Silver Silence

  Silver Silence

  Joy Nash

  LOVE SPELL NEW YORK CITY

  Seducing The Warrior

  “I understand now why you rejected me that day at my father’s house. I know why you flung all those hurtful words at me. I was too young for what I was asking of you. But, Rhys, that was four years ago. I’m no longer that girl. I’m a woman now.”

  He clenched his teeth. Gods. Aye, she was a woman. A lush, tempting…

  Her words battered him. “There’s no longer any need to push me away. Don’t you see? I love you, Rhys. I always have, and I always will. And I think you l—”

  Something snapped inside him. He spun around, and stalked toward her. “Breena, stop. Before you say something you’ll regret.”

  “No! I won’t. I’ll say what’s in my heart. I lov—mmph!”

  He’d covered her mouth with his palm. His other hand gripped her shoulder. “Don’t,” he pleaded. “Don’t.”

  Her lips parted. Her breath bathed his palm. Before he could react, before he could even think, she tasted his skin with the tip of her hot, wet tongue.

  The tiny point of moisture caused his brain to seize. And still, he might have resisted. Might have pulled back completely, and retained some shred of his honor.

  If she hadn’t pressed her open palm on his stomach. And slid it downward, slowly.

  To my biggest fans in the world—my kids. Please don’t

  ever lose your sense of wonder.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Seducing The Warrior

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Praise

  Other books by Joy Nash

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  She really shouldn’t be doing this.

  But, dear Goddess, she just couldn’t help herself.

  A tide of guilt battered the shore of Breena’s conscience. Still…what she was about to do wasn’t so very wrong, was it? She wasn’t hurting anyone. The spell wasn’t dangerous. She wasn’t calling forbidden deep magic.

  She only wanted to See.

  And only for a moment. She needed to make sure Rhys was all right.

  The past month had been dreadful. Her terrifying night vision had returned. Even after waking, the shadow of the dream lingered. Some days, her chest remained so tight she could not manage a full breath until midday.

  Rhys wasn’t part of the silver vision that had plagued Breena for the past four years. He never had been. But in her current unrelenting state of anxiety, she’d become obsessed with his safety. Perhaps it was her mind’s attempt to avoid dwelling on her disturbing dreams. She wasn’t sure. She only knew she couldn’t rest until she’d seen Rhys alive and well, with her own eyes.

  She knew it was wrong. And most likely, unnecessary. Rhys wasn’t some novice traveler. Just the opposite. He’d roamed Britain for fifteen years seeking Druid initiates for Avalon. In all that time, he’d not come to harm. But this time, he’d been gone so long. Nearly a full year. According to old Mared, Avalon’s healer, Rhys had never before stayed away so long.

  What if, this time, he did not return?

  What if, this time, something had happened?

  What if Breena never saw him again…

  No. She would not think it. She could not bear a world without Rhys in it. She’d loved him for so long. Nearly all her life. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Rhys did not take her love seriously. He did not take her seriously. He was eleven years her elder, and her brother’s best friend. Like Marcus, Rhys considered Breena nothing more than an amusing, and sometimes annoying, little sister.

  Her chest was hurting again, her ribs squeezing too tightly. It had been a month since she’d gotten a full night’s rest. She was so, so tired. She wouldn’t be able to close her eyes at all tonight unless she knew Rhys was well.

  She would look quickly, and be done with it. No one need know. Not Gwen. Not Marcus. And certainly not Owein. As Avalon’s only other Seer, and her mentor, Breena’s uncle would be especially disappointed if he knew what she was about. And if Owein learned that this was not the first time she’d misused her Druid power? She shuddered to imagine how angry he’d be.

  The afternoon sunlight was fading quickly, sinking into the mist surrounding the sacred isle. The air carried a hint of the coming winter. The leaves had begun to drop from the apple trees, exposing branches heavy with fruit. But the ancient yew that sheltered the Grail spring was ever green. The pool of red-tinged water that bathed its roots was the most powerful scrying surface Breena knew.

  Calling a vision of the present or past was not so difficult—seeking knowledge of the future was infinitely harder. Scrying for Rhys was not likely to give her more than a dull headache, or a faintly sour stomach. Small price to pay for her peace of mind.

  If Rhys ever found out…No. Breena would not think of that, either. Rhys was an intensely private man. He would be furious.

  The autumn grass crunched under her feet. She approached the Grail spring with reverence. The sacred water collected in a deep, moss-ringed pool before spilling in a crooked rivulet down the hill. Sinking onto a smooth, flat rock at the edge of the pond, she crossed her legs under her skirts and leaned forward.

  She drew several deep breaths, and, with some difficulty, emptied her mind. Her vision blurred. She grew heavy, as if she were sinking into the earth. Becoming part of the Great Mother’s body.

  Vast currents of life energy vibrated just under the soil, collecting and flowing in much the same way as streams and rivers did on the earth’s surface. This was true the world over. But nowhere were those unseen paths of power so strong as here on Avalon. An ocean of power rested beneath the sacred isle of the Druids.

  It was to this awesome force that Breena surrendered her mind and her magic. Into that vast sea, she cast a Word, and spoke Rhys’s name.

  The power answered. Light and shadow played across the pond’s surface. Dancing. Merging. Separating. She concentrated on a memory of Rhys’s face: high brow, clear gray eyes, harshly angled cheekbones. Her breath hitched a notch. Great Mother, but she loved him so.

  She imagined his strong jaw, stubbled with his closecropped beard. He wore his hair short as well. The color, an unusual shade of white blond, was perhaps his most distinctive feature. He looked very much like his sister, Gwendolyn, Avalon’s Guardian. Gwen and Rhys were twins, after all.

  The light and shadow on the pool shifted, creating the illusion of substance and depth. There was a pulling sensation deep in Breena’s belly. A scene formed on the water’s surface, as plainly as if it were happening at arm’s length, rather than miles and miles away.

  Rhys strode a muddy road, his leather pack slung over one shoulder. Breena’s chest eased. He was alive! Thanks be to the Great Mother.

  He was alone. That was not unusual. Rhys most often traveled alone, save for Hefin, the small merlin falcon that was his companion. Ah, yes. She caught a glimpse of brown wing and speckled breast sailing overhead.

  She returned her full att
ention to Rhys. His breeches were rough and torn, his old linen shirt frayed at the collar and sleeves, his cloak spattered with mud. He’d gone perhaps a sennight without a razor. He wore no sword, but he looked more than a little dangerous nonetheless. And that was no illusion. Rhys was a powerful Druid. Beneath his facade of geniality, he was without doubt the most dangerous man Breena knew.

  She’d meant to break the vision once she’d seen him. But the longer she looked, the faster her good intentions crumbled. Rhys’s tread was weary, his shoulders hunched as if against a chill wind. He’d just entered a village. Well, perhaps “village” was too generous an assessment. The settlement was little more than a handful of ragged structures clustered at a crossroads. Mud and rubble walls supported roofs of sagging thatch. Weeds crowded thick against the unkempt dwellings. A ragged chicken pecking in a garbage heap looked hardly worth the trouble of plucking.

  The thin rays of the setting sun slanted into Rhys’s face. He looked as tired as the village. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper than she remembered. His usual easy gait had become heavy and plodding.

  She watched as he approached the largest building of the small group, the only one that boasted an upper story. A hostelry, Breena thought. Rhys shoved open the door.

  The public room inside was hazed with smoke from guttering tallow candles. A poor establishment indeed, if the owner could not even afford oil for proper lamps. The ceiling was so low that Rhys, who was very tall, had to duck under the blackened ceiling beams.

  Two long plank tables, dark with scars, boasted three disreputable-looking patrons. Celts all, and male. A stout matron delivered mugs of cervesia, the bitter Celtic beer few Romans—including Breena—could stomach. From the looks of the establishment, Breena doubted whether a cask of wine had ever crossed its threshold.

  An idle barkeep leaned his beefy arms on a waisthigh counter. He looked up as Rhys entered, and a wide grin instantly appeared on his ruddy face. Rhys gave him a half smile in return. Crossing the room, he sank down on a stool opposite the man, and lowered his pack to the ground. The barkeep was already filling a mug with ale. He shoved it into Rhys’s hands, at the same time shouting something toward an open doorway that Breena assumed led to the kitchens.

  A young boy of about ten years appeared almost immediately. The lad’s eyes lit up when he saw Rhys, and Rhys smiled in return. The barkeep spoke to the lad. The boy nodded and dashed between the tables, and out the front door.

  Rhys’s lips moved. The barkeep leaned on the counter and answered. Breena expelled a sigh of frustration. How she wished she could hear his voice! But it was an inconvenient fact that Breena’s visions—the unbidden night terrors as well as those she called deliberately—were always silent.

  Ah, well. At least she’d learned what she needed to know. Rhys was well. She should allow the vision to fade and try to forget she’d violated his privacy. But, just as she prepared to speak the Word that would have dissolved the vision, a woman emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron.

  She was not young. Her clothes were patched, her hands reddened. But even worn and work-weary, she possessed an earthy, sensual beauty that caused every male eye in the room to swing in her direction.

  She beheld Rhys, and her eyes took on an eager light that disturbed Breena in a way she did not fully understand. The woman’s lips formed Rhys’s name, then curved in a slow smile. Rhys looked up from his mug, and nodded a greeting. In reply, the woman leaned across the bar and kissed him full on the mouth.

  Rhys did not protest. Far from it. He threaded his fingers though the woman’s hair and plundered her mouth for several long moments. A hot knife of pain sliced through Breena’s chest. The blade twisted when the woman came around the table and slid into Rhys’s lap.

  The barkeep guffawed. Breena’s fingernails bit through the linen of her skirt and into her thigh.

  Stop looking.

  She couldn’t. Instead of ending the spell, as she knew she ought, she drew a deep, painful breath and continued watching.

  Rhys released the wench with a playful swat on her bottom. With a smirk on her lips, and a swish of her hips, she disappeared into the kitchen. She returned a short while later with a bowl of stew and a basket of barley bannocks. Rhys bent his head over the meal and began to eat.

  The woman returned to the kitchen, emerging a moment later with a large tray laden with mugs and bowls. The tavern was filling, Breena belatedly realized. The kitchen boy had returned with a good number of men, women, and even children. Why, it looked as though the whole village had suddenly decided to take the evening meal in the tavern.

  Breena understood why when Rhys pushed aside his empty bowl and reached for his pack. Every eye in the room was on him as he withdrew a bundle and unfolded the well-worn oiled cloth. Breena could almost feel the excitement rippling through the room as Rhys’s harp was revealed. A visit from a bard of Rhys’s talent would be a rare and treasured event in such a poor settlement.

  The barkeep had already set the tavern’s best chair before the hearth. Rhys sat, cradling the harp’s polished wood frame in the crook of his arm. His long, graceful fingers moved swiftly over the harp strings.

  Breena felt the touch on the strings of her heart. When Rhys began to sing, a lump rose in her throat. Unshed tears burned her eyes. Though the vision was silent, Breena had no trouble imaging his song. Her memories of Rhys’s music stretched as far back as she could remember. She’d been a small girl when the lanky Celtic boy had first appeared at the gates of her father’s farm on the outskirts of Isca Silurum, carrying little more than his harp. He’d begged to trade a song for a night’s shelter, and had ended up staying a fortnight.

  It was the first visit of many. Rhys was of an age with Breena’s half brother, and, despite the fact that Marcus was the son of a retired Roman army officer, and Rhys a homeless Celt, the pair had become close friends. Rhys never stayed long at the Aquila farm, but he returned often over the years. Breena had looked forward to every visit.

  The tall, handsome bard utterly entranced her. At first, it had been a childish fascination. But as Breena grew to womanhood, the attraction became so much more potent. It squeezed her heart and pulled at her belly. It pulsed between her legs in the small hours of the morning. She’d lain awake so many nights, wanting him. Imagining what it would be like to be in his arms. But Rhys did not want her. Not in that way. To him, Breena was still a child.

  At the encouragement of several patrons, the bold barmaid had abandoned her tray. Laughing, she tore off her mobcap and pulled the thong from her hair. Thick blonde curls tumbled over her shoulders.

  She began to dance, lifting her skirts above her ankles as her feet flew in a graceful, complicated pattern, her steps coming faster and even faster. A half smile played on Rhys’s lips as he played her accompaniment. At the end of the dance, the woman draped her arms about Rhys’s shoulders and kissed him deeply. The audience stomped and applauded; Rhys laughed.

  Breena’s hold on the vision faltered. A tear trickled down her throat. Eyes blurred, she watched Rhys sing several more songs. Finally, he rose and bowed. Someone brought his pack, and he rewrapped his harp with care. The barmaid, standing to one side, watched his every movement, a gleam of anticipation in her eye.

  He looked at her and she smiled, her invitation unmistakable. Rhys’s expression was harder to read. He watched as the woman turned and walked slowly away, hips swaying. Her destination was the narrow stair that rose along the wall. One foot poised on the bottom step, she turned and looked back.

  The barkeep was at Rhys’s side. He clapped Rhys on the shoulder and made a comment that set two men nearby laughing. They raised their mugs in Rhys’s direction. Rhys returned a wry smile. The barmaid glided up the stair. Rhys shouldered his pack, and the barkeep gave him a shove in the same direction.

  The air was squeezed from Breena’s lungs as Rhys crossed the room and followed the woman up the stair. Her throat closed as he disappeared into
the gloom at the top.

  Her vision shattered.

  She gasped with the sudden violence of the broken spell. Pain pounded her head, her stomach twisted violently. She might have emptied her stomach of her last meal, save for the fact her ribs had contracted too tightly to draw a full breath.

  Hugging herself, she rocked forward and back, her eyes squeezed tight against the tears.

  She never should have looked.

  Great Mother, but his mood was black.

  The meal had helped a little. Ciara had even managed to find a few chunks of meat to float in his broth. She must be feeling generous. Or perhaps just very needy. Not many travelers found themselves stopping at this godsforsaken crossroads.

  Rhys’s weariness had receded a little upon Fergus’s warm greeting. No doubt the man anticipated the profit Rhys’s harp brought to his tavern. But Rhys sensed honest regard, too. A minstrel’s song, even sung with half a heart, was a joy Fergus did not often experience.

  And so Rhys had worked to keep the darkness at bay. His music flowed easily, as it always did. After fifteen years, his harp was almost a part of him; he could play in his sleep, if need be. Now it was done. He found himself looking forward to Ciara’s bed. At least with her, he did not have to pretend. She understood what he wanted.

  It shamed him, this burning, angry need. And yet, he could not summon the strength to resist it. If it was wrong, so be it. He was tired of fighting.

  Fatigue dragged at his bones as he followed Ciara up the stair. He felt old. Far older, even, than his nine-and-twenty years. Fifteen years, he’d wandered. More than half his life. His youth had been worn to dust on the road. Aye, he did his duty to Avalon. Every day, he fulfilled the promise his grandfather had forced him to give, knowing he would never be done with it. Knowing he would never be free.

  It angered him. It had from the beginning, though in those early days, panic had been his foremost emotion. He’d conquered his fears long ago—but his rage? That remained, simmering beneath the genial facade he presented to the world. He could not fight for his life, nor could he escape it.