Lord of the Dark (6 page)

“I had a valid reason for that then as well,” he grumbled dourly. “No more. Tell it if you must. It no longer matters.” Indeed, it did not. Had he been alone, he would have scourged himself for it. He’d told her the truth. He hadn’t wanted to personalize her in his mind with the familiarity of her name. He didn’t want to risk the consequences of an attraction. He had never risked that. Considering the conditions of the curse, such a thing as love would have been a catastrophe he could ill afford. Those consequences were encroaching upon him without the intimacy of first names. It was too late for preventative measures. Now he must find a cure.

“I am called Rhiannon,” she said.

He gave a start. “You are named for an Otherworldly goddess of myth?” he marveled. “No one remembers such deities anymore. They have faded into the mists of time. How did you come by such a name?”

“My mother gave it to me,” she said. “She loved the old myths. My namesake endured much suffering. I think my mother knew I would suffer also.”

“You are too young to have suffered the sorrows of your namesake,” he said. “A poor choice, though somehow it suits you.”

“I am four and twenty summers,” she said with pride. “And although my namesake suffered, she was strong enough to surmount her trials. I will surmount mine also.”

Gideon climbed down from the dais and strolled toward the doorway. “What does this Rolf look like?” he asked her.

“He is tall, with angular features. His hair is dark, but not as dark as yours, or as long. He has the eyes of a snake…they shift as if he sees beyond you when he looks at you…”

“What was he wearing when you last saw him?”

Rhiannon shrugged. “Seaman’s garb,” she replied, “and a yellow oilskin slicker.”

Gideon gave a start. It was only a brief tremor in his steely demeanor. He had become a master of concealing his feelings. “My home is at your disposal,” he said without missing a beat. “You may claim the chamber with the bed as your own during your stay…the one with the wardrobe where you found that kirtle you are wearing.”

“Where will you sleep?” she asked.

“That is not my chamber.”

“Oh…I assumed…that is, I looked at all the other rooms. That chamber is the only one with a bed.”

Gideon had to pass very close to her to leave the room. How very lovely she was staring up at him. Her scent drifted past his flared nostrils, sweet clover rising from her hair and moist skin. He was aroused; he had been since the pool—in spite of the pool. There was no hope for it. He was so hard against the skintight seam in his eel-skin suit he was in pain, so much pain another moment and he would have to open the crotch and expose his aching cock to relieve the pressure, just as he had done when he left the Pavilion.

Who was he fooling? If she stayed—even for a day—he would have her. It was inevitable. He could feel her body heat. He could almost see it. He
could
see her aura. That ability was one of his gifts. She was on fire for him, the halo of color around her a shimmering crimson. If only she would resist. Why wouldn’t she resist?

He recalled, as he did so often, how it was before the fall, when he had control of his urges, before the gods cursed him and made him a slave to lust. He had defied them ever since, and managed to steal what pleasures he could, only because they were nothing more than lascivious need, an itch to be scratched out of the watchers’ view. Sometimes it worked; for the most part, it failed, but that didn’t matter because the passion was purely physical, the way it was with Muriel. Heart and loins were separate segments of his complex makeup. He could just as easily pleasure himself; that was allowed. But this! This had all the potential of a nightmare of epic proportions. The attraction was more than physical. He recognized it all too well. Only once before had he felt such an attraction. It had been the reason for his fall, the reason he was cast out of Paradise. There was no mistaking that feeling now. He had lived eons avoiding the wonderful, terrible thunder in the soul, the unquenchable ache in the heart that had damned him. Yes, he knew the feeling well. It was like an old ghost come back to haunt him.

He stepped over the threshold. “I cannot sleep in a bed,” he told her. “My wings prohibit me. Feel free to avail yourself.” He hesitated. “Remember our bargain,” he reminded her. “I shan’t be gone long….”

R
hiannon followed Gideon out of the anteroom and watched him stride down the corridor. How tall he was. He nearly filled the span, his magnificent wings all but sweeping the ground. If his posture wasn’t so clenched, they would have done just that. The legend of the fallen archangel condemned to live out his eternity in solitude upon the Isle of Darkness in the enchanted Archipelago of Arcus wasn’t exaggerated. He was a force to be reckoned with, and one she could not resist.

She had become as two people inhabiting the same skin since their encounter in the pool. Where had her innocence gone? She had never seen a naked, fully aroused male before. She should have resisted, but she couldn’t. He had awakened something deep down inside, at the very core of her sexuality that commanded her. His touch was pure ecstasy, his kiss sublime, his passion irresistible. He had aroused her to pleasures of the flesh she never imagined, pleasures that demanded consummation. What was happening to her under this enigmatic creature’s spell? Where had the shy, virginal, proper young lady she had always been gone?

A flash of bright sunlight beaming along the corridor as the double doors opened caught her eye. It was all too brief. The door slammed shut, casting the cave in bleak semidarkness again, with only the torches in their iron brackets on the curved walls picking out the turns and twists in the labyrinth.

Rhiannon breathed a weary sigh. She could certainly understand his first two conditions, but why she must remain in the cave on such a beautiful sunny day, when she would surely see any of the pitfalls he was so worried over, was beyond her. He said they were alone on the isle, so there was no threat of harm from anyone. It made no sense.

She started down the corridor with a shrug. How could he sleep without a bed? She was halfway to the sleeping chamber he had allowed her when she remembered something she had thought odd earlier. Taking a turn, she went to the largest chamber and entered it. Glancing around the room, she spied the strange, almost heart-shaped alcove recessed in the rocky wall and gasped. Stealing close, she traced the shape of the niche with her hands. Was this carved to fit him, to accommodate his wings? Yes, it must be. It was filled with his scent, and she breathed him in deeply.

Rhiannon stepped inside the niche and appraised its size. She was lost in it, but he would not be; it would fit him utterly. How could he sleep standing up? She couldn’t imagine it. But it must be so. She folded her arms across her chest and closed her eyes, standing thus to test it. It wasn’t long before she grew restless and finally left the alcove.

Retracing her steps, she returned to the chamber with the bed and flopped down upon it trying to imagine herself in Gideon’s arms atop the eiderdown quilts. His scent was still fresh in her nostrils, and she whispered a moan writhing there, her arms stretched over her head. Lowering them, she palmed her body through the homespun kirtle, sliding her hands over the mounds of her breasts, pausing upon the nipples hardening at her touch. Her hands slid lower, following the contours of her waist, her belly and thighs. As if they had a will of their own, her fingers began to inch up the skirt of the kirtle until she’d exposed herself.

Parting the tuft of pubic curls with her fingertips, Rhiannon probed for the spot Gideon had found, then groaned when she touched the hard bud of her clitoris. Closing her eyes, she called the dark lord’s image to mind. She relived the hot, thick hardness of his engorged shaft thrusting between her thighs, parting the pubic curls. She felt it leaning against the erect bud she was fondling now, until her whole mons area felt swollen, and a rhythmic throbbing began deep inside at the epicenter of her sex.

Warm rushes of orgasmic fire teased her belly and rippled through her thighs as she writhed against her stroking fingers. Arching her back, she leaned into the friction, reliving his kiss, the hot touch of his massive hands cupping her breasts in the steamy mineral water, the unstoppable ecstasy of their bodies rubbing together naked skin to naked skin. She could not get enough of it—of him.

A troop of husky pleasure moans escaped her throat on the verge of climax. Hot blood thrumming through her veins rushed to her temples. Her whole body throbbed like a pulse beat as she imagined his shaft gliding between her legs, igniting her sex like a lit torch as he brought her to orgasm.

Opening the neck of her kirtle, she spread it wide and strummed her nipples erect, first one and then the other. Something tugged deep inside her, something ravenous, gnawing at her senses until she could bear no more, until every nerve ending in her body screamed for release that only he could give.

Guilty pleasure overwhelmed her, but the guilt was only in that she celebrated such ecstasy alone. She may be able to conjure his image, but there was no substitute for the man or beast, creature or celestial being, for she did not know how to call him. Still, oh, still, her hips jerked forward, her fingertips, dampened with her juices, glided over her sex. Her breath came short and labored, and she was his again….

The orgasm pounded through her in great, wide-reaching ripples that nearly stopped her breathing altogether, or was she holding her breath to savor every last delicious dram of sweet sensation? She had touched herself many times before, but it had never been anything like this. But then, never before did she have an image to conjure while she pleasured herself, or a guide to pleasures unknown and unexperienced. Gideon, Lord of the Dark had opened her like a flower to what could be, and he hadn’t even come inside her. What would that be like? Palpitations fluttered through her at the thought of it, and she curled on her side, like a babe in the womb, and let her rapid breathing become shallow and deep again.

Release was sweet, but there was no warm, fuzzy feeling of fulfillment, no contentment in her solitary satisfaction. She felt empty—hollow inside, ashamed—as if someone else had crawled inside her body, and at the same time she felt as seductive as any siren. She was definitely not herself, whoever that was. She hardly knew anymore, nor was she brave enough to find out…at least not then. It was all too new to her.

Swinging her bare feet over the side of the bed, she climbed out of it and padded to the wardrobe in search of shoes. There had to be something…yes, a fine pair of soft leather slippers just her size. Slipping them on, she made a mental note to ask him who all these fine clothes belonged to, when they spoke again.

She went to the door and flung it wide. No trace of the storm remained. The sun was shining brightly down, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The air smelled salty sweet and inviting. She breathed it in deeply. What harm to take a brief stroll about? She would stay close to the cave just in case, though she was certain his concerns in that regard were a bit excessive. Without a second thought, she stepped out into the sunlit morning.

She had already seen the strand, and the strange petrified forest that edged the marshes. She decided instead to go north beyond the wood, where the land sloped down toward the remains of the keep Gideon had told her about. Taking this tack, she could keep the cave in sight, and reach it quickly if needs must.

There was a narrow footpath winding through the dark, rolling meadow that led below. When she reached the little valley, she saw that the hills were carpeted with black heather. Its bloom-filled stalks had withered on the stem, much like the trees in the petrified forest. What had blighted the Dark Isle to cause such death and desolation? She shuddered to wonder. Not even the sunshine could brighten the place. It was a land of sorrows forgotten by time; nothing grew upon it, and no living creature, neither rabbit nor squirrel, scampered over the ground. Whatever had cursed the Lord of the Dark had evidently cursed the isle he lived upon as well.

Stalks of black heather encroaching upon the little path groped the hem of her kirtle and snagged her long hair, like pinching fingers. Were they trying to capture her attention, like curious children? Or was there nothing Otherworldly about them at all?

It was well known that the Arcan Archipelago was enchanted. Tales abounded of Simeon, Lord of the Deep, the selkie prince, who ruled and guarded the oceans, bays, and seas for the sea god, Mer. And who hadn’t heard of Marius, Prince of the Green, on his forest isle, where nymphs and fauns, centaurs and unicorns cohabited with ancient tree spirits. Then there was Vane, Lord of the Flames, on his volcanic Isle of Fire. It was said his touch would turn a girl to ashes! And of course, her enigmatic host was certainly under a spell if he was condemned to live a solitary life of unclimaxed lust in such a desolate place.

Rhiannon wasn’t frightened. She would never admit to that. Just a bit uneasy and quite relieved to reach the ruins. At the sight of them, all other thoughts fled her mind. The remains of the keep were as black as the landscape, no more than a heap of char and slag. It had been an awesome structure, judging from the foundation, which was all that remained. It would have supported a keep at least four stories tall, with a round tower, from what she could tell. Here, there could well be pitfalls, especially in darkness, but she was certainly no ninny, and it was broad daylight.

Hoisting her skirt high enough to climb over the rubble at the edge of the foundation, she stepped inside and began to walk the perimeter. What a magnificent place it must have been. Halfway around, something caught her eye, something round and iridescent gleaming in the sunlight wedged between what appeared to be two bricks. It was caught there in such a way that it could be turned by someone with a small enough hand to slide between the rubble.

Rhiannon assessed her hand in comparison to the fissure. The last thing she wanted was to get it stuck between the bricks. It seemed wide enough to accommodate her fingers, and she eased them inside the crack, turned the object on edge, and slipped it through the fissure.

Wiping it on the hem of her kirtle, she assumed it to be an amulet of some kind made of fine opalescent glass that had clouded in the fire. It was too symmetrical to be random window or tableware glass. How many centuries had it lain there at the mercy of wind and weather? She would never know. That hardly signified. It was a pretty thing, and she had liberated it. It would be her relic of the Dark Isle, and she slipped it inside the pocket attached to her kirtle without another thought.

Continuing around the perimeter, she raised her eyes to the sky, trying to imagine the tower spearing the clouds, and froze in her tracks. Her heart leaped so violently inside, she feared it would burst from her breast. Something was flying overhead, circling at a great distance. She couldn’t quite make it out, but it was much too large for a bird, at least any bird she’d ever seen. Had Gideon returned so soon? Maybe he had searched the Dark Isle first and was just now leaving to search the other isles. Had he seen her? There was no way to tell, but that he was hovering over the keep so long did not bode well.

There was nowhere for her to hide. The black heather hills were open ground, offering no shelter between the remains of the keep and the cave. There was nothing for it. She had to go back. Deciding not to run like a fugitive, she ambled toward the cave at a leisurely pace, trying not to look at the winged creature soaring overhead, half expecting the dark lord to swoop down and chastise her for disobeying one of his “conditions.” But he did not. She wasn’t certain how long it was before the winged one soared off, but the next time she braved a glance aloft, the beautiful azure blue sky was vacant.

Rhiannon scarcely breathed until she’d reached the cave and gotten safely inside. Half expecting Gideon to fly at her the minute she entered, she made her way along the corridor to her appointed chamber. It was just as she’d left it, with the indentation of her body in the feather bed. One by one, she checked the other chambers, beginning with Gideon’s, but they were vacant too. She must have been right. She had probably glimpsed him just as he was leaving to check the other isles. Whether he had seen her or not she would learn soon enough the moment he returned.

She went to the pool chamber last. It, too, was vacant. The sultry steam rising from the surface of the water beckoned. Her exposed skin was smudged with dirt from her ramble in the ruins. He would surely know she’d been out of the cave were he to set eyes upon her now, if he didn’t know already.

Stripping off the kirtle, she shook it out, then folded it neatly and set it aside. Plunging into the water, she let it take her under, hair and all, for the soft plait had collected bits of dead scrub and black heather, and she swam beneath the cascade to remove all traces of her outing while she awaited Gideon’s return.

After searching the Dark Isle first for any other survivors who might have washed up on shore in the night, Gideon flew to the Forest Isle for an audience with Marius. The man he had helped the Lord of the Forest carry up from the beach bore a striking resemblance to the description Rhiannon had given him of the crewman Rolf. He touched down in the forenoon and was met with row upon row of genuflecting tree spirits as he made his way to Marius’s rambling lodge at the edge of a little clearing skirted by pines. It was customary to leave a tribute to the Ancient Ones when passing. Little statues with outstretched hands holding basins to receive herbs, flowers, seeds, and the like peppered the wood for just that purpose, and Gideon never shirked his duty to them. It wasn’t just an idle gesture. The rain would eventually wash the tribute into the ground, where the trees’ roots could drink in the benefits of the offering.

Gideon always carried such tributes when visiting the Forest Isle, for unlike the gods, the Ancient Ones had not rejected him. He had knelt to say a blessing and sprinkle dried herbs into one of the statue’s dishes, when something lightly touched his wings, and he spiraled up swirling the dried leaves at his feet into a whirlwind to face one of the forest’s wood nymphs.