The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Wilhelm’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his reins. His eyes said everything his mouth daren’t utter. “Have care, my brother,” he said.

  “Worry not,” said Giles. “I am capable.”

  And to that, the brothers shared the gravest of looks. “Only too well do I know it,” said Wilhelm, as he held the courser’s reins. “I have been blind, Giles. Fear blinded me to what my eyes should have understood from the moment you returned.” And simply so as not to leave words unsaid, his brother offered apologies. “I am sorry,” he said.

  “Think no more of it,” Giles said with a rueful smile.

  Wilhelm inclined his head; then, his lips curved ever so slightly. “Mayhap some day you will teach me some of your… tricks?”

  Giles lifted his brows. “Tricks?”

  Wilhelm’s lips turned into a wide, devious grin, and now, more than ever, he looked the part of a butcher, with a glint in his eyes that matched the glint of his steel, and a set to his shoulders that widened his substantial girth. His scars alone were enough to make a grown man piss himself, if only because to have survived such an ordeal, his strength was unquestionable.

  “Godspeed,” offered Giles, with a nod.

  “Wait!” Rosalynde said, rushing forward when Wilhelm turned to leave. She had been silent, watching these two brothers—loving their devotion. Whatever discord had once existed between them was gone. She had no doubt they would die for one another, and perhaps they still might. “May I… give a blessing?” she dared ask.

  For a long moment, Wilhelm merely looked at her, frowning, and despite his growing fondness for Rosalynde, she thought he might turn her away, just as he’d refused her healing. Clearly, he still didn’t trust her magik. But he gave her a nod, and said, “I suspect I shall need all the help I can get.”

  She gave Giles a wary glance to gauge his reaction, but he, too, nodded, and Rosalynde swept forward, laying a hand on Wilhelm’s courser, silently entreating a blessing from the Goddess. “Godspeed,” she said, when she was through.

  “And to you, my lady,” said Wilhelm, giving her a nod, and then another to his lord brother before bolting away.

  “Do you think he will fare well alone?”

  Giles stood behind her, silent for a moment as the two of them watched Wilhelm go. “My brother is as capable as any,” he said, at long last.

  It was so much easier to speak her mind with her back to him. “Then perhaps you should say so… he longs for your validation.” There was more she longed to say—so much more—but her lips suddenly would not part.

  He met her counsel with silence, and the feeling was intensely awkward. And then, after a moment, she started at the feel of a hand gripping her elbow. He drew her back and turned her around to look her into her eyes. “I would rest the night here,” he told her.

  Rosalynde nodded.

  His dark eyes held a silent message. “We have a long journey ahead, and we need rest, but… I prefer not to let you out of my sight.”

  Rosalynde nodded again, understanding.

  “I would explain to Mother Helewys that you are my lady wife.”

  One last time, Rosalynde nodded, though her knees felt weak, and her heart beat painfully as she peered up, meeting his deep, dark eyes.

  For a long, long moment, they merely stared at one another… and then, he moved closer, and lifted a hand to her cheek, then bent to press a small kiss to her forehead… then another over the bridge of her nose… and there… he allowed his lips to linger, warm and pliant against her already fevered skin.

  At last, would they speak of the bonding? Was it possible that he, too, had heard the Goddess?

  Rosalynde dared to hope.

  After an excruciating moment, he slid a hand to her chin, lifting her face to his gaze… and he gave her one more, firm but chaste brush of his lips… upon the lips, and sweet though it might be, it held a certain promise in its tenderness.

  “Can you stand by my side and give credence to my words, Rose?”

  She loved the way he said her name—so intimately, and she would do anything he asked of her and more, but she realized it was one thing to stand by whilst Wilhelm offered the ladies of Neasham a handful of glittering gold, and yet another to stand before them in full view of their scrutiny, and answer as his wife.

  “Of course,” she said, though she worried.

  What would happen if the prioress should happen to note her stolen habit? She didn’t want to hide anymore—not with any glamour. But despite that the woolen material wasn’t very fine, the needlework was very distinct, with the sisters’ signature embroidery on the sleeves and hem. And still, Rosalynde hadn’t the heart to confess as much to Giles. She didn’t want him to know the depths of her deceptions, justified though they might be.

  Her Welsh grandmother had had a saying for times like these… for times when fate lay beyond the control of mere mortals.

  Beth fydd.

  Whatever would be, would be.

  Chapter 23

  Rosalynde stood meekly by Giles’s side whilst he bargained with the prioress, concealing her sleeves and too-short hem beneath her borrowed cloak. Only now she wondered… what might have happened if she’d never stolen the habit?

  Would Seren be wed to Giles? Would her sister have returned with him to Warkworth?

  As life happened, nothing occurred without consequence—at least that’s what Rhi so oft claimed. And here was a perfect example: The nuns at Neasham were world-renowned seamstresses. They sold their services to support their work at the priory, where they hosted an almonry as well as a hospital. Even to the most discerning eye, their needlework was superior, and the Queen Consort oft commissioned their services. And, of course, whatever the Queen had one of her mother must keep twenty. Pride in excess was Morwen’s weakness, and she was not immune to vainglory. Therefore, merely so she wouldn’t feel humiliated by the poor state of her daughters’ dress, she had commissioned three new gowns, one for each. After all, it wouldn’t be seemly to allow Henry’s offspring—illegitimate though they might be—to be dressed so meanly whilst at court.

  And yet, it must also be noted that not once during their years at Llanthony had Morwen ever provided them a single dress—not for twelve long years, even as they’d doubled in height and formed a woman’s curves. Rather, the sisters had fashioned their own gowns from cast-off robes. And if, indeed, they had arrived at Westminster in tatters, they had been proud enough to be wearing the fruits of their own labors. But this, of course, was neither here nor there.

  Knowing Seren would be paraded before the court during her presentation to the lord of Warkworth, Morwen had commissioned a second dress for Seren. That was when Rosalynde acquired the nun’s habit. Having accompanied her sister to the fitting, she’d spied the habit folded in a chair, and when Sister Emma handed Rosalynde their finished stack of gowns, she’d very nonchalantly laid them atop the habit, and when they’d quit her chamber, Rosalynde took the habit as well. After all, it could so easily have been a mistake—or so she would have claimed if someone caught her. But no one did. Essentially, that stolen gown led to her escape, and having fled when she did, she stole the very horse of the very man her sister had been intended to wed.

  And this was the ysbryd y byd her sister Rhiannon sometimes spoke of. According to Rhi, life was so much like a spider’s web, everything integrally connected. Free will was a gift, but all divergent paths led to a shared end—a boundary not unlike the verge of the spider’s web, a delicate filament to be plucked like a harp, in tune to a song inspired by the hearts of men. Only whether that song be good or bad, happy or sad, depended on the spirit of the age, the ysbryd y byd.

  Now what would happen if Mother Helewys happened to note her stolen habit? Would she realize it was Sister Emma’s? Would she insist upon knowing the circumstances? Would she glean the truth and then tell Morwen?

  To make matters worse, it was only then as she endeavored to hide her stolen garb that she considered the utter hum
iliation of arriving at Aldergh dressed in her current state—now, in truth, she was in tatters. Her poor sister would fear she’d been assaulted—and, well, so she had, but not under the circumstances Elspeth and her husband might think. But, as luck would have it, she worried for naught. Apparently, the five gold marks they’d offered for Lady Ayleth’s soul, plus whatever Giles paid for the room, was more than enough impetus for the prioress to accept his money without question. In fact, she invited them to sup in their hall, though thankfully, Giles declined, with the excuse that they’d been traveling too long, and his wife had an ague in her bones. If the prioress had any reservations at all, it was only when Giles ordered the bath. She gave Rose a narrow-eyed glance, though before she could say aught, Giles handed the woman another sterling, and off she went, happily, to do his bidding.

  Perhaps she’d feared, as Rosalynde feared, that Giles meant for them to trollop together in the sanctity of her priory, but that too was a needless concern. When the bath arrived, Giles offered her a smile that put a twinkle in his dark eyes, and he left as in marched a procession of nuns, carrying a small tub, buckets, soap, towels, and the last in line held a stack of folded gowns.

  “Oh, nay! There must be some mistake,” Rose said, peering out the door, but Giles was already gone.

  The woman smiled serenely. “Oh, nay, Lady Rosalynde. Your husband procured them.” She glanced at the cloak Rose had pinched so jealously, perhaps wondering what lay beneath. “My lord of Warkworth informed us that you met some trouble on the road. For this we are heartily aggrieved.” The corners of the nun’s eyes crinkled. “For all your generosity, Mother Helewys has also provided her own small gift for your troubles.”

  Guilt gnawed at Rosalynde’s belly.

  The woman shook her head sadly. “We’ve not been able to take our wagons through Darkwood for years now.” With a tilt of her head, she thrust out the stack, insisting that Rosalynde take it. “Rife with thieves and cutthroats, and I dare not say what more.”

  “Thank you,” said Rose, shamefaced. And yet it was only after the nun departed that she understood the true generosity of the gifts... There was not one, but two gowns amidst the lot. One of them rivaled the gown her sister had worn to the King’s Hall. The first layer was a gold-threaded camlet, fine as the finest silk chainse. The surcoat was a thick azure color made of a lovely corded fabric, soft as velvet. The color reminded Rosalynde of bellflowers. There was also a cloak to match in a darker shade of blue, generously trimmed with soft ermine.

  Apparently, the catskin cloak was no longer amidst their belongings, and later, Giles would tell her the sisters accepted the donation graciously. But, of course, they would; it was a beautiful cloak, if only one didn’t know what it was made of.

  Supper arrived after her bath, delivered by none other than Giles himself. Anticipating the moment of his arrival, Rosalynde received him dressed in one of her bright new gowns, hoping with all her heart that she’d chosen the one he preferred. After all, it would be their first night alone together and she wanted to thank him properly… and more, she wanted him to know how willingly she came to their union, even if he didn’t properly understand the gifts the Goddess had granted them.

  Giles froze as he opened the door.

  Whatever he had expected to encounter upon returning to the room, he hadn’t expected such a brilliant transformation. But it was more than the dress. As a matter of confession, he had been anticipating seeing her again, dressed in something more appropriate to her station, but nothing could have prepared him for the smile she bestowed upon him as he entered the room. It glowed more brightly than his sword ever could, and, in response, like an untried youth, he nearly dropped the tray he held.

  Her hair was freshly washed and plaited, her skin translucent, and without the wimple, veil and filth, he could see every detail all-too clearly.

  She was… breathtaking.

  She was… precisely the woman he’d envisioned in his dreams. His siren…

  She was… heartrendingly beautiful… her nose pert and sweet. Her lips so full and rosy. Her hair full of shimmer, catching the copper gleam of firelight. And her eyes shone with the light of an inner flame.

  “You look… beautiful,” he said, averting his gaze, as he moved toward the room’s only table to set down the tray.

  “You are beautiful, my lord,” she said, with a tremble in her voice, and Giles chuckled softly, very swiftly losing all his good sense. God have mercy, it was all he could do not to strip the lady bare and lay her down upon that well-made bed, peel away her chainse and replace the garment with his burning lips… alas, he would not.

  No matter that they seemed to have formed some inexplicable bond, she was still a lady, whose honor must be defended… including from himself.

  Particularly from himself.

  Alas, he could not explain his sense of duty to her. But then, nothing about this past week was even remotely explicable. She was Morwen Pendragon’s daughter—a witch by her own admission. Giles was a Paladin, sworn to eradicate her kind from this earth.

  And yet… there was naught about Rosalynde Pendragon that was evil, and even now his sword lay silent against the wall where he’d put it… which was more than he could say about his other sword.

  Gods’ truth, if there was any witchery at play here, it was only this: His heart would not stop thumping in her presence and his lungs felt too constricted to breathe. His blood simmered through his veins and his cock stirred against his will.

  She was nervous, he could tell. He could see that she stood trembling, like a bride on her first night, with hands joined primly together, and her alabaster cheeks the color of a rose in bloom—a rose in winter.

  For all that he might be twice her age, he was nervous, too—a fact that bewildered him. What was she? Twenty perhaps? He was thirty-three, yet, through his service in the Guard, he felt twice that.

  Even when he’d first laid eyes upon her beautiful sister, he hadn’t felt this way—even knowing that she was meant to lie beneath him. He had never once looked at Seren Pendragon as anything more than a Morwen spy—an agent for his ruin.

  Now, in truth, if he must confess this fact—if only to himself—he hadn’t felt this confused by any woman since his first blush—not since Lady Ayleth. And even then, he never felt this… overwhelming desire to claim her for his own… to put his seed in her belly. He wanted to imagine her with his daughters at her skirts and his son suckling at her bosom…

  As profane as it might seem… he wanted to suckle there himself…

  And yet he was already betrothed, and this was no matter he could easily resolve—not when so many people depended upon the success of his charade.

  At least for the time being, he must not embrace the way he felt. Later perhaps… but only perhaps.

  And regardless, she must be famished—as famished as he was for the velvety sweetness of her skin.

  “Thank you,” she said, and he struggled to recover himself, removing the twin goblets from the tray he’d brought. Taking his time, settlings his thoughts, he placed them on the table, and then picked up the flagon, intending to indulge himself until his mutinous cock could no longer stir.

  At any rate, his mouth felt entirely too parched…

  “Would you like some vin?” he asked, clearing his throat, and when Rosalynde didn’t immediately reply, he gestured toward the goblets.

  “Yeah… please… thank you, my lord.”

  My lord… the words sounded oddly formal in this richly adorned bower, when all week long he had been merely Giles, and they’d slept scandalously close, even sharing one blanket. And yet, in all that time, it had never once occurred to Rose to be embarrassed by their proximity—not even with her ruined gown. It wasn’t in her nature to be self-conscious. Only now, she felt painfully shy for the first time in her life, and she averted her gaze, examining the room.

  Unlike the rest of the nunnery, the guest rooms were well fitted, if modestly so, with soft linens and sapphir
e blue curtains hanging from irons above a small, high window.

  It wasn’t particularly a surprise, for despite that these nuns created such beautiful fabrics and gowns, Sister Emma herself had worn the simplest of dresses. The priory was the same—humble for the women who dwelt here, but snug and fit for their guests.

  It was late now; the sun was already setting. Its rays impaled the leaded glass—not so fine as the waldglas at Llanthony, and yet beautiful anyway, separating the sun’s hues over the white-sheeted bed—violet, blue, red, green, gold.

  Beside the simple canopy, a small brazier burned very low, but still hot enough to warm the room. Alas, to Rosalynde’s dismay, it seemed that all its warmth crept into her cheeks.

  Freshly scrubbed from her bath, she felt naked, exposed, even despite the lovely gown she wore. There was no wimple to hide the red of her hair, no veil to hide the trembling of her lips—nor, for that matter, any glamour spell to hide her true face. She was precisely who—and what—she was, and if she must be judged by her looks alone, she would never, ever measure up to her sister.

  And still, she dared to hope… if only because of the look Giles gave her as he came through the door… as though she must be the most beautiful maiden in all the realm. He was still gazing at her that way…

  His gaze never left her as he poured the vin in both their goblets, and then he set the flagon down again, and once he was through, he lifted one goblet for Rosalynde to take. He gave her a heart-tripping smile, as he said, in jest, “To our continued ability to breathe.”

  “I suppose ’tis one way to put it,” Rosalynde said, laughing softly, taking the goblet.

  “And how else would you put it, Sister Rosalynde?”

  Sister Rosalynde.

  Her gaze shot up, only to realize he must be teasing her—for the first time ever, and now that he dared to her cheeks grew warmer still. Embarrassed, because she had ever meant to deceive him, Rosalynde lifted her glass, returning his smile. “Alas,” she protested. “I haven’t a gift for words, my lord.”