Chapter 13
Elain’s blade sang against Palahmed’s in the chill of the late afternoon air.
She’d missed this. She could admit it now. The mountains were beautiful and rugged, and she’d climbed into them not knowing what to expect. And almost everyone she’d met there had made her life richer. But something about this earth, near enough the river to smell it on the air, to hear gulls come in off the sea—it all made her feel as though her feet were planted more solidly on the ground.
And this, she’d admit as well: she’d missed Palahmed. Her aunt and uncle had taken her in, sheltered her, given her work. But Palahmed had been a friend. He’d noticed her restlessness all those years ago and channeled it into something constructive, taken skills she’d already possessed and helped her hone them. Her swordplay wasn’t the most powerful around, but she was quick. And she was lethal with a dagger, which gave her no small measure of pride. She’d shown off a bit for Gwen and Bedwyr, but had worried she would grow rusty without daily practice.
No sense worrying about such a thing when Palahmed was around to ensure she drilled.
And drill they had, almost from the time she’d discovered him in the chapel. Day by day over the past weeks, she’d felt the power return to her strikes, the agility to her handling and thrusts. She welcomed this part of her back, let it resettle in her bones and in her carriage. For better or worse, she’d been trained from an early age to fight. While most women of Cymru didn’t—not on a battlefield, anyway—she counted it as another skill she could bring to bear in protecting those she cared for.
She wasn’t the only one finding herself again. For a man who’d stumbled into the light that first day, cringing against even the weak late-autumn sun, Palahmed’s progress had been significant. An excellent swordsman from the day she’d met him, he could likely fight a battle drunk and survive with several kills on his blade. When clearheaded he was formidable, with the sort of infuriating reach only the long-limbed enjoyed. The sallow, waxy look of his skin had transformed into its usual warmth. His eyes shone clear and focused again, and he’d trimmed his beard back to the neat fashion he’d always favored. It rendered him almost devastatingly handsome—not that she would ever tell him that.
But what gave him away this day wasn’t his appearance or his improved health. It was his mouth. Cajoling her, tweaking her pride, provoking her into aggression. He was a talker, Palahmed. Perhaps someday he’d meet someone capable of shutting him up for more than a few heartbeats.
“Elain, I beg you, are we sparring or plucking daisies?”
Someday soon, she hoped.
Driving forward, she forced him to fall back in defense. The strength was returning to his strikes as well, so that by the time she worked him backward into the stone of the chapel, her arms were nearly numb from effort. He had just raised a hand in surrender when applause sounded behind her. Palahmed’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, and she turned to find Gwen standing at the base of the chapel mound, clapping.
Smiling, she climbed the slope. When she reached them, she dipped a greeting to Palahmed. “My lord.”
He laughed softly, looking strangely uncomfortable, but gave her a gallant bow. “I’m no lord, mistress, only a hired blade.”
“Hired for what?”
“For whatever pleases the person who pays me.”
“So, if I gave you a coin, you’d let me spar with you?”
Elain looked at her in surprise. “You don’t use a sword.”
Gwen arched an eyebrow. “How difficult can it be?” She gave Palahmed a cheeky look. “What say you?”
He grinned. It was the one that made his dark eyes glimmer. With a smooth motion, he plucked the sword from Elain’s hand and presented it to Gwen as if it were a gift. She took it, and they were off.
It was a silly thing, Elain thought as she watched them. Gwen truly didn’t know how to wield a sword, and the one she held was much too long for her anyway. And Palahmed’s parries were child’s play, light and glancing with only enough force to make the blades sing cheerfully.
But for all its silliness, she fought an equally ridiculous jealousy. Palahmed was working every last charm he possessed, winking and strutting and making suggestive comments about Gwen’s swordplay. And while Gwen wasn’t precisely falling over herself for the man’s tricks, color rode high in her cheeks. She looked triumphant, even as she utterly failed to handle her weapon, and self-satisfied in a way that exuded power.
She was glorious.
And Elain wanted her.
With a shout, she urged Gwen to finish her opponent. Playing along, Palahmed let Gwen back him into the chapel, just as Elain had done. When her sword came to rest at his throat, he sighed. “I surrender.”
Gwen stepped back with a grin and bowed to him. “I owe you a coin, swordsman.”
“Save it,” he said. “I am rich in your company.”
Elain fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Didn’t you need to see Rhys about something?”
His quick gaze met hers, and after a moment, he nodded. “So I did.” When he reached the bottom of the chapel mound, he made Gwen another bow. A sweep of his arm took in the mist rolling in to surround the chapel. “My lady of the lake.”
Gwen watched him go, then turned to Elain with a mischievous smile. “You have dashing friends. Maybe I’ll take up the sword.”
Elain growled and maneuvered her backward until she came up against the chapel door.
Gwen’s eyes shone up at her, her breath warm on Elain’s chin. “Oh, would you like to spar?”
“Yes.”
“What if I don’t surrender as easily as Palahmed?”
Slipping an arm about Gwen’s middle, she pulled her close. “All the better.”
A matter of seconds found them inside the chapel, the door barred shut, and Gwen grasping at her with a hunger Elain felt herself. Pulling Gwen to the simple bed, she lay down, urging Gwen to straddle her.
But instead of putting mischievous hands under Elain’s skirts, Gwen grinned and edged forward, lifting her own skirts and shift. Shuffling up the mattress, she stopped only when her sex hovered above Elain’s mouth. Her curls shone in the lamplight. “I’ve learned a few things, peeking through the curtains.”
“You don’t say.”
Gwen dropped her skirts. Plunged into darkness, Elain sensed only the warmth of Gwen’s thighs and the scent of her, tangy and irresistible. Grabbing hold of her arse, Elain urged her down.
Her tongue was true, and Gwen shouted on its first swipe. Her flesh was hot and slick and tasted like the sea, and Elain drank from her as if saltwater could quench.
Outside Elain’s warm cocoon, Gwen moaned. She slid back and forth on Elain’s mouth until she latched on to her little pearl. Elain flickered her tongue against it, then sucked, then flickered again, and Gwen cursed. Holding her in place, Elain continued to torture her slowly, sweetly, until her thighs shook. Then, just as she was about to request it, Gwen was edging back down her body.
Elain gasped at the cool air of the chapel, then again at Gwen above her. Her pale hair had fallen from its plait and stuck to her heated cheeks. Her lips looked swollen and plump, open on panting breaths that pushed her breasts against her straining bodice, and Elain wanted to tear the fabric away to taste them. But then Gwen was shoving Elain’s skirts up and sinking onto her aching cock and all her thoughts and desires merged into one overwhelming want. She clamped her hands on Gwen’s hips and pulled her forward.
She took up the rhythm. Shallow movements at first, but then, after finding some angle that made her groan, she rode her in long, clutching pulls that threatened to draw every last bit of sense Elain possessed out through her prick. Setting a hand on Elain’s shoulder, Gwen reached between them and began to stroke herself. Whatever she felt had her closing her eyes.
Elain missed the connection, but her senses were soon filled with the woman’s tongue playing at her lower lip, with her keening sighs, with the hot grip of her body. Then she was laughing and saying Elain’s name over and over, and Elain was lost. Gripping Gwen’s hips, she thrust as deeply as she could and emptied herself.
Afterward, Gwen fell forward and rolled off, and they lay breathing twin puffs of breath toward the rafters of the chapel. The beams were dark with age and smoke, and the air quiet and the mattress soft, and she thought there had probably never been a better use of this place. Turning to Gwen, she kissed her forehead.
“You never told me you could ride.”
Gwen chuckled, a sound as deep and bubbly as a forest stream. “Funny you should say that. I only learned how a week ago.”
“Peeking through brothel curtains, were you?”
“No—” Gwen yawned, then smiled up at her. “Morien taught me how to ride a horse.”
“Why?”
Gwen shifted, and her face pinched. “Ouch. I’m going to feel it tomorrow, I think. Oh!” Her face smoothed and she grinned at Elain. “Because Lord Rhys sent me on an errand.”
“And you needed a horse?”
Gwen shrugged and snuggled into Elain’s shoulder. “Lord Ban lives some distance away.”
The name was enough to stop Elain’s heart, but hearing it from Gwen’s lips froze her lungs as well. “You visited Lord Ban?” she managed.
Gwen nodded and made a sleepy sound. “Delivered a message for Rhys, about midwinter council. I’ve gone back every day since.”
“Why?”
“To help him with his papers. He seems a decent fellow, and he needs the assistance. Mistress Caron will need to find other help, I suppose.” She yawned again, then gasped softly. “Oh, and you’ll never guess what he told me today. Years ago, he spoke to Ta about allying our houses.” She sighed. “Seems like fate that I’m able to help him now. If I believed in fate.”
Gwen dropped off into a contented doze. Underneath her, Elain lay still as stone.
Ban had meant to betroth her to Gwen? He’d never told her. She didn’t put much store in fate either, but it did seem strangely meaningful that she’d inadvertently tied herself to Uthyr’s children on her own.
That wasn’t what weighed on her now, though; Uthyr would have gotten many offers for Gwen—that Ban had made one of them wasn’t so surprising.
No, what had her guts twisted was that Rhys had sent Gwen to Ban. He had to have chosen her on purpose, so what was his game? Was this some ploy to make Elain go to the man? That wouldn’t be happening, not in her lifetime or his.
But neither could she demand Gwen not go. Helping Ban meant she no longer had to do the menial work of the brothel, something Elain suspected had been a bit of revenge on Caron’s part. Besides, if she asked Gwen not to go again, she would want to know why.
And then she would discover Elain had been lying to her since the moment they’d met.
~
“What’s the matter with you?” Palahmed said. “You’re strange today.”
“You’re strange every day, but I don’t pester you about it.” She swung again.
Palahmed swatted away her weak strike. “Defensive. What’s gotten up your skirts?”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Nothing.”
“Well, that is a problem. If you need advice—”
“Not that.” She looked away and debated telling him. But he was a friend. Once, he’d been the best friend she’d had. “She went to see Ban.”
“She…” His sword arm fell to his side. “Gwenhwyfar?”
She nodded. “To deliver a message for Rhys.”
Palahmed was watching her closely. “And?”
“And she went back. She’s gone back every day for a week.”
“Why?”
“To help him, she said.” When Palahmed’s brows rose, she added, “With his correspondence.”
“Is that what they call it in the mountains? I’ll have to remember that.”
She advanced on him, lifting the tip of her blade to the hollow beneath his ribs. “Don’t.”
Palahmed raised his hands in surrender. “Ban has clerics. Why your Gwen?”
She let her blade fall away. “I don’t know except that she wants to help.”
“So tell her not to.”
She scoffed. “You have met Gwen?”
“Biddable women cause fewer belly aches.”
“I don’t want biddable.”
“Well done, then.” Palahmed leaned on his sword.
She looked at its point, then up to meet his gaze. “He told her about Galahad.”
He straightened off his sword and looked at her as if choosing his next words carefully. “Didn’t tell her everything, though, did he?”
“No.”
“What will you do?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know.”
“You could tell her.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’d insist I see him.”
Palahmed was watching her, his expression unreadable.
“Why doesn’t she see it?”
“See what?”
“Who he is. Who he was.”
Palahmed looked away, squinted at the horizon. “Perhaps he’s changed. Dying men do.”
“He told everyone I was dead.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I wanted to live. As me.”
“You could have fought.”
“I was fourteen.”
“A strong fourteen.”
“A frightened fourteen!”
For all that Caron and Rhys had taken her in, and she’d found acceptance among the people who worked for Caron, she’d still felt alone, certain that no one had ever gone through what she was enduring.
Palahmed made a conciliatory sound in his throat. He stepped forward and gripped her shoulder in a steady hand. “You know I’m your friend, yes?”
“Yes.”
“As your friend, it’s my duty to point out that Ban will be the least of your worries if Gwenhwyfar discovers the truth before you tell her.”
Friend or no, she hated him for speaking that fact.
“It’s a good thing you’ve given her a gift to warm her up.”
“A gift?”
In answer, he gestured to the chapel.
“I’m not trying to warm her up. And I’m beginning to feel bad about kicking you out of it.”
He scoffed. “It’s dedicated to someone who died horribly, no doubt, so why shouldn’t you give it life again?”
“But you have nowhere to sleep.”
“I have the hall and the brothel, as I always did before.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am always certain, Lancea—don’t you know this by now? Besides, you two have already defiled this place.”
She gave him a sheepish look.
“Honestly,” he sighed. “Fucking in a house of God—how much longer can I associate with such heathens?”
She couldn’t hold back a smile, and he answered it with a warm one of his own.
“The very least you could do is make the poor structure some kind of lasting promise.”
“Only the structure?”
“For a start,” he said. “And chin up. You’ve covered your tracks thoroughly. How likely is Gwen to piece together something she doesn’t already suspect?”
Elain groaned.
Very likely.
That was the problem.