The Daughters of Avalon Collection: Books 1 & 2

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Inhaling a breath for courage, she shoved the blanket off her head to find the night was late and the moon was high, silver light washing into the room.

  For all that he mustn’t be comfortable, Giles was nevertheless sleeping, because she heard his smooth, even breathing. She did not let that dissuade her, rising from the bed, her feet instinctively taking her where she needed to go… without having sensed she’d moved them.

  Bind him to you. You know how.

  Aye, she did know, because she was a woman, and it was a knowledge all women carried in their heart of hearts.

  The goblet lay empty in his hand. The flagon, she sensed, was empty as well. Perhaps emboldened by the elixir herself, she stared at the man her heart was coming to know and love…

  She wanted more than simply to do her duty to the Goddess. She wanted to give him babes. She wanted to feel them quicken in her womb and know she’d conceived them in love.

  And yet, for the longest time, she could not move, only stare…

  In slumber his swarthy face was no less beautiful. In the shadows, his blond hair was dark about the jaw, but the firelight made it glisten… like stars.

  If he awoke now, would he see her lithe body illumined by the fire, even through her gown? Would he note her nipples straining against the chainse, only longing for lips to suckle? Would he tremble over the desire he would spy in her eyes?

  Before she could stop herself, she lifted the delicate chainse he’d bought, and pulled it gently over her head, tossing it on the floor, next to his sword and scabbard. One by one, she shed her inhibitions even as she shed her garments, allowing herself to be vulnerable and exposed. And, then, when she was ready, she bent with trembling hands to pry the goblet from his fingers. He opened his eyes as she placed it on the table, and the sound it made was like the clink of a coin…

  Giles blinked away the sleep from his eyes, afraid he must be dreaming… But, nay… there she was, naked and unashamed, standing before him with nary a stitch of clothes—and God help him, he was only a man, a man with no will left at all.

  “If, in truth, I must lose you to my sister,” she said softly, tears shining in her eyes. “I will have you once, to keep the memory in my heart.” He watched a tear slip from her eye and roll down her cheek, off her chin, onto her hardened nipple, glistening like molten silver. The sight of it nearly unmanned him where he sat, and despite the vin, his cock hardened, aching for the touch of her hand.

  She was a siren, leading him to his doom, and he did not care right now. Every nerve in his body lit, and his gaze fixed on the eight small wounds she’d received in the glade, revealed now by the light of the moon… His heart twisted, and his lips longed to ease them… But, alas, he could not blame it on the vin when he lifted his hands to her waist, holding her fast, pulling himself forward to lay his burning mouth upon her scars, kissing them each in turn, lapping them one by one with his tongue, as though he might somehow erase the burdens from her flesh.

  She shivered, but not with fear, he realized, as he peered up into her beautiful violet eyes. The desire he saw there was his undoing and he shuddered as he felt his own wetness, a small bead of his seed soak into the cloth of his breeches.

  “Rosalynde,” he said thickly. “You cannot know what it is you are asking.”

  She nodded but once, firmly, and said, “I do, my lord.”

  And still, though he ached with desire, he slid a hand to her belly, soft as silk, pushing her back. “You need not thank me for my services, Rosalynde. And yet… if you test me, I am sure to disappoint you.”

  She reached down, putting a trembling hand over his, both their hands now quaking—only hers with trepidation. Only his with desire, and all his body shook with it, even as the blood rushed to his cock, filling it so thickly that it throbbed.

  “Rosalynde,” he said again, one last protest, and she answered by guiding his hand lower, into the velvety mons between her thighs.

  It was all Giles could do not to spill his seed where he sat. Swallowing with difficulty, he rose from the chair, undressing, never taking his eyes off Rosalynde, letting her know… if she didn’t want him—want this—she’d best say so now. But she said naught, and off came his sherte, then his breeches. He hurled them both aside with a ferocity that startled even him, and then he stood before her as naked and unashamed as she… fully revealed by the light of a full moon.

  When still she said nothing, only gasped very softly, he smiled darkly and slid an arm about her waist, pulling her close, letting her feel the unyielding hardness of his body, and all his pent-up desire.

  Rosalynde’s breath caught at the feel of him—his manhood, thick and insistent against her thighs, teasing her, even of its own accord. And, for the longest moment, he stood, allowing her to feel him, as though willing her to deny him. But, she would not…

  Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,

  Another to one, and one to another...

  And still… she didn’t know what to do. She was a virgin still. Only when she thought her heart would rend in two, he bent to press a kiss upon the bridge her nose… then another on her mouth, opening his mouth as though he meant to devour her, and then sliding out his tongue to brush against her trembling mouth. She opened her lips to him—like a flower opening to the warmth of the sun—and moaned softly as his tongue slipped inside, tasting her so intimately that she thought she might die. She pushed him away, if only to say, “I shall never take another lover.”

  “I cannot ask that of you,” he said, pulling away, but Rose clung to him, not allowing it. She slid her arms about him, holding him close, letting him feel the hardness of her own nipples against his flesh, even as he’d teased her with his own flesh.

  “It does not matter,” she said. “I will love you always. And tonight, at least… I am yours.”

  He growled then, and said naught more, lifting her up and carrying Rosalynde to the bed…

  Chapter 25

  Aldergh Castle, February 1149

  There were flurries in the air, white, plump, and dancing with all the promise of winter. And nevertheless, peppered in snow though she might be, Rosalynde wasn’t cold, nor had she any need for warming spells or layers of clothes whilst Giles held her so jealously. Even so, she shivered, excited to see her sister, Elspeth.

  Looming before her, like a patchwork dragon on its haunches, Aldergh was a monstrosity. From end to end, it must be at least ten-thousand meters long, and evidently, it was built in stages, judging by the multicolored stone and the varied design. Behind it, she could spy the dusky rose foothills of the Pennines, dusted in a fresh layer of snow.

  “Art cold?” Giles asked, though he didn’t wait for an answer. He shifted his cloak, so it covered more of Rosalynde than it did of him. And she smiled gratefully, her heart thumping madly.

  “I am not cold,” she said. “But I am… excited. And perhaps… relieved.” For weeks now they had been preparing for the worst, fearfully watching over their shoulders. Mercifully, Morwen never arrived, and Giles’s strange serpentine sword remained silent by his side. For three long weeks they’d traveled under cloak, armed with daggers, and now… here they were… at long last.

  By now, Wilhelm, too, must have reached his destination and perhaps he was already preparing defenses, but there was no way to know for sure.

  Rhiannon, too, remained quiet since that night at Neasham, and Rosalynde dared not entreat her. Somehow, her sister’s magik was powerful enough to reach across the aether, but hers was not, and she daren’t tempt Morwen.

  “Soon now,” Giles promised, and it was a promise he could easily keep, because they were here now, and neither snow, hail, nor Morwen Pendragon could stop them.

  Giles halted for a moment, so they could admire the fortress—the soaring corner towers and the thick curtain wall, expansive enough to protect an entire village. And yet, though it was immense and quite impressive, it couldn’t be considered beautiful, with the mishmash of stone and design. But it was a bul
wark, to be sure—a deterrence to men who would defy its lord, and, if it could be safe anywhere, the grimoire would be safe here.

  And nevertheless, as big as the castel was, it was impossible to imagine her sister had somehow managed to cast a protection spell around its perimeter to shield her people. Once again Rose wished she had been there to witness it—and moreover, she wished she could have seen her mother’s face as she’d watched from afar. Even now, Morwen was lamenting the loss of her birds, and it would take years and years and years to replace them.

  “Someday, I shall see Warkworth inviolable,” Giles told her, squeezing her gently, and Rosalynde smiled, because someday, she, too, hoped to see his beloved home. No matter how small, or how grand, she would love it, because it belonged to Giles de Vere.

  Up on the ramparts, men scurried between machicolations, the silver in their armor winking defiantly against the midday sun. Rosalynde sat in awe whilst snowflakes tickled her nose and settled like cold dust in her hair.

  “Ready?” he asked

  “Aye,” she said, nodding, as she gripped the small pommel with white-knuckled fists and Giles set a heel to the courser’s hind. As they approached, a single horn-blast trumpeted across the field and her heart pummeled against her ribs.

  A warning? A greeting?

  Alas, they had no pennant to show, but Giles neither quickened his pace, nor did he slow. He held the trot, until they sat waiting before the castel gates, and then he called to the gatekeeper.

  “Who goes there?” asked the man.

  “Giles of Warkworth,” he said. “I come bearing the Lady Rosalynde Pendragon to see her sister, the lady of Aldergh.”

  Silence met his declaration, and after a moment of consideration, the gatekeeper asked, “Can you prove it, lord? We have orders to admit no one.”

  “Call your lord,” Giles demand. “I would speak to him.”

  “Nay,” said the man. “I will not.”

  “Will not or cannot?” asked Giles.

  The man remained silent, appraising Giles and Rosalynde with suspicious eyes.

  Without a word, Giles swept the cloak off Rosalynde’s shoulders, impatiently showing the man his sigil—a lion sejant holding in his dexter-paw an axe, and in the sinister, a tilting-spear.

  The man replied, “These are lawless days, lord. I hear Warkworth lies in ruins—its lord murdered. Could be you took the cloak from his dead body.”

  Up on the ramparts, the sound of men nocking their bows reached their ears, and Rosalynde peered up to see that there were fifty men or more, ready to loose arrows.

  “Have you more proof, lord? If not, I am compelled to keep my lord’s command. As you have probably surmised, the safety of my lady is my burden.”

  “I am Giles de Vere,” he countered, prepared to argue his case. “Earl of Warkworth—”

  “Wait,” Rosalynde bade him. She lifted a hand to Giles and then her head to the guardsman and smiled.

  She heard the frown in his voice as Giles whispered in her ear. “My dear, as beauteous as your smile may be, I cannot think it will persuade the man. He sounds like a dungeon master I knew.”

  “Just you wait,” she advised.

  Mindspeaking was not something she did so well with anyone but her sisters, but she had no doubt Elspeth could hear her now that she was in proximity. Despite the lord of Warkworth’s acceptance of her dewinity, she was careful not to overburden him. So, of course, she didn’t tell him what she was doing, and for a long, long moment, there was no answer—none at all. And suddenly, when Rose feared they might be turned away after all, she heard a voice shouting behind the gates and a smile broke on her face from ear to ear. Elspeth. No matter how long since she’d last heard her eldest sister’s voice, Rosalynde would always recognize it. It was the voice of the one person in this world who’d sung to her as a babe… who’d scrubbed her ears and brushed her hair.

  “Open the gates!” Elspeth demanded. “Open the gates!” And, without argument, the heavy portcullis began to rise, straining against its ancient chains.

  Rosalynde turned to Giles. “See what you can do with a little kindness, my lord?”

  Chapter 26

  Never in her life could Rosalynde have guessed that halloos could be as heart-rending as good-byes, but now she knew, as she stood clutching her eldest sister, her throat tight and hot tears burning her eyes.

  It had been far too long—ten long, long months to be precise, and in the meantime, so much had transpired.

  Elspeth, too, seemed overcome—the moisture pooling in her eyes dampening the crook of Rosalynde’s neck.

  Forsooth, she had somehow forgotten how diminutive Elspeth was, and lest she be mistaken, there was a bit more flesh on her bones as well. She squeezed her sister desperately. And then, finally, after the two had stood so long that their audience began to look about awkwardly, they wrenched themselves apart, to look into one another’s red-rimmed eyes. “I cannot believe ’tis you,” exclaimed Elspeth, her violet-blue eyes twinkling with joy.

  Rosalynde swallowed a lump that rose in her throat. “Yeah, ’tis me,” she said, overjoyed. “And wedlock has clearly been good to you, Elspeth.”

  Elspeth’s lips curled into a secret grin. “Aye, well, as to that… I have something to show you.” And she took Rosalynde by the hand, pulling her toward the donjon, abandoning everyone else in the yard.

  Rosalynde went, only because Giles tipped her a nod when she turned to seek his gaze. He stood, smiling as he tugged off his gauntlets, encouraging Rosalynde to go. Her very last glimpse of the man who’d risked so much to escort her to safety was of him standing, with his cloak turned over his arm, beneath a swirl of snow and surrounded by Aldergh’s men at arms. She wanted desperately to stop Elspeth and go back, but her sister was insistent—and far stronger than she remembered.

  Inside the castel, Aldergh was not so elaborate in design as Westminster Palace, and in so many ways, not so fine as Llanthony’s chapel, but the northern stronghold was sturdy and well fitted. There were tapestries hanging on most of the walls, and fresh rushes on the floors, the rooms clean as a bone after Willhelm got through with one. In this place, there appeared to be nothing her sister was lacking—not even a proper cauldron as she discovered in the lady’s solar. Snuggled in a great hearth there, the pot sat very prominently displayed, with an ever-ready fire burning beneath its belly. And this, she assumed, must be the thing her sister wanted to show her—but nay, they had no sooner laid eyes upon the cauldron, when Elspeth dragged her back out of the room, whisking her through the halls.

  There were stone and bronze effigies throughout, many in nooks, and a brazier burning in every room. Servants bustled to and fro, carrying on the household chores, but it was Elspeth who commanded them, with her heavy ring of chatelaine’s keys dangling at her belt.

  “I can’t wait to show you my garden,” she said, gushing. “Sadly, there isn’t much in it right now, for all the snow.”

  “I can’t wait to see it,” said Rosalynde, feeling bewildered, because her sister was the same as she’d always been, but so very different. The Elspeth she had lived with in Llanthony had not been so much a wilting flower, but she had not been so confident either. How could she be? She had lived her entire life afeared for the consequences of her actions—and not only for her own sake.

  Here, she called out commands as she passed. “Please make certain the guest quarters are tended,” she told one servant as they passed, and the lady nodded and rushed away to do her bidding.

  She passed another and said. “Ellyn, please go see that the kitchen has been apprised of our guests.”

  “Yeah, m’lady!” said the young woman, and she too, flew away in a rush.

  “That is Cora’s daughter,” Elspeth explained, scarcely aware that her every word was met with reverence. In such short time, her sister had created for herself a haven.

  “Cora?”

  Elspeth smiled. “The steward’s wife. She is my housekeeper and my dearest f
riend. I do not know what I would do without her. Alas, we’ve only just returned, and the house has been in disarray for months in our absence. We spent the winter in Chreagach Mhor, you see.” She cast a glance over her shoulder to be sure Rosalynde was listening.

  “Chreagach Mhor?”

  “Scotia—near the foothills, where my lord was born.”

  Rosalynde could scarce take her eyes off the rich, colorful tapestries placed high on the walls, depicting terrible battles. Some of the figures wore a Scot’s manner of dress, others wore armor. Still others were depictions of swarthy strangers from faraway lands.

  Elspeth smiled, noting the direction of her gaze. “Lovely, to be sure, but, alas, they serve more than to please the eye. This part of the castel was built during the Roman days, much like Blackwood. The walls are not always so sound as they should be to weather the winters. If you listen closely—particularly in my solar—you can hear the howl of the wind through stone and mortar.”

  “Not so much unlike our cottage at Llanthony, eh? Sometimes I miss those days,” said Rosalynde, sadly. “As poor as we were, life was simpler then.”

  And even as pleased as she was for her sister’s good fortune, tears pricked at her eyes, and she planted her heels to recover her emotions. Elspeth spun to face her, her sweet blue eyes full of concern. It took Rosalynde a long moment to find her voice. “As you must know, I am not come for pleasure.”

  “Of course, I suspected,” Elspeth said, and with a sigh, she took Rosalynde’s hands in hers, warming them. It was a familiar gesture that Rosalynde had sorely missed. Only Elspeth had ever lavished motherly affection on her this way—loving her, reassuringly.

  God forbid Morwen should ever do so. “Our mother is a demon,” Rose said, in case Elspeth did not realize.

  “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  Rosalynde felt her throat thickening, again. Only when she could, there, in the hall, she explained all about the grimoire… and the perilous journey she had embarked upon. She told her sister about the Shadow Beast that bore Mordecai’s face. She told her about having stolen Giles’s horse in London, and Seren’s betrothal to the lord of Warkworth. Skipping over the night at Neasham she told her about the night of Morwen’s arrival at Llanthony and the atrocities their mother committed at Darkwood.