“Oh, that’s one of Marcus’s razors. He’s always leaving them about.”
Gwen closed her eyes and stifled a groan. Now Marcus had invaded the
tepidarium,
too.
Breena abandoned her towel once again and sank into the pool with a satisfied sigh, submersing her body to the shoulders.
“This is my favorite part. I’d stay in here all day if I could.”
Gwen joined her in the water, which was warm, but not so hot as the
calidarium.
Stepping down the submersed stair, she savored the sensation of warmed water lapping at her ankles, her thighs, her waist. She settled beside Breena with a sigh, tension draining from her body. Never in her life had she dreamed of such luxury.
It was yet another facet of a life that was completely foreign to her. Could she ever learn to accept such abundance without a thought, as Breena did? She thought not. The Aquila farm was not, according to Rhys, the richest of Roman estates, but to Gwen it was a place of wonder. Heated floors, bulging storerooms, more quantity and variety of food than she had ever seen in her life. Glass and bronze cups, tiled floors, walls painted with murals. Cloud-soft mattresses perched on high wooden frames.
It was too much. It made her feel like some brutish beast from the wild. She was far too simple for the graceful life Marcus and his sister took for granted.
Even so, it was easier than she would have imagined to sink up to her shoulders in the warm bath, to enjoy the heat of the water as it slid over her oiled skin. The sensation was as intoxicating as the Roman wine she’d sipped the night before.
Breena poured some scented oil into the water, then turned to Gwen and smiled. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
Gwen smiled back. “It’s … very—” Unbelievable. Luxurious.
Unnatural.
“—Roman,” she said at last.
Breena’s light laugh bounced off the tiles. “So it is. Of course, this is nothing compared to the bathing houses in Londinium. And the ones in Rome are even more lavish. Father says that in Rome, city magistrates spend the better part of their days in their baths and massage rooms.”
Gwen could not imagine it. “If that is so, when do they ever go about the business of governing?”
“Why, while bathing. And every morning, at their barbers. Father says more alliances are made in the baths and barber shops of Rome than were ever contracted in the Senate.”
Gwen tried to imagine Cyric, Mared, and Padrig, wet and naked, holding council in a bathing pool on Avalon. An irreverent giggle bubbled up her throat. “Your people are very different from mine.”
Breena shot her an odd look. “Your people are my people. Or have you forgotten my mother is a Celt, and a queen’s granddaughter, at that?”
Gwen flushed. “I’m sorry. I meant no insult. ’Tis only that your life … this farm … it’s like nothing I’ve ever imagined.”
Breena was silent for a moment, her brow pinched. “Marcus says I could never manage in Avalon because it’s so primitive there. You probably agree with him. But Rhys says …”
“My brother thinks mainly of Cyric’s commands. My grandfather wants ye in Avalon, so Rhys works to deliver ye to him.”
Breena wiggled her fingers on the surface of the water, creating tiny, anxious ripples. “Am I … just a duty to Rhys then?”
Gwen thought of the abruptness with which Rhys countered any questions concerning Breena. “I do not know the answer to that, but I suspect not.”
Was the hope her words lit in Breena’s blue eyes a good thing or not? Gwen wasn’t sure.
“Does he speak of me very often?”
“Nay,” Gwen replied. Breena looked so downcast that she added, “But that means little. Rhys keeps most of his thoughts to himself.”
Breena sighed. “Rhys is so unlike Marcus—my brother is an open scroll! He never fails to say exactly what he thinks.” She frowned. “But he’s been different since Clara’s rejection. He keeps to himself more than he used to. He goes into town on business, but beyond that, he hardly leaves his smithy. I think he still pines for her.” She scowled. “Although when Rhys was here last month, the two wasted no time in running off to their favorite tavern. Marcus said the tavern keeper had asked Rhys to play his harp, but that hardly takes all night! They visited the brothel next door, I’m sure of it.”
“Rhys … and Marcus … do they visit this brothel often?”
“Far too often, in my opinion.” Breena scowled and sat up. Water sluiced off her shoulders. “And it’s Rhys who drags Marcus to them. Whenever he comes to visit, they head right into town and don’t return until the next morning. That’s when I sneak over to the smithy window, or into the woods where Marcus practices throwing his daggers.” Her smile was grim. “Mother would die if she knew, but I’ve learned quite a few interesting things from eavesdropping on those morning-after conversations.”
What kinds of things?
Gwen wanted to ask, but didn’t dare. It was humbling to think Marcus’s young sister knew more about carnal matters than Gwen did! Gwen knew the basics about coupling, but she’d grown up without a mother and she’d never felt enough at ease with Mared to ask questions.
“When Rhys is not here, I don’t think Marcus ever goes alone,” Breena said. “Especially not since he returned from Avalon last spring. I’ve often wondered what happened there. All I know is that Marcus and Rhys freed you from your cousin’s Dark spell. Beyond that, Marcus won’t speak of it.”
Gwen forced a casual tone. “I hardly know myself. I … barely remember being rescued. I was unconscious for days afterward.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve brought up memories you’d rather forget. I am so unthinking. Please forgive me.”
“Of course. Everyone has pain in their lives—ye do as well. We must talk about your visions. Do ye truly remember so little? Or were ye trying to spare your mother more distress?”
“I told you all I remember. The silver light, the woman in terror, the pain.” Breena’s forehead pinched. “I couldn’t breathe. It hurts even to think about it.”
Gwen studied her young companion. It was clear Breena didn’t realize how close she’d come to suffocating, and Gwen didn’t think it wise to enlighten her. She would only become more frightened, and less able to call the magic she needed.
“Would ye rest easier if my bed is placed in your room? That way I will be close if ye need me.”
Breena’s grateful expression tightened Gwen’s chest. “Would you? I would appreciate it very much. I wanted to ask Mother to stay, but didn’t dare, because of the babe.”
“Then think nothing of it. I am happy to stay with ye. But if ye learn the magic I teach ye, my presence will soon be unnecessary.” She settled back into the warm water. “Are ye ready for your first lesson? ’Tis best that the student be relaxed, and I can think of no better place to begin than in this bath.”
Breena giggled. “You want to teach me magic here? In the bath?”
“If the Senators in Rome can rule from their baths, I see no reason I cannot give lessons in magic from mine.”
They shared a laugh; then, as the merriment faded, Gwen turned serious. “Close your eyes. Try to quiet your thoughts.”
Breena obeyed. After a moment, her expression softened.
“Good. Let your breathing go deep and slow … That’s it.”
Gwen cast her senses toward the girl. Breena’s aura leapt into her mind. The silver was still apparent, but not as strong as it had been the night before. The aura was now predominantly white, as Gwen expected a Seer’s to be.
Breena’s face was serene, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Her thick red hair floated around her. Her long fringe of lashes, darker than her hair, cast scalloped shadows on her fair skin. Her chin was subtly pointed.
Her fine, straight nose was perhaps the only feature that had come directly from her Roman ancestors. It was a feminine version of her father’s and brother’s. No one would call her nose small, but Gwen decided its boldness suited Breena. A smaller feature would have been lost in her expressive face.
Breena’s breathing relaxed further, her countenance peaceful. Her lips parted, revealing her straight white front teeth and the gap between them. She looked like a small lass. Gwen wondered if she herself had looked so young at Breena’s age. She thought not. At fourteen, Gwen had already lived in the wilderness for seven years, with only her immediate kin to shield her from the harshness of life. She and Rhys had been expected to contribute to the clan’s survival from the first, gathering what food and herbs they could find on the sacred isle and the hills across the swamp.
“Your body feels very light,” she told Breena. “As if it is floating. Can ye feel that?”
“Yes.” The word was distant, as if Breena were talking in her sleep. But Gwen knew the lass was awake.
“Good. Very good.”
The odd silver aura flitted at the edges of Gwen’s senses. She had never felt anything like it—no Druid on Avalon possessed an aura of that color. She didn’t understand it, and that troubled her.
“Breena.”
“Yes?”
“When a vision comes upon ye, ye must not fight it. Difficult as it may be, ye must let the pain wash through ye.”
“And then it will go away?”
“Nay. The pain will still be there, though not as strong. Your fear and resistance is what causes it to grow. Do ye understand?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“As the pain washes through ye, say the spell I teach ye now. ’Tis crafted from sacred Words of the Old Ones, and it is very powerful.” She paused. “Are ye ready to hear it? The Words are difficult to pronounce. Ye must learn to say them—whether with your lips or in your mind—exactly as I teach ye.”
“I’m ready.”
Gwen spoke the spell. “Repeat the Words back to me.”
Breena did, awkwardly. Gwen corrected her gently, repeating the Words one by one, until Breena’s tongue formed the ancient syllables perfectly. Finally satisfied, Gwen called Breena from her trance.
Her eyelids fluttered open.
“How do ye feel?” Gwen asked. “Do ye remember the spell?”
Breena considered the question. “Yes, I do. I—”
Gwen held up a hand. “Do not speak it. The Words are powerful, only to be uttered when absolutely needed. When the vision comes. Ye must say the spell in your dream. Can ye do it?”
Breena drew a breath. “Yes. Yes, I’m sure I can.”
Gwen and Breena were in the bath.
Marcus tightened his grip on the tongs and turned the hammered iron on the anvil. He would
not
think of Gwen in the
calidarium,
her body glistening with oil, veiled only by a curling curtain of steam.
He could think of nothing else.
He touched his tongue to the wound Gwen’s teeth had left on his lip. He channeled a sudden surge of lust into a savage blow to the anvil. He was working one of the iron blooms he’d smelted before Gwen’s arrival. The iron was of superior quality, the result of the hottest fire he’d produced so far. It was not
chalybs,
but it was a fine target for his pent-up frustration.
He pictured Gwen rising from the bath, water cascading over her shoulders and breasts, her blond tresses clinging to her sleek, subtle curves. Was the triangle of curls between her thighs as fair as the hair on her head, or a shade darker?
Desire sliced his gut as keenly as any blade he’d ever honed. His hammer glanced off the flattened bloom at the wrong angle, leaving a deep gouge. Cursing, Marcus thrust the metal into the furnace and worked the bellows. The metal absorbed the red heat of the coals.
Sweat trickled into his eyes. He blinked rapidly against the sting, dragging the back of his sleeve across face. His shirt was grimy. He, too, needed a bath. He allowed himself a moment of fantasy in which he and Gwen spread oil on each others’ naked bodies. He started with her shoulders and arms, working downward. By the time his hands mentally covered her breasts, he was so hard he was in danger of spilling his seed into the furnace.
With a curse he pulled the glowing iron from the furnace and plunged it into the water trough. Steam rose in a hiss. He could no longer remain here in the smithy—he needed to escape, to expend some energy in a different way. Banking the furnace, he strode to the shelf that held his favorite throwing daggers. He chose a set of six blades, sheathed and wrapped in oiled cloth, and headed out the door.
The field laborers were planting the north fields; the north gate stood ajar. Marcus strode the path between the wheat and barley, waving when one or two of the men called to him. His destination was the thick woods bordering the well-tended fields.
The grassy clearing where he practiced throwing his daggers was just far enough into the woods that it was out of sight of both the workers in the fields and anyone coming from the gate. He sought this oasis of silence often, especially when he needed to think. He’d set up two targets, thick planks fastened to the trunks of two ancient oaks, forty paces distant from each other. His typical routine was to stand in front of one mark and throw to the other, then cross the clearing and throw back to the first, over and over, until his arm ached. Usually, this calmed his mind.
Unfortunately, today it did not.
Eventually he ceased the fruitless exercise, leaving his daggers sunk in one of the targets. The spring day was warm, and the forge had been hot. Stripping his sweat-soaked shirt over his head, he flung it to the ground and leaned against a tree trunk. He tipped his head back until it connected with rough bark.
A long sigh escaped his lungs. His eyes closed.
Hades.
He could think of nothing but Gwen. In the bath. Without Breena.
With
him.
She reclined in the water, the pink tips of her breasts cresting the misty surface. He was hard and hungry before her, sitting on the edge of the pool with his legs in the water. Languidly, she rose and moved to stand between his parted legs. Her lashes fluttered downward, her gaze fell upon his erection.
She bit her lip. He fisted his hands in her hair.
Tilting her head up, he claimed her mouth in a long, drugging kiss. Then he maneuvered her closer, urging her to kneel in the water. He guided her head to his …
Marcus bit off a groan, pressing his spine into the oak’s rough bark, reminding himself that he was alone in the woods, not secluded in the bathhouse with Gwen. His shaft was rigid; he was beyond fighting his need. His shaking fingers worked the ties of his
braccas,
loosening the fabric until his erection sprang free. He wrapped his hand around his shaft, working smooth skin over iron-hard muscle. Gods, how he wished his rough hand was Gwen’s delicate, wet mouth.