Curse of the Celts Clara O'Connor (new reading txt) 📖

to poke fun at his joy in the rich drink, the boyish pleasure he couldn’t hide despite the reserved mask he presented to the world.

“Surely there’s some cook from your youth to whom you might want to say hello?” I batted my lashes in a way any elite female would be proud of.

“We’ll see.” His tone was more proper than mine and he glanced at the lad, who seemed to be taking an overly long time dressing the bed.

I loved seeing Devyn like this; he was always so intense, but right now he was as relaxed and at peace with the world as I had ever seen him. His eyes were warm, his words teasing, the light-hearted morning-after of my dreams. My news would be sure to break the spell.

Right on cue, a bell rang out. Devyn was immediately on alert and reached for his recently returned boots. I laid an arm on his shoulder as he grasped them. He continued his movement and retrieved his boots, but looked up at me questioningly as he straightened.

“The King of Mercia is here.”

The light dropped from his face as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun. He nodded.

I stared at him. Don’t you dare change your mind. His dark eyes locked on mine and his lips softened. My shoulders dropped as a breath I wasn’t aware I had been holding was released.

His eyes flashed to the boy now tending the fire before he said carefully, “We are agreed. We will need to wait and approach him in private. We need to give him time to take in the news first.”

I nodded and swung from the room to find Marcus. I was about to meet my brother properly. I drew a new breath. I had Devyn and soon I would have a brother too.

Everything would be fine. We just had to take it one step at a time.

Chapter Nineteen

My heart fluttered like that of a tiny bird as the horses clattered across the bridge towards us. The entourage was small enough to travel fast but large enough that I could feel the tension in the Gwynedd guard as the Mercian warriors filled the courtyard.

There he was, halfway back in the group, the man from the masquerade. Today he was a blond warrior, tall and stern and dressed for hard riding. Without the mask, he was recognisable from the vision I’d had when I visited Fidelma at the forum. There was little of the laughing man I had glimpsed in my vision of the world that might have been. I looked over at Devyn, who had placed himself at my side; my hand brushed his in a whisper.

The Mercians parted to allow their leader to ride to the front, now that they were inside the walls, but they spread out ever so slightly so that he was protected on all sides. If attacked, he would be back at the heart of this force in moments.

He cut a stern figure, mounted on his horse and sweeping his flinty gaze across the group that had assembled to meet him. And then the skies opened and rain began to spill in great droplets. I glanced towards the equally stone-faced Llewelyn. I had thought Mercia and Gwynedd were allies because they both spoke of Anglia with dislike. Was not an enemy’s enemy a friend? But it appeared not – and just when I thought I was getting a handle on Briton politics.

Gideon stepped forwards to hail his liege lord but halted in his tracks as narrowed blue eyes flicked to him before travelling onwards past the Prince of Gywnedd to his nephew. They passed lightly over the rest of us before tracking back to Devyn.

“You have forgotten the way to Carlisle, Glyndŵr?” His tone was cold, expressing indifference at best on reuniting with his boyhood companion, the weeks of delay in our journey north deeply unappreciated.

“My lord.” Devyn bowed his head and kept his gaze on the cobbles as Rion Deverell dismounted and came to a stop in front of him.

“You no longer kneel before your king?” queried the soft, cool voice.

Devyn dropped to his knees on the wet cobbles, his head bowing even further as the rain dripped off his dark curls. Marcus gripped my hand tightly as rage ripped through me.

“Dev,” his uncle growled at Devyn, a clear indication to rise. Rhys laid a restraining arm on Llewelyn’s shoulder, visibly calming him as he bristled in outrage.

Glacially cold eyes flicked at Llewelyn.

“Twysog.” Rion nodded courteously, greeting Llewelyn in the local language. The wind whipped around the courtyard, the dark storm that Gideon had promised as nothing compared to the one I was about to raise.

“Breathe,” Marcus said under his breath. This was their world, their customs. Don’t interfere. Don’t overreact.

Gideon appeared at the king’s shoulder as he scanned us, his brow lifting at the unfamiliar faces in the group. “My lord, this is Marcus Plantagenet.”

“Your Highness.” The golden-haired Mercian reverted to the common tongue, behaving for all the world like we were standing at a summer party. His manner was formal yet friendly as he greeted Marcus, as if Devyn didn’t remain on his knees at his feet.

“Rion, this is…”

I flashed Gideon a warning look; if I were to release some of the energy that burned in my blood right now, it would incinerate him where he stood. Right now, I would rather flatten Rion Deverell than recognise him as kin. Gideon glanced down at where Devyn still knelt and grimaced as he looked back at me. He was not happy at concealing my identity from the lord he served, especially as he knew my reaction was in defence of a man he did not respect. My lips thinned. Whatever Gideon did or didn’t think about lying to his lord, he thought better of introducing him to his long-lost sister when she looked ready to gut him rather than embrace him.

“Cassandra Shelton,” Gideon finished and then added, “His Highness’s betrothed.”

“Ah, yes.”