Redemption, page 6
In only seconds, the powerful man—or whatever he was—had rendered Dylert and his warriors unconscious around the Bealtuinn fire.
Lygnel gathered the halves of her dress, covering her breasts, and gazed at the green-clad stranger who had completed the rescue Bertram tried so hard to begin.
She didn’t know what to say, but when he turned to face her, she couldn’t have spoken even if commanded by the Goddess herself.
Her throat went dry as every ounce of water in her body converted to tears. Lygnel felt rooted as surely as the ancient trees towering in the shadows around her. Dizziness threatened to force her to her knees, and her heart fairly jumped against her chest. Each muscle, each inch of flesh burned, but not from the bonfire.
Pushing back his heavy green hood, Davyd Krell stepped over the unconscious forms of the men he easily bested. His blue eyes, dark and yet oddly bright in the night, never left Lygnel’s even as he took off his cloak to reveal a bare muscled chest and green breeches beneath.
The texture of his clothes—were they moss and leaves? Woven grass?
Davyd gently fastened his odd cloak about Lygnel’s chilled shoulders. Then he crooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face toward his.
“Please be real,” he said in a voice so low it gave Lygnel delicious shivers. “If you’re a haunt or a dream, I’ll kill myself and be done with it.”
“Davyd,” Lygnel finally forced from her trembling lips, just before her long-missing love bent to claim them.
The heat of his mouth, the rough yet soft feel of his lips on hers, the perfect pressure of his kiss left no doubt in Lygnel’s mind that she had not imagined this man’s feelings for her.
Newly dizzy, she held tight, giving herself to his fierce lips, his man’s scent, and the simple reality of his presence. He let go her chin and wrapped his heavily muscled arms around her.
Lygnel gloried in the firmness of his embrace. She tasted him as his lips devoured hers, running her hands over his thick hair, which hung loose but for the small braids on either side of his ears. She touched his stubbled cheeks, his sculpted shoulders, marveling at how little he had changed, but for more scars and scratches, each one of which she wished to trace and memorize.
Her body blazed like the hilltops of Briton, alight in every peak and valley. In one heartbeat, her nipples beaded and ached. In two heartbeats, her quim dampened and throbbed. By the third heartbeat, her mind and soul ached to know everything about Davyd, his life since she had seen him last. His trials, his dreams, his feelings—especially for her.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening!
Her knees felt weak and quickly gave, but Davyd caught her and held her tight against his hard chest. He released her mouth, but only to kiss the top of her head, her neck, both of her eyes, drinking her flowing tears like elixir.
“When last I saw you, you were my sovereign,” he said, filling Lygnel’s ears with his welcome rumble of passion.
Lygnel shook all over despite his protective embrace. She could barely think for the crazy desire surging through her veins. “I…am…no one’s monarch now, Master Krell.”
“You’re wrong, my love.” Davyd pulled back a bit and smiled at her. His blue eyes were just as wild as she remembered, lit by the flames and stars. Wilder even, just like his rakish grin. “You’ll always be my queen, and I’ve come to carry you back to my kingdom, where you belong.”
Chapter 5
Davyd studied his love with an intensity usually reserved for battle plans. The maddening-sweet scent of roses, subtle yet definite, teased his senses even through wood smoke and the wet, earthy odor of night in the woods.
Lygnel’s only response to his claiming was a warm, wavering sigh. Resistance or assent? Davyd couldn’t tell, but he would convince her that her destiny lay in his arms.
His breath caught repeatedly, savoring her oft-remembered smell. His body responded to her delicate softness with a fierceness he could scarce control. Blood hot and pounding. Muscles flexing of their own accord. Cock taut and throbbing as if already touched and teased.
Thoughts became difficult. Words, even more so. Still, Davyd cradled his fragile treasure, his unlikely prize, and his heart swelled to the point of fiery pain. She felt too warm, too perfect. Part of his mind insisted he yet sailed off Briton’s coast, lost in dreams. Lygnel couldn’t be here. How had she survived Mordred’s wrath?
And how could I have left her alone to face it, and never returned to see what became of her? Curse Merlyn and every word the blighter ever spoke!
“The babe you charged me with, she’s grown fine and healthy,” he said in words so hoarse he barely recognized his own voice. “At Chapel Down, Prator Castle. The Princess Ysbet. I mean…Queen Ysbet. She’s married now, you know. Well, handfasted, to Eduard, her guard captain.”
Lygnel’s lambent eyes widened. Hundreds of emotion flickered across her finely-lined countenance. Relief and joy seemed greatest, then regret and concern. Elation followed sorrow, giving way to a hungry, enraptured stare.
“You got her clean away from Briton,” she said in tones so soft Davyd imagined he could feel the words like warm breath on his neck. “And you have seen to her raising, her safety, even the approval of her chosen husband. Without question, you are every bit the hero I thought you to be, and more.”
As Davyd held her fathomless gaze, he knew she rejoiced for the life of her daughter and Ysbet’s escape from Onri’s forced marriage. He knew also that she feared for Ysbet, just as he did, for the new queen would no doubt face the vengeance of Onri’s heir.
Even more, Davyd knew that his place in Lygnel’s heart could no longer be in doubt. Only one night they shared, yes, but passion enough for twenty. For twenty score, and more.
Her hair seemed to catch firelight and moonlight, then play it back against his eyes in silver and golden sparkles. For a moment, Lygnel continued her silence. She seemed to be weighing his realness as she absently pinched his muscles and outlined his scars with shaking fingers.
Davyd stood still, allowing her to explore him as if she had no sight. Touching and stroking, prodding and gripping, driving him to hot misery with each movement. His cock felt like a nocked arrow ready for release, and yet he couldn’t—wouldn’t—take her if she felt the least bit unwilling or unsure. And he certainly wouldn’t take her here, where one of the oafs he put to sleep might wake spoiling for a new fight.
Lygnel’s trembling spread from her hands to her arms, then upward to her sweet mouth. Tears slid down her cheeks, and she blinked furiously.
Instinctively, he pulled her yet closer so she might feel their hearts beating together. Perhaps she would draw strength from that small joining and trust in his presence, his loving intentions.
“If you aren’t madness, finally descending,” she at last whispered, “then take me out of this clearing and prove it.”
Davyd needed no second invitation. With a near-desperate rumble of joy, he swept his lady off the ground and held her tight against his chest, intending to march into the woods until he found an unused glen, lay her down, and make love to her until spring arrived on the morn. They would have time enough to get back to the boat off the deserted shore where he anchored it, and time enough to be away for Chapel Down and Prator.
“Wait!” Her grip on his neck tensed. “The lad. Bertram. He tried to defend my honor. We can’t just leave him for the bastards to kill when they wake.”
Biting back curses, Davyd didn’t argue with his love. Her true heart, her sense of fairness and honor—at least the years had not taken these innocent qualities from Lygnel.
Would that he could say the same for himself, if ever he possessed those virtues to begin with.
Lygnel kept her tight hold on his neck as he lowered her back to the earth. She seemed reluctant to release him, and when she at last turned loose, she kissed him quickly, almost shyly, before turning away.
Davyd followed her as she ran to one of the fire-lit lumps on the ground. With deftness born of practice, she examined the head and nose of a blond lad Ysbet’s age, or a shade younger. Davyd could scarce make out the young man’s features in the shadowed glow, but he looked familiar. Perhaps, in that time when Davyd was yet a carefree Saxon raider, he had known the lad’s family.
“His wounds aren’t grievous,” Lygnel said quietly, standing and leaning into Davyd. Just the brush of her body made him ache from cock to teeth. It was all he could do to concentrate on her next words.
“Come. Let’s take him back toward the castle. He has brothers aplenty. We have but to find one, and we can leave Bertram in safer care. On the morrow, perhaps you could…talk to him. He might enjoy that.”
Grumbling inwardly, Davyd wondered what the lad might want with the likes of him, an old war horse far past his prime. He shouldered the younger man like a sack of meal, but didn’t voice his concerns to Lygnel about venturing too close to Castle Dore without proper preparation or disguise. After all, tonight was Bealtuinn, and little attention would be paid to friend or stranger. Odd men about would be called Jack in the Green or other names such, and Merlyn had seen to Davyd’s clothing so he might fit the myth.
Unfortunately, Lygnel now wore his fey green cape, and little good it would do him. Still, he had no plans to be near Castle Dore come daylight. This short jaunt could do little besides saving the boy a beating and pleasing his newly-found love. All in all, worth the slight danger on the balance.
Wordless and more than alert, Davyd trailed behind Lygnel as they reached a forest path. He matched her hurried strides easily despite his now-groaning burden—until they passed beneath a canopy of low-hanging tree branches.
The path.
Ah, Gods.
Davyd’s strength failed him, and he stumbled. He had traveled this route before, on horseback, at a dead gallop…
The past assailed him suddenly and fiercely, as Mordred’s guards had done all those years before. Seven soldiers, though the eighth, the coward, stayed hidden.
As Davyd struggled to keep up with Lygnel, flashes of memory near crippled him.
The thunder of Merlyn’s supernatural voice.
The wickedness of Mordred’s magik, hanging like an axe in the air.
Feints from swords. Lancing pains. Holding the babe close, near beneath his chin, desperate to save her, shifting her just in time. Six down, the seventh charging—and then the blade from behind, piercing his neck—
Davyd roared and dropped Bertram hard on the ground. He felt himself choking, as he had that night, and fell to his knees.
Turning, sword in the throat. Grab at the blade, pull it out. Choking. A blade in both my hands. Blood pouring into my mouth. The babe at my feet.
Choking.
Protect the child. Save the child!
Shouts…
The cowards tearing at my clothes, the babe’s blankets.
Swinging the swords.
Pain like a thousand knives in a thousand muscles.
Merlyn shouting…
And then, nothing…
Nothing at all…
Gentle hands gripped Davyd’s shoulders.
“Is he mad?” a lad’s voice asked, the tone unfriendly and sarcastic.
“Be quiet before I knock you senseless again.” Lygnel’s voice, commanding and concerned. “Have respect, Bertram. This man is surely a defender of Avalon, among other things. Ah, come on, now. You know who he is to me—and to you. Don’t deny it!”
Sweating, breathing hard, Davyd gazed up into Lygnel’s now tender blue eyes. He scrubbed his fingers over the scar on his neck and swallowed the last of the memory-real yet insubstantial blood.
“She lived,” he managed to mutter. “Somehow, I woke, and the babe yet breathed. I packed the gash. I took the child away…”
“Ssshh, my wounded champion.” Lygnel kissed his damp brow with whisper-soft lips. “We’ll have time enough to soothe your old pains.”
Davyd struggled to his feet. He gripped her hand like she might escape him, turned—and found he was face to face with a ghost of himself. A younger, unscarred version, at least.
“I know you by description,” the haunt whispered. “My mother spoke of Castle Dore’s first training master. She said you were—that you’re—damn you, Krell!”
“Aye.” Despite his confused detachment, Davyd’s free hand found the hilt of his sword. “Do you intend to shout my return from the battlements?”
Lygnel stepped between them and pressed her hands against Davyd’s chest. “This one is friend, not foe, love.”
To Bertram, she said, “Go home. Tell your brothers what you’ve seen, but no one else.”
“No!” Bertram trembled as his hand fumbled against his empty sword belt. “Is he not Krell the Betrayer?”
“Betrayer of Mordred? Aye!” Davyd made as if to draw his blade, but allowed Lygnel to halt his progress with a gentle squeeze on his wrist. After all, the lad was addled and unarmed. “I’d double-cross the evil bastard again if Lygnel asked it. As for Dore and Lygnel—”
“Stop, Davyd. He doesn’t understand. He’s…” Lygnel hesitated, turned away, and faced Bertram. “Go, now, and finally talk to your brothers, please? They will tell you what your mother knew of this man if you’ll allow it. They’ll tell you what Alla would have told you herself, had she survived to see this night.”
The mention of Alla stunned Davyd into silence and sobered him fully from his drunken visit to the past. He stood stock still behind Lygnel, gaping at Bertram for new and deeply personal reasons. His age, it would be right. And his looks—no. No! He would not consider such a cruel twist of fate!
“By sunrise, we aim to be far from here,” Lygnel continued. “All Grakor and the rest of Dore need know is this: my second husband, Castle Dore’s long-faithful servant, returned to claim me. I have gone to help him scout the forces gathering against Camelford.”
Bertram’s gaze flicked from Lygnel, whom he clearly respected and possibly feared, to Davyd. A mix of disdain and wonder expressed itself on the lad’s moonlit features.
“As you will, Lady,” he said grudgingly.
Before Davyd could speak further, the young man wheeled about and stalked into the woods.
“If he’s Alla’s son, of the age I think—” Davyd began, but Lygnel faced him and held up her hand.
In that gesture, Davyd felt the dominion of her old station, and perhaps a twinkle of power from her fey birth. Avalon’s Adepts bore their own authority, after all, and fool be any man who denied that fact. Especially on a sacred night like Bealtuinn.
Against his own dominating nature, Davyd hushed his questions and gazed at the woman he had desired too long to deny. “Husband, eh?”
Lygnel’s cheeks flushed red enough to be seen in the night’s low light.
He reached out and brushed his fingers against the softness of her cheek. “If you’re proposing, I’m accepting. But, I would like to know about the lad.”
She turned her mouth to his fingers. “Must I be the one to wound you?”
The heavy weight of truth settled in his belly. “I knew the names of all of Alla’s brood when I left, and there was no Bertram. This one would have been born, what, nine months after I left Briton?”
“Yes,” Lygnel answered simply, as if knowing there was no way to soften such a blow, when a man discovered he’d fathered a fine son but left him stranded. “His brothers knew your name from Alla, but they’ve scarce discussed it with the lad. Bertram has been less than willing to hear about you.”
Davyd’s breath rushed out as if he’d been struck. For a few long minutes, he could find no voice to speak. When he did manage words, he knew they sounded choked and hollow. “I suppose you’ve seen to him?”
“Since Alla died.” Lygnel nodded. “His brothers and their wives did a fine job of raising him, and I did what I could.”
“For that, I thank you.” Davyd found his feet more interesting than the other scenery, as if his big toes might pipe up and deny this new and shocking information.
Lygnel sighed. “If I could have taken him into my home and brought him up as my very own, I would have been overjoyed to do so. Close association with me would have done him no favors, though.”
Unmoored, Davyd drifted through recriminations, mind spinning until his vision settled back on the face of his lost love, the woman who had helped care for his son—the woman who had proposed to him only minutes before.
“There will be a time to approach him.” Lygnel stepped back and appraised him, compassion and frustration mingled on her pretty face. “Being bested by Dylert will sit poorly with him, I assure you. Let him be for this night, and try on the morn to win him for conversation. Perhaps you will have fortune where his brothers and I have failed.”
Davyd acknowledged the wisdom in her words, but the shock wore on, unchanging.
“Many secrets have awaited discovery these long years, my Jack in the Green.” Lygnel’s shoulders shook beneath the oversized cloak he loaned her, and the fey fabric fell open. The split halves of her dress offered a tantalizing view of bare flesh, the curve of her breasts, and a fine sheen of nervous perspiration. A small nick and smear of blood brought back the reality of her assault, and a flush of rage burned Davyd’s cheeks. He barely reined his anger as his love continued to speak.
“Of all those waiting secrets, I’m the least patient and most urgent. Before this night is up, I intend to be your Flower Maiden. Take me now and show me your power, or leave me to wilt forever.”
At her not-so-subtle challenge, Davyd’s temper flared even as his cock surged against his breeches. He, too, began to sweat, for reasons wholly unrelated to fatigue or heat. The night was, in fact, exceptionally cool for Bealtuinn, and yet Davyd felt immersed in flames.
With a snarl, he once more plucked Lygnel from the ground. “Come then, you teasing wench. I’ll show you pleasures even old Jack never thought to give.”
Chapter 6
By the Goddess. When he calls me “wench,” my insides melt.
Lygnel gasped from the force of Davyd’s grip and stride. He savaged her mouth as he walked, seemingly blind, into the thick woods, knocking aside brambles and saplings like mere straw and sticks.
Lygnel gathered the halves of her dress, covering her breasts, and gazed at the green-clad stranger who had completed the rescue Bertram tried so hard to begin.
She didn’t know what to say, but when he turned to face her, she couldn’t have spoken even if commanded by the Goddess herself.
Her throat went dry as every ounce of water in her body converted to tears. Lygnel felt rooted as surely as the ancient trees towering in the shadows around her. Dizziness threatened to force her to her knees, and her heart fairly jumped against her chest. Each muscle, each inch of flesh burned, but not from the bonfire.
Pushing back his heavy green hood, Davyd Krell stepped over the unconscious forms of the men he easily bested. His blue eyes, dark and yet oddly bright in the night, never left Lygnel’s even as he took off his cloak to reveal a bare muscled chest and green breeches beneath.
The texture of his clothes—were they moss and leaves? Woven grass?
Davyd gently fastened his odd cloak about Lygnel’s chilled shoulders. Then he crooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face toward his.
“Please be real,” he said in a voice so low it gave Lygnel delicious shivers. “If you’re a haunt or a dream, I’ll kill myself and be done with it.”
“Davyd,” Lygnel finally forced from her trembling lips, just before her long-missing love bent to claim them.
The heat of his mouth, the rough yet soft feel of his lips on hers, the perfect pressure of his kiss left no doubt in Lygnel’s mind that she had not imagined this man’s feelings for her.
Newly dizzy, she held tight, giving herself to his fierce lips, his man’s scent, and the simple reality of his presence. He let go her chin and wrapped his heavily muscled arms around her.
Lygnel gloried in the firmness of his embrace. She tasted him as his lips devoured hers, running her hands over his thick hair, which hung loose but for the small braids on either side of his ears. She touched his stubbled cheeks, his sculpted shoulders, marveling at how little he had changed, but for more scars and scratches, each one of which she wished to trace and memorize.
Her body blazed like the hilltops of Briton, alight in every peak and valley. In one heartbeat, her nipples beaded and ached. In two heartbeats, her quim dampened and throbbed. By the third heartbeat, her mind and soul ached to know everything about Davyd, his life since she had seen him last. His trials, his dreams, his feelings—especially for her.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening!
Her knees felt weak and quickly gave, but Davyd caught her and held her tight against his hard chest. He released her mouth, but only to kiss the top of her head, her neck, both of her eyes, drinking her flowing tears like elixir.
“When last I saw you, you were my sovereign,” he said, filling Lygnel’s ears with his welcome rumble of passion.
Lygnel shook all over despite his protective embrace. She could barely think for the crazy desire surging through her veins. “I…am…no one’s monarch now, Master Krell.”
“You’re wrong, my love.” Davyd pulled back a bit and smiled at her. His blue eyes were just as wild as she remembered, lit by the flames and stars. Wilder even, just like his rakish grin. “You’ll always be my queen, and I’ve come to carry you back to my kingdom, where you belong.”
Chapter 5
Davyd studied his love with an intensity usually reserved for battle plans. The maddening-sweet scent of roses, subtle yet definite, teased his senses even through wood smoke and the wet, earthy odor of night in the woods.
Lygnel’s only response to his claiming was a warm, wavering sigh. Resistance or assent? Davyd couldn’t tell, but he would convince her that her destiny lay in his arms.
His breath caught repeatedly, savoring her oft-remembered smell. His body responded to her delicate softness with a fierceness he could scarce control. Blood hot and pounding. Muscles flexing of their own accord. Cock taut and throbbing as if already touched and teased.
Thoughts became difficult. Words, even more so. Still, Davyd cradled his fragile treasure, his unlikely prize, and his heart swelled to the point of fiery pain. She felt too warm, too perfect. Part of his mind insisted he yet sailed off Briton’s coast, lost in dreams. Lygnel couldn’t be here. How had she survived Mordred’s wrath?
And how could I have left her alone to face it, and never returned to see what became of her? Curse Merlyn and every word the blighter ever spoke!
“The babe you charged me with, she’s grown fine and healthy,” he said in words so hoarse he barely recognized his own voice. “At Chapel Down, Prator Castle. The Princess Ysbet. I mean…Queen Ysbet. She’s married now, you know. Well, handfasted, to Eduard, her guard captain.”
Lygnel’s lambent eyes widened. Hundreds of emotion flickered across her finely-lined countenance. Relief and joy seemed greatest, then regret and concern. Elation followed sorrow, giving way to a hungry, enraptured stare.
“You got her clean away from Briton,” she said in tones so soft Davyd imagined he could feel the words like warm breath on his neck. “And you have seen to her raising, her safety, even the approval of her chosen husband. Without question, you are every bit the hero I thought you to be, and more.”
As Davyd held her fathomless gaze, he knew she rejoiced for the life of her daughter and Ysbet’s escape from Onri’s forced marriage. He knew also that she feared for Ysbet, just as he did, for the new queen would no doubt face the vengeance of Onri’s heir.
Even more, Davyd knew that his place in Lygnel’s heart could no longer be in doubt. Only one night they shared, yes, but passion enough for twenty. For twenty score, and more.
Her hair seemed to catch firelight and moonlight, then play it back against his eyes in silver and golden sparkles. For a moment, Lygnel continued her silence. She seemed to be weighing his realness as she absently pinched his muscles and outlined his scars with shaking fingers.
Davyd stood still, allowing her to explore him as if she had no sight. Touching and stroking, prodding and gripping, driving him to hot misery with each movement. His cock felt like a nocked arrow ready for release, and yet he couldn’t—wouldn’t—take her if she felt the least bit unwilling or unsure. And he certainly wouldn’t take her here, where one of the oafs he put to sleep might wake spoiling for a new fight.
Lygnel’s trembling spread from her hands to her arms, then upward to her sweet mouth. Tears slid down her cheeks, and she blinked furiously.
Instinctively, he pulled her yet closer so she might feel their hearts beating together. Perhaps she would draw strength from that small joining and trust in his presence, his loving intentions.
“If you aren’t madness, finally descending,” she at last whispered, “then take me out of this clearing and prove it.”
Davyd needed no second invitation. With a near-desperate rumble of joy, he swept his lady off the ground and held her tight against his chest, intending to march into the woods until he found an unused glen, lay her down, and make love to her until spring arrived on the morn. They would have time enough to get back to the boat off the deserted shore where he anchored it, and time enough to be away for Chapel Down and Prator.
“Wait!” Her grip on his neck tensed. “The lad. Bertram. He tried to defend my honor. We can’t just leave him for the bastards to kill when they wake.”
Biting back curses, Davyd didn’t argue with his love. Her true heart, her sense of fairness and honor—at least the years had not taken these innocent qualities from Lygnel.
Would that he could say the same for himself, if ever he possessed those virtues to begin with.
Lygnel kept her tight hold on his neck as he lowered her back to the earth. She seemed reluctant to release him, and when she at last turned loose, she kissed him quickly, almost shyly, before turning away.
Davyd followed her as she ran to one of the fire-lit lumps on the ground. With deftness born of practice, she examined the head and nose of a blond lad Ysbet’s age, or a shade younger. Davyd could scarce make out the young man’s features in the shadowed glow, but he looked familiar. Perhaps, in that time when Davyd was yet a carefree Saxon raider, he had known the lad’s family.
“His wounds aren’t grievous,” Lygnel said quietly, standing and leaning into Davyd. Just the brush of her body made him ache from cock to teeth. It was all he could do to concentrate on her next words.
“Come. Let’s take him back toward the castle. He has brothers aplenty. We have but to find one, and we can leave Bertram in safer care. On the morrow, perhaps you could…talk to him. He might enjoy that.”
Grumbling inwardly, Davyd wondered what the lad might want with the likes of him, an old war horse far past his prime. He shouldered the younger man like a sack of meal, but didn’t voice his concerns to Lygnel about venturing too close to Castle Dore without proper preparation or disguise. After all, tonight was Bealtuinn, and little attention would be paid to friend or stranger. Odd men about would be called Jack in the Green or other names such, and Merlyn had seen to Davyd’s clothing so he might fit the myth.
Unfortunately, Lygnel now wore his fey green cape, and little good it would do him. Still, he had no plans to be near Castle Dore come daylight. This short jaunt could do little besides saving the boy a beating and pleasing his newly-found love. All in all, worth the slight danger on the balance.
Wordless and more than alert, Davyd trailed behind Lygnel as they reached a forest path. He matched her hurried strides easily despite his now-groaning burden—until they passed beneath a canopy of low-hanging tree branches.
The path.
Ah, Gods.
Davyd’s strength failed him, and he stumbled. He had traveled this route before, on horseback, at a dead gallop…
The past assailed him suddenly and fiercely, as Mordred’s guards had done all those years before. Seven soldiers, though the eighth, the coward, stayed hidden.
As Davyd struggled to keep up with Lygnel, flashes of memory near crippled him.
The thunder of Merlyn’s supernatural voice.
The wickedness of Mordred’s magik, hanging like an axe in the air.
Feints from swords. Lancing pains. Holding the babe close, near beneath his chin, desperate to save her, shifting her just in time. Six down, the seventh charging—and then the blade from behind, piercing his neck—
Davyd roared and dropped Bertram hard on the ground. He felt himself choking, as he had that night, and fell to his knees.
Turning, sword in the throat. Grab at the blade, pull it out. Choking. A blade in both my hands. Blood pouring into my mouth. The babe at my feet.
Choking.
Protect the child. Save the child!
Shouts…
The cowards tearing at my clothes, the babe’s blankets.
Swinging the swords.
Pain like a thousand knives in a thousand muscles.
Merlyn shouting…
And then, nothing…
Nothing at all…
Gentle hands gripped Davyd’s shoulders.
“Is he mad?” a lad’s voice asked, the tone unfriendly and sarcastic.
“Be quiet before I knock you senseless again.” Lygnel’s voice, commanding and concerned. “Have respect, Bertram. This man is surely a defender of Avalon, among other things. Ah, come on, now. You know who he is to me—and to you. Don’t deny it!”
Sweating, breathing hard, Davyd gazed up into Lygnel’s now tender blue eyes. He scrubbed his fingers over the scar on his neck and swallowed the last of the memory-real yet insubstantial blood.
“She lived,” he managed to mutter. “Somehow, I woke, and the babe yet breathed. I packed the gash. I took the child away…”
“Ssshh, my wounded champion.” Lygnel kissed his damp brow with whisper-soft lips. “We’ll have time enough to soothe your old pains.”
Davyd struggled to his feet. He gripped her hand like she might escape him, turned—and found he was face to face with a ghost of himself. A younger, unscarred version, at least.
“I know you by description,” the haunt whispered. “My mother spoke of Castle Dore’s first training master. She said you were—that you’re—damn you, Krell!”
“Aye.” Despite his confused detachment, Davyd’s free hand found the hilt of his sword. “Do you intend to shout my return from the battlements?”
Lygnel stepped between them and pressed her hands against Davyd’s chest. “This one is friend, not foe, love.”
To Bertram, she said, “Go home. Tell your brothers what you’ve seen, but no one else.”
“No!” Bertram trembled as his hand fumbled against his empty sword belt. “Is he not Krell the Betrayer?”
“Betrayer of Mordred? Aye!” Davyd made as if to draw his blade, but allowed Lygnel to halt his progress with a gentle squeeze on his wrist. After all, the lad was addled and unarmed. “I’d double-cross the evil bastard again if Lygnel asked it. As for Dore and Lygnel—”
“Stop, Davyd. He doesn’t understand. He’s…” Lygnel hesitated, turned away, and faced Bertram. “Go, now, and finally talk to your brothers, please? They will tell you what your mother knew of this man if you’ll allow it. They’ll tell you what Alla would have told you herself, had she survived to see this night.”
The mention of Alla stunned Davyd into silence and sobered him fully from his drunken visit to the past. He stood stock still behind Lygnel, gaping at Bertram for new and deeply personal reasons. His age, it would be right. And his looks—no. No! He would not consider such a cruel twist of fate!
“By sunrise, we aim to be far from here,” Lygnel continued. “All Grakor and the rest of Dore need know is this: my second husband, Castle Dore’s long-faithful servant, returned to claim me. I have gone to help him scout the forces gathering against Camelford.”
Bertram’s gaze flicked from Lygnel, whom he clearly respected and possibly feared, to Davyd. A mix of disdain and wonder expressed itself on the lad’s moonlit features.
“As you will, Lady,” he said grudgingly.
Before Davyd could speak further, the young man wheeled about and stalked into the woods.
“If he’s Alla’s son, of the age I think—” Davyd began, but Lygnel faced him and held up her hand.
In that gesture, Davyd felt the dominion of her old station, and perhaps a twinkle of power from her fey birth. Avalon’s Adepts bore their own authority, after all, and fool be any man who denied that fact. Especially on a sacred night like Bealtuinn.
Against his own dominating nature, Davyd hushed his questions and gazed at the woman he had desired too long to deny. “Husband, eh?”
Lygnel’s cheeks flushed red enough to be seen in the night’s low light.
He reached out and brushed his fingers against the softness of her cheek. “If you’re proposing, I’m accepting. But, I would like to know about the lad.”
She turned her mouth to his fingers. “Must I be the one to wound you?”
The heavy weight of truth settled in his belly. “I knew the names of all of Alla’s brood when I left, and there was no Bertram. This one would have been born, what, nine months after I left Briton?”
“Yes,” Lygnel answered simply, as if knowing there was no way to soften such a blow, when a man discovered he’d fathered a fine son but left him stranded. “His brothers knew your name from Alla, but they’ve scarce discussed it with the lad. Bertram has been less than willing to hear about you.”
Davyd’s breath rushed out as if he’d been struck. For a few long minutes, he could find no voice to speak. When he did manage words, he knew they sounded choked and hollow. “I suppose you’ve seen to him?”
“Since Alla died.” Lygnel nodded. “His brothers and their wives did a fine job of raising him, and I did what I could.”
“For that, I thank you.” Davyd found his feet more interesting than the other scenery, as if his big toes might pipe up and deny this new and shocking information.
Lygnel sighed. “If I could have taken him into my home and brought him up as my very own, I would have been overjoyed to do so. Close association with me would have done him no favors, though.”
Unmoored, Davyd drifted through recriminations, mind spinning until his vision settled back on the face of his lost love, the woman who had helped care for his son—the woman who had proposed to him only minutes before.
“There will be a time to approach him.” Lygnel stepped back and appraised him, compassion and frustration mingled on her pretty face. “Being bested by Dylert will sit poorly with him, I assure you. Let him be for this night, and try on the morn to win him for conversation. Perhaps you will have fortune where his brothers and I have failed.”
Davyd acknowledged the wisdom in her words, but the shock wore on, unchanging.
“Many secrets have awaited discovery these long years, my Jack in the Green.” Lygnel’s shoulders shook beneath the oversized cloak he loaned her, and the fey fabric fell open. The split halves of her dress offered a tantalizing view of bare flesh, the curve of her breasts, and a fine sheen of nervous perspiration. A small nick and smear of blood brought back the reality of her assault, and a flush of rage burned Davyd’s cheeks. He barely reined his anger as his love continued to speak.
“Of all those waiting secrets, I’m the least patient and most urgent. Before this night is up, I intend to be your Flower Maiden. Take me now and show me your power, or leave me to wilt forever.”
At her not-so-subtle challenge, Davyd’s temper flared even as his cock surged against his breeches. He, too, began to sweat, for reasons wholly unrelated to fatigue or heat. The night was, in fact, exceptionally cool for Bealtuinn, and yet Davyd felt immersed in flames.
With a snarl, he once more plucked Lygnel from the ground. “Come then, you teasing wench. I’ll show you pleasures even old Jack never thought to give.”
Chapter 6
By the Goddess. When he calls me “wench,” my insides melt.
Lygnel gasped from the force of Davyd’s grip and stride. He savaged her mouth as he walked, seemingly blind, into the thick woods, knocking aside brambles and saplings like mere straw and sticks.
