The Tower of Ravens (57 page)

“Thank ye,” she said. “I am warm all through now.”

Unable to help himself, Lewen bent over and kissed her. She caught her breath in surprise, then drew his head closer, one arm sliding up round his shoulder. Lewen lost himself in sensation. Her skin was just as satiny-smooth as he had imagined, and warm from the fire. Her mouth was soft and sweet, and she kissed with an intoxicating combination of ardour and inexperience. When Lewen entwined his tongue with hers, he felt her shudder and sigh and creep closer, and he felt such a desperate eagerness he surprised even himself. He tried to draw back, but she would not let him, raising herself to follow him.

He sighed and folded her under him, feeling their bodies shift and curve to each other’s shape. One of her hands slipped down under his collar and caressed the skin of his throat. He closed his eyes and let his own hand slide under her shirt, finding the naked skin of her back, slipping round to caress her slender waist, and then finding at last her breast. She moved in sudden surprise and he heard her breath catch and sigh. He had to draw away then, to look down into her face, to watch as he undid her buttons with shaking fingers. Her eyes were closed, her face as soft and vulnerable as he could ever wish for, and a smile curved her lips. As he drew away her shirt, cupping her breasts with both hands, the smile deepened and her elusive dimple flashed in her cheek. He drew a deep, shaking breath and brought his mouth down to the creamy curve of her breast. She arched her back.

“Rhiannon, Rhiannon,” he whispered at last, managing to lift his mouth away. He felt drunk.

“Lewen,” she whispered back, and kissed his ear.

“Rhiannon, I canna…”

“What?”

“Rhiannon, if we go on, I willna be able to stop. I dinna think I can stop now.”

“Stop? Why?” she asked in surprise.

He kissed her again, drew back to look at her, swooped down to kiss her again. The feel of her half-naked body beneath him was drugging all his sense.

“Rhiannon… are ye sure? Is this what ye want?”

She turned her head blindly, seeking his mouth. He took her head in both his hands, his fingers tangled in the silkiness of her hair, and pressed her to him. They lost themselves in each other’s mouths for what seemed a very long time. Then Lewen managed to disentangle them from their clothes, each discarding revealing a new source of joyous sensation. Rhiannon’s body was just as beautiful as he had imagined, slim and lithe and milk-white, with a flowing curve from breast to hip that he marvelled over with mouth and hand. She was as eager to touch and explore his body as he was hers, and Lewen’s urgency was so great he feared the mere touch of her hand would be enough to undo him. So he captured both her hands in his, stretching them out above her head and holding her still with the weight of his body.

“Please, dearling,
leannan
, please, lie still,” he begged.

She smiled up at him and obeyed. Cautiously he let go of her hands, but she did not try to move. Very slowly he put his hand down between their bodies and pried her legs apart. She was wet and warm and slick. He bit his lip, then drove into her. She cried out in shock, but Lewen was beyond hearing her. Again and again he thrust into her, crying aloud in pleasure, and she raised her hips, thrusting against him, so that he felt a great roar of blood race through him, deafening him. He raised himself high on his hands, his groin fused with hers, his head flung back, groaning. They were still a moment or two, Lewen slowly moving in and out of her again, then he bent his arms, laying his weight upon her again, utterly relaxed and replete.

“That was beautiful,” he said at last. “Ye’re beautiful, Rhiannon.”

She sighed. He said her name again and turned her face with both hands so they could kiss again.

“I love ye,” he said. “I love ye so much.”

She looked up at him curiously, the firelight playing over the planes of her face. Her eyes looked very blue, and her lips were red and swollen.

“Ye’re so beautiful,” he said again, kissing her very gently.

Still she was silent. He shifted his weight to the side, so he was not crushing her, and felt himself slide out of her. He sighed with disappointment and pressed himself as close to her as he could get. She cuddled against him, and that gave him the courage to ask, against all his better judgement, “Rhiannon? Do ye love me too?”

She looked him in the eyes. “I do no‘ ken what love is. Is this love I feel?”

“What do ye feel?” he asked, threading his fingers through hers and holding their entwined hands up against the golden glow of the fire. He was so afraid he dared not meet her eyes.

“Happy,” she said wonderingly.

“Me too,” he answered gladly and kissed her. She wrapped both her arms about his neck, her breasts spreading against his chest. At once he felt his body stir and smiled ruefully, lowering one hand to caress her inner thigh, then stroking his hand up towards her breast. To his surprise he left rust-coloured streaks on the warm creaminess of her skin. He looked down, and saw blood trickling down her thigh.

“Rhiannon!” he cried.

“Aye?”

He leant up on his elbow, winding her hair around one finger. “Have ye never lain with a man afore?”

“Me? O‘ course no’. Who would I have lain with?”

He was taken aback. “But I thought… ye said…”

“I No-Horn,” she said. “The favours o‘ the men were kept only for the leaders o’ the herd. I saw them mate often. It was no‘ like this, I think.”

Lewen sighed. He lay quietly, thinking. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I should’ve stopped.”

“Why?” she asked again.

He could not explain to her. She wriggled a little closer, and traced a circle on his hard belly with her finger. “It worries ye, this blood?”

He sighed. “Aye. Though I must admit, it pleases me too, that I was the one to deflower ye. I dinna ken why I tell ye so.”

“Deflower?” Rhiannon was puzzled. “I girl, no‘ plant.”

Lewen laughed and traced round and round her nipple, watching it harden. “Indeed, ye are, my dearling.” He closed his mouth over her nipple and the sound of her sigh went into him like a sword. He slid his hand down between her legs and felt the hot stickiness of her, and then, his own desire quickening fast, slid down and tasted it. He had himself well in hand this time, determined to take his time over the loving of her, but her own desire was so swift, and her expression of it so honest and free, that once again it was a quick, hard, passionate coupling they had in the straw before the fire. Afterwards, he lay with his head on her stomach, feeling her hand twirling his hair, feeling exhausted, replete, and very happy.

“Ye mine now,” Rhiannon whispered. “Do ye hear me? Mine.”

He rolled over, reaching out one lazy hand to trace down her brow, her nose, across the soft pads of her lips, down her chin and throat and the bare cleft of her breasts to her belly-button. “Aye, I hear ye,” he said softly, and kissed her. “I’m yours.”

“Always,” she said.

“Always,” he repeated.

“So is this love, what I’m feeling?”

“Aye,” he said and kissed her again. “This is love.” They kissed lingeringly. “Say it,” he commanded. “Say, ‘I love ye, Lewen’.”

“I love ye, Lewen.”

“I love ye too, Rhiannon.”

They smiled, and then, for no reason, laughed. The fire was dying down, and outside the storm still howled. Rhiannon gave a little shiver.

“Ye’re getting cold,” Lewen said remorsefully and sat up, looking for something to cover her with. “Look, it’s dark. We’ve missed sunset. Oh well, it’s teeming down out there. I doubt I could have found the pool anyway. I’ll have to try again at dawn.” He got up and felt the edge of her cloak but it was still damp, so he threw some more wood on the fire and then poured her some more tea, warming the goblet between his hands until steam wisped up. “Drink this, my love, and I’ll find something to wrap ye in.”

She took the goblet from him, smiling, and he was compelled to kiss her again, quickly, before getting to his feet. “My shawl is in my bag,” she said, and drank the hot tea gratefully.

Lewen went over to the saddlebag and pulled out the embroidered shawl with a flourish. Something came rattling out of the bag with it, and he bent and picked it up from the floor. His entrails knotted. In his hand was a necklace made of bones and teeth. Even in the subtle, changeable light of the fire he could see most of the teeth were human. He stood still, frozen with shock, while his mind neatly put all the pieces of the puzzle together and made a whole. Even while he tried to deny and make excuses, his analytical brain turned the puzzle over and examined it from every angle. There was no mistake.

He turned and went back to the fire. Rhiannon sat in the straw, her arms about her knees, her hair streaming down her naked back, looking more bewitching than ever. He tossed her the shawl, and she caught it and smiled, wrapping it about her shoulders. When he did not smile back, her expression turned grave. She looked up at him questioningly.

He held out the necklace. “Is this yours?”

All the soft, warm, living flesh of her turned slowly to stone. She lifted eyes that had gone huge and dark. “Aye,” she answered reluctantly.

“Are those Connor’s teeth, his finger?”

“Aye.”

“So ye killed him? Ye lied to me?”

“Aye,” she answered again.

He suddenly become conscious of his nakedness. He dropped the necklace on the table with as much horror as if it had been a snake, then came back to the fire pulling on his shirt and his breeches, which were still unpleasantly damp. He then sat down on the floor to pull on his stockings and boots. “Why?” he asked, not looking at her.

Her voice shook. “He would’ve told them I’d helped him to escape. They would have torn me to pieces.”

“So ye killed him.”

“He had my mother, he was going to kill her!”

“But ye hated your mother.”

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. He thrust his hands into his pockets. She looked at him pleadingly but he would not look at her, and the tears overflowed. She buried her face in her arms.

“Why dinna ye tell me afore?” The words burst out of him.

She raised her miserable face. “They said whoever had killed him would hang. I do no‘ want to hang.”

“Nay, I guess no‘,” he said bitterly and got to his feet. He did not know where to go, or what to do, so after a moment he prodded the fire, saying over his shoulder, “Ye’d better get dressed, your clothes are dry now. Ye should try and get some sleep, it’s late.”

She did not move. “Lewen?”

He did not answer.

“Lewen?” she said desperately.

“What?” he said harshly.

“I sorry. I didna want to hurt him. I had to, canna ye see that? Please, dinna be angry. I couldna help it, truly I couldna. I didna ken!” The words came tumbling over each other and she held up both hands to him imploringly.

He did not reply.

She tried again. “Lewen, dinna be angry. Please, please.”

“Ye should have told me,” he replied, prodding at the fire even harder.

“I couldna tell ye. Do ye no‘ understand? Lewen?”

He turned on her, his face twisted with pain. “Ye are a murderess! A liar and a traitor! Ye killed my friend!”

She tried to speak, but could not. Weeping, she pulled on her clothes and huddled herself into the shawl. Lewen got to his feet. “I’ll sleep in the stable,” he said. “Hopefully the storm will have blown over by morning.”

Catching up his cloak, he went away from the dim, warm room into bitter cold and darkness.

The Scrying Pool