“You…you know of Myrddin?”
His eyes were intent, even in the gloom. “There are very few Druids in this time. So far, I’ve seen but two, and heard tell of only one other. The magic I followed through the Lost Lands was not Dafyd’s. Nor is it Lady Igraine’s. That leaves me with one possibility. Myrddin.” Abruptly, he released her. “Am I right? Or is there another Druid of whom I am not yet aware?”
Breena rubbed her wrist. “No. You are right. Myrddin brought me here.”
“Where is he now?”
“I…do not know.”
“He left you here unguarded?”
“No. Gareth protects me.”
“That pup?” He swore. “I will have the sorcerer’s head for that.”
“Myrddin is not a sorcerer. He is descended from the Druids of Avalon. He even claimed he once met you.”
“Then he is a liar as well as a sorcerer,” Rhys said. “I am sure I have never encountered the man.”
“He is not evil,” Breena insisted. “He follows the Light.”
Rhys snorted. “I am not inclined to call artful manipulation a service to the Light.”
“Myrddin did not manipulate me. I knew what I was doing. And I trust him, Rhys. He carries the symbol of Avalon, carved on his staff.”
Rhys made a cutting motion with his hand. “I would expect nothing less from a charlatan. The man practices deep magic, Bree. Deeper and more dangerous than any I have ever known.”
“In our time, perhaps. But Rhys, magic is different in this Britain. There are fewer Druids, it is true. But the Druids who do exist possess power far greater than ours.”
“I can well believe that,” Rhys muttered. “Dafyd’s power is very strong. The magic Myrddin cast to bring you here is lethal. We are both lucky we are not dead. I cannot believe you would involve yourself in such a spell.”
She glared at him. “Then you are a hypocrite. Because you would not be here unless you cast Myrddin’s spell yourself! You may preach against deep magic, Rhys, but time and again, when it suits your purposes, you do not hesitate to call it.”
“You speak of my shifting. I cannot deny calling that magic, when the need is great. Each time, I feel my human soul slip a bit farther from my grasp. Aye, shifting is dangerous magic. But it is nothing, Breena, compared to the magic that brought us to this place. How can casting magic so powerful possibly be in service to the Light? You are a child if you believe that.”
She lifted her chin. “Myrddin does serve the Light. And so do I, in coming to this time. It is necessary.”
“And was it necessary to vanish so suddenly, without a trace? Marcus, Gwen, Owein—By Annwyn, Bree! They were frantic when I left them.”
“Oh, gods.” She closed her eyes on a rush of guilt.
“And more than a sennight has passed since then,” Rhys continued mercilessly. “Just think how anguished they are now. They likely believe we have both perished.”
“Then…they don’t know you followed me into the future?”
“Nay. I was alone when I found the remnants of Myrddin’s spell. When I followed it into the Lost Lands, I had no idea where it would lead.”
“I am sorry for their pain. I truly am. But they will understand, once I return—”
“Ah.” He crossed his arms. “So you do intend to return, at least.”
“Of course I do! Myrddin has promised to send me home. As soon as my task in this time is done.”
“You do not have a task in this time. You
cannot.
You have no right to even breathe the air around us. And neither do I.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Breena, nothing either of us do in this Britain could be right or good. On the contrary, the longer we stay here, the more likely it is that we’ll do great harm. We have to return at once to the standing stone, and retrace Myrddin’s cursed spell. And hope to Annwyn we can find our way home.”
“You are welcome to leave, Rhys, if you think it right. But I am not going anywhere. I trust Myrddin.”
He cursed. “You were always too trusting, even as a child.”
She stiffened. “What I was as a child has no bearing on what I am doing now. I did not follow Myrddin into the future blindly. I have my own purpose in coming to this time.”
He grasped her shoulders and gave her a shake. His scent—angry, male—filled her nostrils. “If that is true, then you are suffering a delusion. You have no purpose here. And you are not staying. We leave tonight.”
She grabbed his forearms and tried to break his grip on her shoulders. He responded by shoving her against the wall.
Pure rage pounded in her ears. “Let me go. I mean it. If you do not, I…I will cry out. There are soldiers in that courtyard. They will be on you in an instant.”
He shifted his hold on her, anchoring her more firmly. “You would betray me? Stand by and watch them drag me away? I would not be able to use magic to escape. Not without Dafyd learning of it, and that I will not do, for it would lead him to you.” His fingers bit into her shoulder. “So? What are you waiting for, Bree? Scream.”
Tears gathered in Breena’s eyes. “I would not do that, Rhys. I would not betray you, ever. You are…you are far too dear to me.”
Stark silence ensued. Their gazes locked. Rhys’s eyes were shadowed; Breena could not begin to guess what he was thinking.
Air hissed between his teeth in a long, weary sigh. “Oh, Breena. You foolish, foolish lass. Whatever am I to do with you?”
His grip on her shoulders relented. His hands slipped up to frame her face. His head dipped; his body became her cage. He pressed his lips to her forehead. She felt the scratch of his stubbled jaw against her skin.
It was a chaste gesture—not what she wanted from him. But as his mouth lingered too long, and his arms tensed, she felt his turbid emotions churn into something darker.
His hips moved, surging forward to pin her lower body against the wall. His arousal burgeoned, throbbing against her lower belly. A shocked thrill ran through her.
A sweet, desperate longing twisted inside her chest. She’d wanted him so badly, for so long. Her breasts were pressed against the hard planes of his torso. His lips moved to her temple; a deep shudder ran through his body.
He bent his knees and moved his body downward, aligning his hips with hers. His phallus, rock hard, lodged in the cradle of her thighs. His hardness rubbed a spot that made her knees go weak. Instinctively, she parted her legs. He moved again, and she whimpered.
He responded with a groan. One of his knees intruded between her thighs, urging them to part wider, as wide as her skirts would allow.
Her hands stole around his torso, stroking and clutching. He was so solid—all muscle and sinew and
bone. A heated tremor flashed through her. Her head went light. Her body softened in some places; it tightened in others. She was aware of a series of rapid, delirious thoughts.
Rhys had never wanted her as a woman.
He wanted her now.
His fingers touched her chin; he tilted her head.
His breath bathed her cheek. Her jaw.
Her lips.
In another instant, she was going to kiss him.
No.
Rhys
was going to kiss
her.
R
hys had lost his mind.
He was not sure he cared. Breena’s body was soft and round beneath his, and welcoming, despite her anger. His mouth brushed her jaw, and a sweet little moan left her lips. His cock, already hard as a stone, stiffened even more.
He was going to kiss her. Gods! He could not. This would never stop at a kiss.
He pressed his lips to her ear instead. “Now would be the time, Breena. Cry out. Let the soldiers come for me.”
“It…it would serve you right.”
She wriggled a little in his arms. He dropped one hand, grazing the outside of her breast. His palm lingered, memorizing the curve.
“Do it, then.”
Her breathing hitched. “No.”
Her small hands roamed on his back, igniting fire everywhere they touched. Roughly, he grabbed her wrists and pressed them to the wall over her head. She gasped, her spine arching, her lush breasts thrusting toward him. Before he quite knew what he’d done, he’d transferred both her wrists to his left hand.
The sight of her, stretched and vulnerable, made him shudder. His right hand covered her breast. Her nipple beaded against his palm. He flicked his thumb
over it. A wave of something raw and primitive rippled through her. He felt her body soften beneath his solidity.
A moan was torn from her throat. “Rhys…please…”
“Breena.” His voice was a rasp. “We cannot do this. It is wrong.”
She looked up at him, wide eyed. The tip of her tongue darted out to swipe at her lower lip. He knew an exquisite torture.
“Is it, Rhys?”
“Aye. You know it is.”
“I know nothing of the sort.”
Of course she didn’t; she was little more than a child. He struggled to remind himself of that fact. But it was difficult. She did not look like a child. Not with her lush woman’s body pinned beneath his. Not with her quick breaths caressing his ear. The scent of her musky, female arousal fogged his brain. The white sparkle of her magic clung to her head and shoulders, calling to his own Druid power.
He wanted her, desperately. But Rhys was a man long used to self-denial. With a shuddering breath, he forced his grip to loosen. Flattening his palms on the wall on either side of her head, he prayed for the strength to step away.
Though he was no longer holding her arms, she had not lowered them. Wrists crossed above her head, she stared up at him, her eyes huge, her breath short. For a long moment, she just stared, and he could not quite read the emotion in her expression. And then a small smile curved her lips, and her hips arched. The warm, welcoming vee of her thighs cradled his cock.
The last frayed thread of his control snapped. His mouth came down on hers. His kiss was not gentle, not
what she deserved. It was hard and bruising. Demanding. An assault on her all-too-knowing innocence.
He expected her to struggle. To slap him, or push him away. Instead she softened impossibly. Her body sagged against the wall. Her hands clutched his shoulders. Her toe stroked up his calf.
He kissed her ruthlessly, his tongue plundering her sleek, wet mouth. He caught her nipple and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. The sound that emerged from her throat was part moan, part whimper.
“Pollux.”
The crude Roman curse, whispered, sounded like an endearment. His knee rode high between her legs. His hands on her breasts were not enough. He tore his mouth from her lips and kissed a hot, wet trail down her neck. He buried his face in the cleft between those soft, perfect globes.
He wanted to tear through her
stola
and tunic, but somehow he retained his presence of mind and did not. He pressed his cheek atop the pillow of her breast instead, inhaling deeply of her scent. She cradled his head, holding him close.
“Rhys,” she whispered. “Oh, gods, Rhys. I…I love you so.”
He tensed. Gods in Annwyn. He could not do this to her.
He thrust himself back from the wall. Breena blinked up at him with hazy eyes.
“Rhys? What’s wrong—”
She broke off, her eyes flaring with hurt as he took a second step back.
“Breena, I—” He swallowed and dropped his arms to his sides. “I am sorry. That never should have happened.”
She lowered her arms and hugged herself. “I see.”
He made a sound in the back of his throat, and shut his eyes briefly. “My disrespect is inexcusable.”
“Disrespect,” she repeated. Heat radiated from her body, but her tone was like ice.
His apology stumbled on. “It will not happen again. Now, please, let us leave this place.”
She drew herself taller, and tighter. “No, Rhys. I’ve told you. I am not going anywhere.”
“You cannot stay here. There’s a pall of dark magic over this castle.”
“I know that. It is my fault. The spell rose when I scried for Myrddin.”
He swore. “Dafyd is certainly searching for you. The longer you stay here, the more likely it becomes that he will find you.”
She seemed to falter at that. “I will leave before that happens.”
“Aye, you will leave with me. Now.”
Her head came up. Anger caused her aura to crackle. “You have no right to order me about. I did not ask you to follow me here.”
He made a sound of disbelief. “You thought I would just let you vanish into the Lost Lands?”
“Hard as it might be for you to believe, I was not thinking of you at all. Why should I? You’d made it very clear the night before I left that you did not care what I did or where I went.”
Rhys muttered a curse. “You are twisting my words. You know I care for you. I always have. You are like a—”
“Do not say it!” she hissed. “I swear to you, Rhys, if the word ‘sister’ passes your lips, I will scream loud enough to bring fifty soldiers running!”
If Breena’s blue eyes had been daggers, Rhys would have been lying on the ground, flayed and gutted. “Breena. Please. We can fight later, if you like. Once we leave this cursed castle.”
“I am not going anywhere. I have a task to complete.
Have you even asked me what it is? No. If you would shut your arrogant mouth and listen for but a moment, you would understand! Myrddin told me—”
“Myrddin!” Rhys spat the sorcerer’s name. “I am sick to death of hearing you utter that man’s name. He is a menace. He deals with deadly magic. Do you know, Uther Pendragon has not lost a single battle since his Druid counselor appeared at his side? I am sure Myrddin wins the high king’s wars with deep magic.”
“I do not know if that is true,” Breena said. “If it is, Myrddin has good reason to cast that magic. He serves the Light.”
“He uses deep magic as it suits him!”
“So do you.”
His jaw tightened. “It is not the same.”
“It is just the same. Don’t you see? Myrddin is desperate. He needed a Seer at Igraine’s side. Rhys, her life is in danger!”
“And now yours is, as well, because Myrddin saw fit to bring you here.”
“It was necessary. I am the one destined for the task. And Igraine’s life is much more important than mine.”
“Excuse me if I do not agree,” Rhys said tightly.
Breena’s grip was hot and urgent on his arm. “You will change your mind when I tell you who she is. Rhys, Igraine is the woman in my vision. The one I’ve seen murdered more times than I can count.”
Abruptly, Breena’s willingness to involve herself in deep magic began to make sense. “Myrddin knew this? Even before he came looking for you?”
“Yes. Rhys, don’t you see? This is the purpose that Gwen spoke of, when she told me the Great Mother had sent my vision for a reason. I am here to prevent my nightmare from coming to pass. I have Seen it happening very soon—at the rise of the harvest moon, four nights hence! If Igraine dies then, evil will erupt. Myrd
din knows of your grandfather’s prophecies. He has worked all his life to prevent the chaos Cyric foretold in his dark vision. As you have.”
Rhys was silent for a long moment. “Myrddin told you all this?” he asked finally.
“Yes.”
“And you believed him?”
“I did.”
“How can you know he spoke the truth? How can you be sure the woman in your vision is the duchess? In your dream, you have never seen her face.”
“Since I’ve arrived at Tintagel, I have. Igraine’s face has been very clear in my nightmares.”
Rhys began to pace the tiny room. “Your vision changed when you met the duchess?”
“Yes.”
“It could be her stifled aura, affecting your Sight. Igraine is strong in magic, Breena, but her power has been trapped.”
“I know that. I can even see Igraine’s aura. She is a Seer. Or should be. That is why Myrddin chose me to protect her. I’ve linked my magic to hers.”
“What has been done to Igraine is despicable. I can only wonder who cast such a spell.”
“Dafyd,” Breena suggested.
“Nay. The spell is very old. Dafyd would have been a child when it was cast.” Rhys’s lips thinned. “But Myrddin would have been old enough.”
“No.” Breena’s eyes snapped. “He would never do such a thing. Myrddin is of the Light.”
“He is ruthless.”
“Believe what you want. I see I cannot change your mind. But know this—Igraine is in danger. Rhys, Gerlois beats her! She carries the bruises. Myrddin and Uther planned to take Igraine from Gerlois. But now that Myrddin is trapped in a trance, I fear Uther will
not arrive in time to stop Igraine’s murder. That is why Gareth—”
“Aye,” Rhys interrupted. “The boy knight. That one is eager to get under your skirt.”
Breena scowled. “That is why Gareth and I have decided to take Igraine out of the castle tomorrow night.”
“I know. I heard his plan.”
“You are welcome to help us, Rhys,” she said quietly. “In fact, I would be very much relieved if you did.”
“I have no wish to be a part of any scheme of Myrddin’s,” Rhys told her. “But I see I have little choice if I am to get you out of this place. So I will help. You will promise to leave with me afterward.”
“I will. Of course. Once Igraine is safe.”
“Fair enough.” He paused. “But it will be my plan we follow. Not Gareth’s. Where do you sleep?”
She blinked. “In the tower.”
“With the duchess?”
“No. Two levels below, in a storage room adjoining Lady Bertrice’s chamber.”
“Good. I will come to you tonight, and I will tell you what you are to do tomorrow.”
“But—”
He stepped back, and gestured toward the door. “Not now. I have much to consider, and you have been away from the high table for far too long. Go back to the feast, before someone comes after you.”
The feasting went on until midnight. The Brothers Stupendous lingered, drinking and gambling. Dermot had, apparently, turned a blind eye, for no one arrived to shoo the errant minstrels from the feasting hall.
The highest ranking nobility, Breena included, had already withdrawn. A good number of guests re
mained; many would bed down in the hall once the tables were cleared and shoved to one side. Servants bustled about, clearing tables and sweeping away the debris of the feast.
Trent was exultant. “The duke loved us! He will surely heap rewards upon our heads.”
Howell threw his dice, and grunted. “I’ll believe it when I have the coin in hand. Ah!” he said with satisfaction as he counted his roll. “My win.”
“You have the devil’s own luck,” Floyd grumbled, pushing a pile of small stones in Howell’s direction.
The outstanding success of the performance had increased the troop’s luck in other directions, as well. Trent, Howell, and Floyd each had a woman at his side—or, in Howell’s case, the wench’s arms were draped over his shoulders from behind.
Kane sniffed his disapproval. “Put away the dice, I implore you. It is unseemly, here in the duke’s feasting hall.”
“Do ye imagine anyone cares, man?” Howell retorted.
“True,” declared Trent. “Why I can see four games of chance from where I sit! If I were a great hulking beast like Howell, no doubt I’d see a dozen.” He laughed. “And Howell and Floyd do not even wager real coin.”
Howell threw the dice, then cursed at the roll. Floyd chortled, and took back every marker he had lost.
Howell’s woman grinned at Kane. “You are far too young to be so…rigid. You need a lass to soften you, lad.”
The men laughed; Kane reddened. Howell’s wench waved across the hall. In a trice, a fourth woman—barely more than a girl—had joined them. She made eyes at Rhys, who sat alone, but her friend chided her. “Not that one. He belongs to Nesta. Take the youth.”
Nesta, thankfully, had not yet appeared to assert her claim on Rhys. The new girl, smiling, slid onto the bench next to Kane, and bent her blonde head to his dark one.
“You are the flautist, nay? I have never heard such music as you played this evening.”
Rhys was amazed to see Kane actually reply to the lass. An hour later, when Dermot came by to shoo the troupe from the hall, it seemed a pleasant night was in store for each of Rhys’s companions.
“Go on without me,” Rhys told the others. “I mean to stay behind for a bit.”
Unbuckling his pack, he pulled out his old shirt, and quickly divested himself of his ridiculous yellow tunic. “Kane, would you be so good as to take my harp to the tent?” Rhys knew the young flautist would treat the instrument with care, even with a wench on his arm. He could not say the same for the other three.
“Gladly,” Kane said, taking the pack, “but you cannot stay—Dermot will not allow it.”
“Dermot will turn a blind eye,” Howell said. “He willna want to anger the duke’s favorite players! Rhys is off to corner that black-haired serving wench, I dinna doubt.”
“Aye,” Trent said with a grin. “The way she was fawning over you, I thought she’d drop to her knees and service you right here in the hall. Be off, man. But do not spare us the details in the morning.”
With a forced grin, Rhys took his leave of the troupe. After what Breena had told him, he was loath to call even the simplest lookaway spell. Grabbing a wooden trencher and an empty pitcher, he slipped through the door Nesta had indicated earlier, trying to look as though he belonged among the kitchen staff.
He found the cellar stairway easily enough. Two servants, chatting amiably, stepped onto the treads be
hind him. Once on the lower level, he abandoned his props and quickly hid himself amid the casks of wine. The two men turned in the opposite direction. Rhys eased from his hiding place and lifted one of the tallow tapers from the sconce at the bottom of the stair.