Rosy cheeked, Rosalynde averted her gaze. “He’s my mother’s… manservant, but… I did not know…” She shook her head, and if she meant to say anything more, her words seemed disinclined to come.
Unwittingly, Giles’s attention fell upon the rip in her dress, exposing her middle to his brother’s eyes—and for the first time in his life he understood Wilhelm’s jealousy over Lady Ayleth. He didn’t wish for any man to see Rosalynde this way—not even his staid and loyal brother.
Swallowing hard, Giles walked away, returning a moment later with the cloak Rosalynde had placed in his satchel. He tossed it down beside her, and she pushed it away. “That is my mother’s,” she said. “I would not wear it lest I were dying!” And with a bit more ardor, she added, “’Tis catskin!”
Dear God. Cat fur.
Giles grimaced in disgust.
God’s truth, the more he knew of the dispossessed lady of Blackwood, the more thoroughly he disliked her.
Removing his own cloak, he handed it down to Rosalynde, pleading wordlessly for her to cover herself, and wondering what was wrong with him that he had not offered his own cloak long before now. Was he so poor in spirit that he would only respond to a lovely face?
Thoroughly displeased with himself as much as he was with the entire situation, he turned away, commanding Wilhelm to disband their camp. “We’ll be leaving at once,” he said. And then he sighed. “This time, we’ll keep to the woodlands, out of sight of those bloody birds.”
Wilhelm nodded, and, for once, without any complaint, he rushed to do Giles’s bidding.
In the meantime, Giles returned to Rosalynde, reaching out his hand. “Would you trust me with your book, Rosalynde? I will keep it safe.” And he would. Now that he understood who and what she was, he suspected he understood why she had safeguarded the tome so jealously. “I will put it in my satchel and guard it with my life.”
The book he was requesting was lying beside her. For all that he was still in possession of that weapon, he might simply have taken it, simply by bending to retrieve it. After the feats Rosalynde witnessed in that glade, she would never have challenged him… But… he was asking. Nicely. And more… there seemed to be a new accord between them… a thread of familiarity… perhaps only natural after having endured such a harrowing experience.
Nodding, she reached over and lifted up the grimoire, handing it over to him, even as her own actions confused her.
How willingly she was now proffering the one thing she’d vowed to die for.
With a nod, Giles took the book, then offered Rosalynde a hand. Alas, if she expected nothing more to come after their previous ordeal, she would have been wrong. A sudden jolt passed from his fingers as their fingers met, and yet, startled though she was, she did not pull away. Once the initial shock passed, it left her with an infusion of warmth that traveled from the tips of her fingers, to the very center of her being, right down to the tips of her toes. She curled them reflexively, because the sensation was so… so… evocative.
Bards crooned about love at first sight… of lords and ladies whose hearts burned as one… and this must be how they felt.
Somehow, she sensed that he, too, must have felt it… at least so it seemed by his blink of surprise.
Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,
Another to one, and one to another...
Dizzied by the sensation, Rose wavered on her feet, until Giles caught her and steadied her. Tears sprang to her eyes, because the feeling was so intensely powerful. And nevertheless, oblivious to what was transpiring between them, Wilhelm rushed around, dutifully picking up their belongings and putting out their fire.
Only by now there was another fire burning in Rosalynde’s heart… simmering to the very depths of her soul… its heat coloring her skin until every part of her flushed.
Freely choose, or choose to be free.
As you will it, so mote it be.
Rosalynde blinked. Quite literally, she saw stars bursting before her eyes, and even as the soft, silken voice breezed through her mind, she realized what it was… She’d heard the voice only once before in her life… back in the glade… whilst the Shadow Beast held her in its talons. It was, she realized with awe, the voice of the goddess.
If only she wished to refuse her gift—if Giles wished to—she was free to do so. All she had to do was release his hand… let go, turn away. Confused though he seemed to be as well, he held her hand firmly, and, sweet fates, even knowing that he was betrothed to her sister, Rosalynde entwined her fingers about his, holding him fast, even as she felt a strange thread weave its way through her belly. Terrified to look away now, she peered straight into his dark, soulful eyes, only begging him to confess the things he was hearing and feeling…
The essence of nature seemed to fold and unfold itself, circling around them, like ribbons of fae dust. And still, Rosalynde dared not release his hand…
And… neither did he release hers, though she realized that, though he must surely feel what she felt, he probably couldn’t hear what she heard nor see what she saw.
At long last, Rosalynde took a shuddering breath, withdrawing her hand.
“We are ready to ride at your command,” announced Wilhelm. And when he received no response, he said, “Giles?”
Giles blinked twice, then shook his head, as though shaking off his stupor, turning to address his brother, looking as confused as Rosalynde felt.
“Aye,” he said. “Let’s go.” And he turned to Rosalynde again, blinking once more.
Chapter 21
Precisely as Giles had predicted, Neasham proved to be a solid week’s journey, and yet, so much as Rosalynde feared another meeting with her mother’s disciples, she secretly reveled in every passing moment she spent warmed by Giles’s embrace. Unlike that first day they’d traveled together—before her glamour spell faded—he held her jealously, and if no one spoke about what happened in the woodlot, everything between them had changed. She felt it in the way he dared to embrace her—every small gesture, like the hand he rested upon her waist, and the fingers he splayed across her belly. Sweet fates. Whenever he dared to touch her that way, she felt a stirring down so deep it stole away her breath.
She was not unlike a poppet, responding to every touch. And it was almost as though he pulled at invisible strings, not out there, in the aether, but inside her body, and every tug evoked incredible sensations, from her heart to her womb.
And now she understood what the bards meant by lovesick. It was a malady in every sense of the word. She felt fevered, achy, and all week long, her mouth remained parched. Her tongue felt too large for her mouth. And no amount of satiating her thirst made any of these symptoms go away. Moreover, her hands perspired, and she had to remember to unclench them every so oft to let them breathe. To her dismay, even despite the cold, she felt hot and bothered, and the feeling put her nerves on edge, until she felt as though she were one immense ball of emotion, unraveling into the aether, like yarn into a weaver’s loom, spinning impossible dreams... dreams that revealed the two of them as consorts… and more.
And yet, if he made her body come alive, with scarcely his breath on her nape, he seemed completely unaffected.
So much as they’d slept arm in arm on his pallet, he never once offered Rosalynde more than his warmth. Only since that moment in the woods, he’d treated her with the utmost respect, put her on and off his horse with care, bundling her beneath his cloak, and refusing to allow her out of his sight, save for those moments when he must. And even then, he remained close, sword in hand, and Rosalynde daren’t complain again, not after coming so close to death.
For his part, Wilhelm seemed confused by their sudden affinity, casting odd glances. But if he thought Rosalynde wanton for clinging so intimately to his lord brother, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Giles made her feel safe, even despite the circumstances. And whether it was because of those feats he’d performed in the glade, or merely the solicitous manner in which he cared for her, it
didn’t matter. It was an unanticipated pleasure to be coddled, and the feel of his arms awakened something she’d never experienced in her life… desire... but desire for what?
Closeness? Companionship? Something more?
Confused and uncertain of her own desires, Rosalynde knew only one thing for sure: Only now that Giles was holding her so covetously did she have any sense of how famished she had been for affection. And nay, it wasn’t the same as a chaste hug from her sisters. Somehow, Giles’s arms felt so right, and if, in fact, it was wrong, she didn’t want to know. For the first time in her life, she felt—perhaps not cherished, nor loved; it was too soon for such devotion—but very intimately connected to another human being not her blood.
As similar as it was to the bond she shared with her twin, it was nevertheless as different as night and day. Certainly, she missed Arwyn, though she had never once longed to be held by her sister—not like this.
Nor did her sister’s nearness make her breath catch.
And even so, for all that she was experiencing this extraordinary awakening, the mood itself turned grim.
For the most part, little was said between the trio. They rode expediently, rested sparingly, and kept to the woodlands, taking care not to attract undue attention or take unnecessary risks.
Without further ado, Giles seemed to appreciate the import of Rosalynde’s mission, and he shared her resolve to see the grimoire to safety.
For his part, Wilhelm remained quiet and brooding, and Rosalynde had the sense that he, like her, couldn’t quite banish the image of the Shadow Beast from his head. So long as she lived, she would never forget that face… the way it had metamorphosed before her eyes… even now, the memory gave her a shiver, and she suspected that such a being was only conceivable through blood magik.
Only now, she understood the tales of those days before the fall of Avalon in a whole new light—of that boy the Witch Goddess pursued, first in the form of a greyhound, then as an otter, then a hawk, and finally, a hen. Even understanding what she did about her dewine heritage, she had always considered those tales to be fanciful versions of the truth, meant to be interpreted. But whatever Mordecai had been in that glade, it was not human, and only sacrificial magik could have produced such a creature.
Now she wondered: Perhaps in truth, the distant land of her kinsmen was swallowed by the sea… and perhaps the mists of Wales gave ingress to the Nether Realm.
At the moment, there wasn’t much she wasn’t prepared to believe—after all, Giles himself was a Paladin.
A Paladin.
A Huntsman for the Church.
A slayer of witches.
Oh, yeah, she’d heard of the inquisitions, and she’d understood there was a danger in revealing herself as a dewine, but after all, there was naught larger than life about a man with an axe. Executioners need not be huntsmen, and the employment of an entire company of highly trained assassins assigned to ferreting out and exterminating enemies to the Church had seemed… well, farfetched… until now. By the cauldron, how much her perception of the world had changed since leaving Llanthony, where her gravest concern had been to slip past Ersinius’s guards, only to win herself a moment to forage in the woods. Only now, with all that had transpired, did she truly comprehend why her sister Elspeth had been so afraid. Rosalynde was afraid now too, and the simple fact that her escorts were so silent and brooding gave her every indication they were as troubled as she was.
Giles adjusted his arms about her, and Rosalynde sighed, burrowing into the safety of his embrace, wondering again about that bonding spell…
But if she doubted the words she’d heard, she must also doubt the council she’d been given in the glade… to bind that beast with words she’d never heard spoken in all her life.
It was as though the Goddess herself provided her the rites to bind the creature into solid form. Only then could Giles have had any chance to slay it. Because no matter how many times Wilhelm had swung his sword, it never once found purchase. And if she needed proof it was not all a dream, she had the reliquary tucked away with the grimoire in Giles’s satchel. And if not, she but needed to look at Wilhelm, with his ravaged face, because even after seeing what she was capable of, he had refused to allow her to heal him, distrusting her magik, if not so much Rosalynde herself. His bloodstains were gone, but his once handsome face now bore the marks of the creature’s talons, scars that were healing slowly on their own, but as dark as her own puncture wounds remained, despite her healing magik.
Alas, Mordecai was not her mother’s only servant, only her most loyal, and, when he did not return, she would go searching for him, and if she came herself… Goddess help them.
“Do you think the creature is dead?” asked Wilhelm, perhaps sensing the dark turn of Rosalynde’s thoughts.
Instinctively, Giles pulled her close when she stiffened over the question. “Aye,” he said, and his breath was hot against the back of her neck as he whispered, “It’s gone, Rose.”
“It must be,” she said. “But…”
She couldn’t finish, even as a caveat, because it seemed too incredible. And still, she worried about the reliquary in Giles’s satchel.
Could Mordecai’s spirit have retreated into that unholy relic, waiting to be summoned again by her mother?
The feeling it had given her as she’d held it was… indescribable… like darkness and terror bound together. And then, when Wilhelm returned the trinket after she’d thrown it away, she’d had a sudden vision of her kindred—a hundred dewine souls—all cowering in the bowels of the earth, whilst outside the earthen bower… lurked an indefinable and present evil. The image made her shudder, and in response, Giles leaned close again, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Don’t think of it,” he commanded. “I will protect you.”
Chapter 22
Immediately after spending alms for Lady Ayleth’s soul, Wilhelm was preparing again to travel. Grateful for the donation, and perhaps feeling aggrieved for all his troubles and fresh scars, the nuns provided him a sack full of victuals and profuse thanks he endured with flushed cheeks.
Giles perhaps would have provided him the alms, but Rosalynde had stepped forward to offer her own—all five gold marks she’d sewn into the hem of her gown. It was the least she could do for the service these brothers were providing, and she had every faith Elspeth would provide for her once Giles delivered her to Aldergh.
When both men had looked at her with a question in their eyes, she’d merely shrugged. “I did tell you I had five gold marks, did I not?”
And yet, clearly, her heartfelt gesture moved Wilhelm, because a twinkle appeared in the warrior’s dark eyes. “Thank you… Lady Rosalynde,” he said. The title came diffidently to his lips for the first time since meeting her, and the bear of a man stepped forward to offer one more heartfelt embrace. Rosalynde hugged him fiercely, even as she cast a glance at his brother.
There was no way around it; Wilhelm must return to Warkworth to welcome the supply ships. As important as it was to deliver Rosalynde and her grimoire, that was Giles’s primary objective, and Wilhelm was the only man he trusted.
Rather than procure another mount, he and Rosalynde would travel together. Greedy perhaps, but he wanted her as close to him as possible, even if it slowed their pace.
She glanced at him now, and his heart squeezed.
She was afraid, he sensed. So, too, was Wilhelm. So was Giles, if the truth be known. And yet, it wouldn’t serve anyone to confess the truth. He must keep his wits about him… and what was more, he must keep his sanity. If, ever, his faith had failed him, he must find a way to renew it, because God alone could help them now.
Although his past works had more than oft crippled his faith, he saw the madness behind the Guard’s methods. Evil could not be vanquished by might alone, nor could it be won by honor and justice. Indeed, God worked in mysterious ways. And yet, he had few illusions. He was but a lone man, and it would take every means available to defeat this rising evil.
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So much depended upon his duty to the Guard—and now, to Rosalynde—that his shoulders felt heavy with the burden. But now Wilhelm understood so much without having to be given explanations, and he and his brother had found a new accord. Mounted now, and ready to ride, Wilhelm sought his gaze, and Giles could see the uncertainty nestled in his dark eyes. His elder brother and self-appointed guardian would never willingly abandon his side. “Art certain, Giles?”
Giles nodded. “Now that you… know… I trust you most to see to what must be done. Rosalynde and I will continue together.” There was great meaning in the words that followed. “I need you, my brother.” And one day, when he could, he would reward his loyalty.
His brother’s face was pinched, worried, and Giles could tell that he was reluctant to go. But, for all that they’d endured and all the discord that had passed between them, Giles trusted now that he would heed his commands, down to the letter. Their relationship, too, had changed—as thoroughly as with Rosalynde—even despite that they had yet to speak of it.
Later, when they had a moment alone, once the mission was complete, he would explain everything to Wilhelm in far greater detail. And, once the evil in this land was banished, he and Rosalynde—he gazed warmly at the woman standing beside him—would tell stories of this for years to come. Somehow, though he didn’t know why he knew it, he knew it to be true. He felt a bond with her that he couldn’t explain, nor did he believe for an instant that God had put them together without purpose. And yet… his heart writhed with anguish, because he had a duty to uphold, and so much as he felt in his heart that Rosalynde was destined to be the mother of his babes, he also now understood with a clarity borne of circumstance, how important it was to strengthen his dominion in the north—not merely for the sake of vengeance, but for England.
The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2 Page 42