieved that the bargain wasn’t sealed.

  Brooding over her ludicrous thoughts—that perhaps Giles was not meant for her sister after all, rather he was meant for her—Rosalynde went about her woodland bower, holding her grimoire close, surreptitiously hoofing at the lines of her pentacle beneath the bracken.

  At intervals, both men peered in her direction, casting her odd glances, as though they questioned her very sanity. But, of course, they would; what a sight she must present, looking like a hen scratching at feed.

  Alas, she couldn’t take any chances. Covered by bracken, her diagram wasn’t visible to any but discerning eyes, but she didn’t intend to leave anything for Morwen to discover, particularly so near to Darkwood—the very name gave her a shiver. All this time, unbeknownst to her, she had been headed directly toward that place, and it was almost as though her mother had been leading her to her ruin.

  Even now, was Mordecai waiting for her?

  What might have happened if these men hadn’t come upon her sleeping?

  She took comfort in this: If, in truth, Morwen had found a way to influence Rosalynde’s thoughts, Rosalynde should have felt her prying. Even more significantly, it wasn’t her mother’s way to wait about for anything. Morwen did not take lessons in patience from the spider in a web, no matter how sticky her thread or how deadly her poison might be.

  Rather, her weaknesses were pride, impetuousness, and arrogance. And, in her vainglory, she would never guess how powerful Rhiannon was growing. None of her daughters would dare reveal it, and hopefully, that realization would come too late for her. And nevertheless, before anything could be accomplished along that vein, Rosalynde must first deliver the grimoire to safety… somewhere Morwen wouldn’t be able to reach it. To her knowledge, that place could only be Aldergh.

  Hurrying as best she could, she erased all traces of her pentacle, all the while thinking about Elspeth and Rhiannon, how different her eldest sisters were.

  Elspeth had been their father’s favorite—more beloved even than Matilda, and if only she’d not been born a bastard, she might have been his choice to wear England’s crown—not that it would have ended any differently for her than it did for Matilda. Times were never so dire as to place a woman on the throne. And nevertheless, if anyone could inspire confidence, it was certainly Elspeth. She had their father’s grace, and Matilda’s fearlessness, albeit without the haughtiness that plagued their father’s rightful heir.

  Rhiannon, on the other hand, could be as ruthless as Morwen in so many ways, cunning and cold when she must. But she was loyal and fierce in her defense of those she loved. And, unlike Morwen, she did have the patience of a spider, weaving her web so meticulously, only waiting, waiting…

  Someday, Rhi must be the one to challenge Morwen, though if her sister had a plan, she’d kept to herself, and it aggrieved Rose to no end that she had so meekly allowed their mother’s guards to abuse her that last night at the priory. They’d placed Rhiannon in iron shackles, tossed her into a tumbril, and to this day, Morwen refused to speak of her second eldest, and Rhi, so skilled as she might be, mustn’t be able to mindspeak outside proximity—why, Rose didn’t know, but she assumed mindspeaking worked like the light of a flame. Up close, it burned brightly, but the further one moved away from the source, the dimmer it became. Long ago, many, many eons before Rosalynde was born, Rhiannon claimed that folks were more accustomed to mindspeaking—not merely dewines, but everyone.

  Eventually, they learned to block the ability to save themselves the grief of hearing the truth, because the heart did not always agree with what the tongue proclaimed.

  Similarly, right now, her heart was telling her one thing, and her mind was telling her another.

  Run! said her mind.

  Stay, said her heart.

  At long last, the brothers were ready to ride, and Rosalynde whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the Goddess.

  Giles helped her onto his saddle, then promptly mounted behind her, scooting as far back as he could possibly go. Perversely, the effort he took to avoid her amused Rosalynde, and she took some small comfort in the fact that he must still think her hideous.

  For his part, Wilhelm scarcely ever dared look at her, and he seemed intensely aggravated by their current obligations. She was coming to see him as a sour-faced lout, who was saved from being handsome by the perpetual look of contempt he wore. If only he wouldn’t frown so much, he might be as comely as his brother—which only brought her to wonder how these two could possibly be related. They didn’t look much alike. Both had dark eyes, but Wilhelm’s hair was black and straight, cut in the Norman fashion, whilst Giles’s hair was golden-blond, like the color of honey, with soft, loose curls that teased at his nape.

  Truly, the man was beautiful, unnaturally so, and Rosalynde couldn’t help herself—casting backward glances. He had lashes so dark and thick as to appear painted, like that of a Saracen’s. But, no matter how exquisite his face might appear, he was saved from prettiness by the firm lines of a very masculine jaw, and the huskiness of his male form.

  In a flight of fancy, she dared imagine him her champion, in truth… and if he could change his surly attitude, perhaps Arwyn might like the brother.

  Alas, she daren’t contemplate why Seren didn’t enter her vision at all. After all, Giles was her sister’s intended, not hers. And yet… here they were… together… and Seren was nowhere to be found. It couldn’t be a mere coincidence that out of al
l the horses in London, she had stolen the very one belonging to Giles de Vere, and here he was… without his given bride.

  At any rate, it wasn’t as though Seren could possibly love the man. Until yesterday, her sister had never even met him, and, regardless, Rose knew Seren well enough to know her heart. It could be that Seren herself had willed Giles to her rescue. Surely, far less fanciful tales had inspired bards’ songs.

  And yet, very clearly, her dubious savior did not share her fancy—not at the moment. All the while they rode, it seemed to Rose that he must be performing acrobatics to avoid her. Somehow, he’d managed to place his long arms about her, only bowed to such a degree that he wouldn’t be forced to touch her. Sweet fates. If she only dared, she might have laughed.

  On the other hand, her reaction to him was hardly amusing. It was… confusing…

  With his arms embracing her and leaning so close, she caught scents of warm leather, sunshine and a heady muskiness that called to her woman’s senses in a way she couldn’t ignore. Trying to make sense of it all, she sat quietly, her back straight, her precious Book pressed to her breast, until, much to her dismay, they found the King’s Road, abandoning the sanctuary of the woodlands, and the sight of the long, dusty lane, cleared of trees, gave her heart a flitter.

  Once on the road, the canopy of green disappeared, the sky was clear for miles… the view entirely unobstructed to little black, beady eyes…

  Rosalynde peered back over her shoulder. “My lord… do you not fear brigands might be watching the road?”

  “Watching,” he said with little concern. “But we have naught so much of value for the trouble it would cost them to take it.”

  And so, he might believe, but, in truth, they had something far, far more valuable than either of these men could ever imagine.

  Rosalynde swallowed hard, despite the reassuring glimmer of the sword in his scabbard, and she made herself small, burrowing deeper into space between his arms, biting her tongue.

  Anyone who looked upon the Book of Secrets might see only a well-used book of scripture, but the knowledge writ herein was old as time itself. And despite that there were many, many grimoires held across the realm, this was the only one penned by Taliesin, the father of their coven. On its face were marks that were no longer legible in their time, magik runes lost evermore, save by virtue of this one precious book.

  Wilhelm suddenly gave his mare a gentle heel and moved ahead, saying, “I’d like to see any man attempt to relieve me of my valuables.”

  Surprised by the outburst, Rosalynde watched as his chest puffed, and he cast a glance over his shoulder, perhaps to gauge his brother’s expression.

  Behind her, Lord Giles offered a nearly inaudible grunt of frustration, but he said naught in response to his brother’s boast. She sensed that Wilhelm was more a burr in his saddle—or, more to the occasion, a plain-faced nun he couldn’t be rid of, and so he tolerated her. But though, in truth, Wilhelm was the larger man, she had a sense that Giles de Vere was no man to be trifled with, and she only wondered why the brother didn’t fear him.

  Then again, Rosalynde didn’t fear her sisters either—not Elspeth nor Rhi, and most certainly not Arwyn or Seren. However, none of her sisters expected obeisance, even though Elspeth liked to control every aspect of every situation. And regardless, for all that they’d lived five girls to a crude little cottage, with no mother or father, they’d rarely ever fought, save for the occasional squabble over chores. They’d depended too much on each other, and it had taken every bit of their wit and energy to endure life at the priory.

  It was incredible what could be accomplished altogether and how difficult life could be alone. But this, too, was a manifestation of the hud—the unity of spirit and the power of shared prayer. Even now, Rosalynde could feel her sisters’ love. They were her strength in this mad, mad world, and she didn’t know what she would do without them. Perhaps these two brothers simply needed a reason to look beyond their petty quarrels, and her mother would surely give it to them if she ever found them.

  Sadly, if Rosalynde hoped to find herself relieved by their company, the longer they traveled together, the more agitated she became, and the more she missed her sweet sisters… the more she worried about her glamour.

  And yet, so long as Giles de Vere kept pushing her away—gently, of course—she shouldn’t worry about the spell.

  Bored and ill at ease in perfect view of the heavens, Rosalynde longed for friendly conversation. “So, then… you are lord of Warkworth?” she asked.

  “Earl,” interjected the brother. He had been silent until this point, and it seemed to Rose that he’d been waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

  “Appointed yesterday,” said Giles, though he left it at that, making Rosalynde all the more curious. And yet, shouldn’t that be something marvelous to crow about?

  Clearly, the news didn’t please the brother, and there must be a bit of the devil in Rosalynde, because she couldn’t let it go—particularly since Lord Giles seemed so ready to shove her away every time she sought the sanctuary of his coat. “What a wonderful boon,” she said.

  “So it is.”

  “So, then, my lord, you must expound… what great deed have you performed to earn such a prestigious title? Did you perchance manage to save our king from his cousin… again?”

  Wilhelm snickered, but, alas, if there was a note of sarcasm in Rosalynde’s tone, she didn’t bother to regret it. Everybody knew there were an unseemly number of newly appointed earls during Stephen’s reign, and he had, indeed, named a few of them for having saved him from Matilda. That thought amused her, though she hardly anticipated the answer he gave her. “I lived, whilst my father died,” he said a little bitterly, and Rosalynde frowned.

  “Oh,” she said, deflated. “Pardon, my lord.”

  “Worry not,” he said curtly, putting a hand to her back and pushing her gently forward.

  Rosalynde frowned, annoyed.

  It didn’t make sense that her given champion should utterly abhor her, but perhaps it was unreasonable to think he might see beyond her glamour, especially since she didn’t want him to. “Well, my lord… I hope you find peace in God.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” he said, and fell again into a narrow silence—a quietude that neither brother gave any indication of wishing to end.

  Ah, well… at least boredom wouldn’t be the death of her…

  Her mother might be, though considering that Giles was here, without Seren, something must have happened in London to waylay the hateful witch.

  Conceivably, there was one person she could ask, but how could she broach the subject when she shouldn’t even have any knowledge that Giles was supposed to wed her sister?

  Oh, what a tangle…

  Chapter 11

  If twenty times the girl had leaned back against him, twenty times Giles pushed her away. The bitter truth was that she wasn’t very attractive, and so much as he didn’t wish to be attracted to a nun, neither did he care to feel this particular nun’s soft curves against his well-worn leathers.

  And, don’t think he hadn’t noticed how much she wiggled—probably equally as annoyed by the material of her crude gown as Giles was by her proximity.

  Forsooth, as cold as it was, he wondered irately why she did not wear the cloak Wilhelm discovered in his satchel, instead of trying to burrow into his. Though he didn’t recognize the breed of animal, hers was rimmed with soft, black fur, and it would surely keep her warmer than Giles had a mind to.

  What a mystery, she was, traveling with more gold than his brother earned in a given year, and wearing clothes that would have chafed his own skin raw, when she owned a cloak that could easily have passed as fashionable in Stephen’s court. There was something about her… something that struck him as odd.

  Despite her lack of sophistication, he believed she could be a lady, in truth—mayhap the spoiled daughter of a Welsh lord. Her accent was faint, but he recognized it just the same, and she wore a certain
gleam in her eye… one he’d met in too many dissenters, and so much as her spirit did appeal to him… her face did not.

  She wiggled backward, yet again, nestling her firm little backside too intimately into the crook of his thighs, and there it was again—a snicker—Giles frowned.

  To his utter dismay, his body hadn’t the first clue his brain must be disgusted by the woman seated before him.

  His mutinous cock betrayed him, stirring, if only slightly, and he scooted back, again, this time as far as he could manage and still remain in the saddle. Any further, and he would be seated on the mare’s rump.

  In answer, the girl leaned again, this time resting her head on his shoulder and Giles frowned. “Have you grown weary of traveling already, Sister Rosalynde?”

  “Oh, nay, my lord,” she said, sweet as honey—not at all in keeping with her appearance. And nevertheless, with her back to him, he could almost imagine her to be… well, more like he’d imagined her to be when he’d first laid eyes upon her sleeping in the thicket. And regardless, there was too much glee in her tone… as though she enjoyed baiting him.

  But why? If, in truth, she’d somehow gleaned his feelings about her appearance, she should be rightfully offended—unlike his nose.

  Bloody hell.

  Her hair smelled of… roses.

  And while there was nothing quite so extraordinary about a Rose smelling like a rose—still, he frowned, wishing he could, at least for the time being, forget the girl’s unpleasant face.

  Sweet lord, he didn’t wish to lean into that intoxicating scent… and neither did he appreciate her dark, shining hair spilling over his shoulder so familiarly as a lover’s. Warmed by the noonday sun, it shone like red velvet.

  Moreover, there was something about Sister Rosalynde that reminded him of the siren from his dreams… that beauteous water nymph that time after time had lured him to the depths of the sea. She’d had a similar gleam in her eyes that hardened his cock so painfully he awoke in the mornings with a burning desire that would not diminish until he took himself into his own hands. As soon as he found a moment alone, he must indulge himself again, as he didn’t consider it to be in anybody’s best interest for a man to burn.