Mists of Velvet (38 page)

Closing his eyes, he tried to think of a way to ease Keir’s pain.

“Go,” she encouraged. “I will be here when you get back.”

“I won’t be long.”

She kissed him and smoothed her hands through his hair. “Have patience with him. The loss of one’s
Anam Cara
takes more than a fortnight to heal.”

Nodding, he left their room in Bran’s castle, and made his way down the hall. Once he got to Keir’s room, Rhys’ nostrils began to burn as the acrid stench of smoke wafted up through the door. Keir had been going heavy on the incense. He was performing divinations day and night, trying to connect with Rowan. Rhys had felt his frustration and anger at his lack of success.

Rhys rapped his knuckles against the wood.

“I’m crashed,” spoke the deep voice from inside.

“It’s me.”

“Yeah, I know. And I’m still crashed. Save it for the morning.”

Rhys ignored the biting sarcasm and turned the handle, opening the door to a cloud of smoke. Keir was sitting on the bed, naked, propped up against the headboard with one knee bent. Beside him, the sheet partially revealed a woman with a bright red mop of hair. Rhys knew that hair. It was Abby, the waitress from his club.

He glanced from the sleeping woman back to Keir, who was shoving the butt of his smoke into an ashtray.

“How did she get here?”

“Sayer enchanted her. She won’t remember anything.”

“She’s a complication we don’t need right now.”

Keir wiped his hands along his face. “I needed a fix.”

“You don’t even like her.”

Keir’s gaze pierced him. “But she likes me, and we all need that sometimes, you know, to be wanted? And she knows how to screw; I’ll give her that.”

“So, what are you going to do with her now that you’ve brought her here?”

Keir shrugged and looked away. Rhys had never before seen him so callous, and never to a woman. “I’ll probably do her again, then send her back. She’ll be up for it. She’s always up for it and what I can give her.”

This didn’t even sound like Keir. Christ, he was getting freaked out, looking at the wraith—the wraith he’d been tied to since birth—the one he no longer even knew. “When was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know. Weeks, maybe.”

“Have you found Rowan?”

Keir laughed and reached for another smoke. “Would I be fucking someone else if I could connect with her?”

“I don’t know. Would you?”

The lighter flared, and Keir took a drag of his smoke. He puffed out a big cloud before he spoke. “Leave it, Rhys.”

“Does she help?” Rhys asked, pointing to the woman beside him. “Does she give you the kind of comfort you need?”

Keir glared at him. “Fine. Nail me to the cross for taking this one to bed tonight, but I needed a reprieve. I needed a few hours of mindless fucking. Is that a problem for you?”

“No, but I think it is for you. You don’t have to do this. It can be different.”

“Really? Is your new wife willing to share you?”

“Leave Bronwnn out of this.”

Keir’s gaze darkened, but Rhys continued. “You’re hurting and grieving. I hate seeing you like this. Come by our room—”

“Oh, won’t that be cozy,” he snorted.

Keir could argue for hours. He was a stubborn son of a bitch who would never budge once he dug his heels in, and shit, he was dug in deep. Rhys turned his back and reached for the door.

“You don’t really want this—or her.”

“Our bond is severed,” Keir snapped. “You no longer know what I want.”

There was a pain in his chest when Keir reminded him of their bond. “Yeah, it’s severed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel you anymore.”

“Go back to your wife,” Keir snarled, “and leave me alone.”

There was no reaching him yet—not tonight, and not tomorrow. He was raging and hurting. Once the anger let up, he could find Keir once again. Until then, he could only wait—and hope.

“I’m around when you need me.”

“I won’t.”

Rhys turned back to his wraith; his best friend. “She’d hate to see you this way, you know.”

Keir’s gaze flickered; then he looked away. “Well, she’s not here, is she? Go away, Rhys. Go back to your mate.”

Reluctantly, Rhys shut the door behind him. Christ! That . . . That had been a complete stranger. It wasn’t Keir any longer, but someone else.

“Rhys?”

Turning, he saw Bronwnn standing in the hall. She held out her hand, and he walked to her, grasping on to her like a lifeline.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I think I might have. It was Keir.”

“Grief has hit him hard. He’s hurting, and knowing you have your mate is making him feel the loss of his more acutely.”

“He won’t let me help.”

She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “It’s too soon. Everything is too fresh. But he’s there, even in shadow. He hasn’t left you.”

Bronwnn dragged him into their room, kissing him, loving him, and he tried to put aside his fear, but he knew Bronwnn was wrong. Keir
had
left. But where he had gone to, Rhys didn’t know. And he was afraid to find out.

Kneeling before the Supreme Goddess, head bowed, Bronwnn accepted Cailleach’s gift—the Shrouding.

“It was wrong for me to have parted Covetina and Camael,” Cailleach said as she hooked her fingers beneath Bronwnn’s chin and tilted her head up to meet her gaze. “But I won’t apologize for stealing you. If I hadn’t, you would have been in Uriel’s hands, and the light I see in your eyes would not be there. Fate has a way of making things right.”

“ ’Tis true,” Bronwnn replied. “I would have been his servant, his apprentice. He would have used me to destroy Annwyn and all that I love.”

“I never intended to hurt, but I had to keep you separate from the others, because I was never certain where he was, and I didn’t want him to know of you, let alone find you.”

“That is all in the past,” she whispered. “I wish to forge a future. With Rhys.”

“Then you will have it. Go now and make your future.”

Rising from her knees, Bronwnn’s red gown glowed in the candlelight. “Thank you for this gift.”

Rhys rose from the tub and pulled a towel from the rack. Quickly he dried himself, then wrapped the towel around his hips. He was headed for the room he shared with Bronwnn, when he stopped, caught a glimpse of something at the window, and headed for it instead.

Outside, something glimmered, and his gaze tracked it as it shimmered in gold and silver hues. Instinctively, he knew what it was, and he watched as the glimmer rose up again. Hurrying into his room, he shrugged into a pair of jeans. He had no idea what a man wore to a Shrouding, but he knew whatever it was wouldn’t be on him long.

Dressed, hair brushed back, he ran down the staircase that led to the door that would take him outside.

“MacDonald.”

Rhys stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Bran was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest. A strip of white cloth dangled from his fingers.

“Cailleach has granted your goddess the rite of a Shrouding.”

“I know. I’m just going.” Rhys couldn’t hide his smile.

“When a Sidhe warrior takes a mate, there is a ritual that must be completed.” Bran handed him the strip of cloth. “Your hand must be bound to hers.”

“A Sidhe?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Yes. A Sidhe. Even dilute ones.”

Rhys smiled at Bran’s grin. “Any special words that need to be said?”

Bran shook his head. “Only the ones in your heart.”

With a nod, Rhys opened the door, the white cloth fisted tightly in his hand as he searched for his goddess.

She was easy to find. In the garden, beneath a gathering of oak trees, was a circle of white-robed women. At the head of them was Cailleach. When she saw him, she raised her hands, and the glimmering cloud that hovered around them lowered, fell, and disappeared.

“Rhys MacDonald, descendant of Daegan, you are to be given this night to the goddess Bronwnn.”

He was nervous. Bronwnn wanted this ceremony so much. He didn’t want to mess it up. He wanted it to be beautiful for her. In the same way every bride wanted the gown and the flowers and the devoted, handsome groom, every goddess, he supposed, wanted this.

“Thank you,” he murmured, not knowing what else to say.

Cailleach’s eyes flashed, this time not with anger, but amusement. “Is it your intention to take this goddess as your mate?”

“It is.” He said it with deep conviction.

“Then your union is to be consecrated this night. Here, beneath the ancient oak of the Sidhe and the golden veil, which represents the power of the goddess.”

Then Cailleach and the others departed, moving outward from the circle and revealing a woman covered in a glistening silver shroud that hugged the outline of her body. She was on a low bed of sorts, which was draped in silver and white satin and littered with pillows.

Rhys took a step, and then another, letting instinct guide him. He walked all around the bed, studying her still form. Up close, he saw how transparent and gossamer the cloth was, clearly showing her nakedness beneath. Reaching out, Rhys stroked one full breast with his hand. The nipple rose and pressed against the gossamer cloth.

His own body responded to the sight. She was gorgeous, like a pagan princess from a fairy tale, just waiting there for him to take her.

Unable to stop touching her, he slipped his palm lower, down her belly, where it lingered over her navel. He thought of her pregnant, rounded, and he wondered if it was too soon for her to be carrying his child.

Soon, he told himself. Perhaps it would happen tonight.

His palm left her belly and descended slowly to her thighs, then to the junction of her sex. She had been shaved, her sex now smooth and white. Kneading her with the heel of his palm, he listened for her intake of air, but she lay perfectly still, serene beneath the cloak.

He guessed he was supposed to pull it off, but he wanted to savor this moment; to do it his way.

Stepping to the bottom of the bed, he lifted the shroud, just enough so that he could come to her from beneath it. That was when he saw the markings on her body. On her shaved mons was a crescent moon, the symbol of the goddess. Around her navel was an infinity knot, and between her breasts was a painted triscale. In her hand was an athame, with a large moonstone gem on its hilt.

“
Mo bandia
,” he whispered as he kissed his way up her thigh and over to her slick sex. “I have come to claim what is mine.”

She stirred, spreading her thighs. Her hand left the athame, only to join her other hand as it skimmed down the curves of her pale body. “I am yours, Rhys MacDonald.”

With a swipe of his tongue, he parted her folds, tasted her, teased her. Then he eased his way up her body, the gossamer veil covering them both. When he was fully on top of her, his arms on either side of her shoulders and his gaze locked with hers, he lowered his head and kissed her, his tongue slipping effortlessly into her mouth.