Searing heat spread, melting her bones. Her limbs stretched; her body elongated. Her face contorted, skull and skin shifting. If she could hover above her own body, what would the change look like? Horrible, surely. Evil. A perversion of nature. Anyone watching would surely avert his eyes.
But Marcus Aquila had not.
The thought shone like a beacon in her mind as fur smoothed into skin. Flesh tingled. The worst of the pain passed, lingering only as an uncomfortable vibration in her bones, a dim buzzing in her ears. Gwen lay on the damp earth, panting, too tired even to curl in upon her naked human body.
Marcus Aquila had seen the change, and he had not looked away.
She closed her eyes. The heat blossoming in her cheeks had nothing to do with magic. A man’s face appeared in her mind—familiar, because even though she’d only seen him once, he’d lived in her dreams ever since. He was exotic and beautiful, with eyes and hair the color of freshly tilled earth. His golden skin was so unlike the ruddy complexions of the men who lived on Avalon. His clear brow, firm jaw, and straight nose were engraved upon her memory.
Marcus Aquila, a Roman, was—improbably so—her brother’s closest friend. When Gwen had been trapped in darkness, Marcus had been the only man Rhys had trusted to help free her. As such, Marcus was the only person apart from her twin brother who knew the secret of the wolf.
But only Marcus had seen her change.
While Rhys had worked feverishly to dismantle their cousin’s Dark spell, Marcus had entered the twisted bowels of the cavern. The wolf had wanted to kill him. If Gwen hadn’t been wounded, weak to the point of exhaustion, Marcus Aquila would now be dead.
She’d collapsed and he’d scooped her into his arms. His touch, surprisingly, had comforted the wolf. Just when she thought her humanity had completely vanished, Marcus had called her back. He’d watched as she’d reclaimed her woman’s body. His woolen shirt had been rough against her bare skin, his breath warm on her temple. Some unfathomable emotion flickered in his eyes. His arms flexed around her, his muscles banding like iron. Vaguely, she remembered emerging from the cave. But afterward …
Days later, when she woke from her fevered sleep, Marcus had been gone.
Now, she pushed herself upright, trying to shake off the memories. Like burrs, they clung to her soul. Her chest felt strange, as if the past bound her ribs too tightly for breath. There was no use dwelling on such things, no use allowing her thoughts to drift so often to Marcus Aquila. He was Roman, and had no magic. Gwen was Druid, chosen to be the next Guardian of Avalon. They were as far apart as the earth and the moon.
Woodenly, she groped for her tunic, slipped on her shoes. She lifted her mother’s pendant from its niche, and placed it around her neck. The silver was old and powerful, imbued with the protection of the Light. The wolf did not like it. The triple spiral of the Great Mother rested in the center of the pattern. A four-armed circle woven with vines encircled it. Gwen passed her hand over the pendant’s face, straining to feel a spark of its Light. She could not. This was the price her treacherous Deep Magic demanded. Her powers were gone; they would not return before sunset.
A basket lay nearby, half-filled with the herbs she’d gathered as an excuse for crossing the swamps. She grasped the handle and eased into the burgeoning daylight. Fortunately, not a soul was in sight. Out of habit, she cast out her senses, searching for hidden dangers. She came up against a wall of deadness before she remembered her power was gone. The sun hadn’t yet appeared over the high ridge of hills. Perhaps, if she hurried, she could reach Avalon before Mared awakened. She was in no mood to endure the old healer’s scolding.
She hurried downhill, intent on reaching the cove where she’d left her raft. It was cloaked in illusion—she hoped it would not take long to find. In the aftermath of shifting, she was as much at the mercy of her own spells as a stranger.
She skidded down the steep slope to the muddy shore bordering the swamp, searching the bank for non-magical landmarks. A clump of willows, an oak sapling. The lair of a fox. A large hazel shrub stood between her and the raft’s mooring place. As she rounded the newly budded branches, she swallowed a cry of shock.
Strabo stood examining her raft.
He’d removed his helmet. His complexion was swarthy; his black hair was clipped short in the Roman style. Mud spattered his muscular legs, and his boots had sunk into the silt at the edge of the swamp. He was not a young man, but far from softened by age. His body looked as if it were hewn from rock.
With her magic muted, Gwen couldn’t see his aura. Often, she could anticipate a person’s magical intent by noting subtle changes in the color encircling head and shoulders. To be deprived of this talent now, when she desperately needed it, was like walking with her eyes covered.
She started to ease away. The Roman’s head came around sharply, his heavy brows slanting downward as he focused on the hazel shrub. Great Mother, what should she do? Run? Remain motionless and hope that by some miracle she escaped his notice? She couldn’t fight him, not without her magic.
Flat, dark eyes locked with hers. His eyes widened slightly. His lips parted, revealing even, white teeth. For several long heartbeats, time was suspended. Then he lifted one hand, with fingers spread. The gesture seemed almost like an entreaty. Or preparation for a spell.
Gwen’s wits abruptly returned. She turned and fled, scrabbling up the steep trail with all the desperation of a hunted beast. Deprived of her own magic, her only hope of escape was to reach the shelter of Avalon’s mists before Strabo’s spell caught her.
Basket thudding against her thigh, she swerved onto the trail that afforded the thickest cover. It skirted the swamp, disappearing into a heavy fog. No ordinary morning mist, but part of the spells of protection Cyric had woven around Avalon. She prayed her grandfather’s magic would hold.
The mist closed about her like a mother’s arms. She ran until a stabbing pain in her side forced her to draw up short. Another mooring place was just ahead; the Druids maintained several such hidden refuges. If Gwen’s luck held, a raft would be waiting. But she couldn’t risk leading her pursuer to Avalon.
Dropping into a crouch behind a curtain of willow fronds, she strained her ears for the Roman’s footsteps. She let out a long sigh when she heard nothing. Had she eluded him, then, even without magic?
She waited, barely breathing. The birds that had been startled by her passing renewed their morning songs. Even then, she remained motionless a while longer, until she was sure the threat of discovery had passed. Finally, she took a deep breath and rose, murmuring a prayer of thanks to the Great Mother. She made her way through the thick mist to the dock, where two blessed rafts bobbed gently against a mooring post.
“Gwen?”
She shut her eyes and halted, expelling the air from her lungs in one sharp breath. Goddess, not
Trevor.
Not
now.
Not when her magic was gone and her mundane senses overwhelmed.
“Gwen? Is that ye?”
What was Trevor doing on this side of the swamps so early in the morning? Belatedly, Gwen realized her haphazard flight had taken her to the edge of his carefully hidden barley field. One of the rafts was Trevor’s; he always kept his craft in this mooring place while he tended Avalon’s crop.
His firm footsteps came up behind her. Constructing a smile on her lips, she turned, her fingers clutching the handle of her basket far tighter than necessary. Trevor was a large man, tall and thick with muscle. Rhys had encountered him on the far northern isles of Caledonia last summer, and had brought him to Avalon at the first frost. Eleri and Siane called him handsome, and even Dera, who was handfasted with Howell and should not notice such things, smiled widely when Trevor came near. Gwen supposed the man
was
striking. His eyes were a piercing blue. His waist-length blond hair was bound so tightly in its queue she wondered if his scalp ached. His beard and moustache were braided in the northern style, and he wore a silver torc at his neck, the adornment of a chieftain or king. But he spoke so little, as if words were jewels and he a poor man.
“I sought ye afore dawn.” Trevor’s northern burr held no hint of anger. But then, of course, it wouldn’t. Trevor never lost his temper. Never.
“Did ye?”
“Ye were gone.”
“I left early to search for bindweed. ’Tis more potent, ye know, if gathered under the moon, with the flowers open.”
“Ye shouldna be here alone.”
“Ye are alone,” Gwen observed.
Trevor sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, then seemed at a loss as to where to place his hand. Finally, he anchored it on his hip. The pose gave him the look of a disapproving husband. Gwen’s irritation grew, though she knew he’d done nothing to provoke it.
“Cyric forbade your wanderings,” he said at last.
“Cyric need not know.”
“Ah, Gwen.”
The two words communicated a wealth of frustration and reproach. Sudden guilt swamped her. She
had
promised Cyric she would stay on the isle. It was a promise that had proven impossible to keep. She could not risk shifting into wolf form in the middle of the village common!
“I … I had trouble sleeping.” That, at least, was not a lie. Since her captivity, she’d not slept through a single night.
“Ye could finish Eleri’s pendant. Rhys brought her to us two moons past.”
“I cannot do that at night. It would disturb the village.”
“ ’Tis dangerous, Gwen, wandering outside the mist. What if ye cross paths with a soldier from the Roman camp?”
Trevor had no idea his fear had already come to pass. She didn’t wish him to guess, so she forced a laugh. “The Romans bundle themselves tight in their camp after dark. Their sentries are blinded by their own torches.”
Trevor laid a hand on Gwen’s arm. The unwelcome touch jolted her to the core. “Your safety is important to Avalon. After we are handfasted and the babes come, this need to roam will pass.”
Gwen forced a swallow down a throat suddenly thick with dismay. Trevor might be dull, but he was a good man, loyal and steady. His magic was of the earth, pure and strong. Under his influence, living things thrived—plants, animals, children. She should be glad he wanted her as his wife.
Cyric had asked for the union. And in truth, Gwen liked Trevor. Or at least she had before Cyric announced his wish they should handfast. She knew little about Trevor’s past in the northland, for he did not speak of it, and Rhys would not elaborate. She suspected he’d endured much, for his eyes held shadows. But he was not ruled by them. Unlike Gwen, Trevor had banished his demons. His hand on her arm grew unbearably heavy.
“Do not fear for me.” Her tone was deliberately willful. A man like Trevor did not want a willful wife. “I go where I will. No plodding Roman will catch me, I assure ye.”
She’d thought to annoy him with her defiance; her words summoned an opposite effect. His blue eyes darkened; he leaned close, his palm traveling up her arm to her shoulder. “Ye dinna need to be so strong, lass. Nay with me.”
Sincere affection thickened his accent. For a brief moment, Gwen imagined coupling with him. She’d never lain with a man, but she knew enough of the way between a man and a woman to picture the deed. He would be gentle.
Marcus Aquila would not be gentle.
Great Mother, where had
that
thought come from?
Trevor’s fingertip drew circles on Gwen’s nape. Her stomach turned to cold lead. Even so, she might have forced herself to smile up at him, if not for her secret. Trevor knew nothing of the wolf; if he did, he would not want her.
“Gwen, I know ye dinna feel for me as I do for ye, but …”
She shifted her basket to her other arm, dislodging Trevor’s hand without seeming—she hoped—too blunt about it. She made a show of squinting at the dawn.
“The sun rises swiftly. Mared will worry when she wakes and I am not there.”
Trevor sighed and stepped back. “I’ll take ye home, then.”
“Nay. Finish your work in the field. I do not need ye.”
“ ’Tis my duty to protect ye.”
“Nay, Trevor, ’tis not. I—”
“Cyric wants us to wed.”
Gwen bit her lower lip. “Aye, I know that well enough. But Trevor … do ye not want a marriage born of love?”
“I
do
love ye.”
It wasn’t what she’d meant, and Trevor knew it. The man might not be garrulous, but he was no fool.
“I would not make ye happy,” she said gently.
“Let me be judge of that.” When she didn’t reply, he plowed on. “Cyric grows frail. I know the duty of taking on the role of Guardian when he passes weighs heavily on your spirit. I would help ye with that burden if ye would but let me.”
“Trevor, can ye nay see that—”
The screech of a merlin interrupted her words. The bird flew low out of the mist, narrowly missing Trevor’s head.
A genuine smile sprang to Gwen’s lips. “Hefin!”
She extended her arm; the merlin alighted. The bird ruffled its wings and cocked its head, blinking. Hefin was Rhys’s companion, as Ardra was Gwen’s. Her twin could not be far.
“Is my brother in the village?” Gwen asked Trevor.
“Aye, he arrived before dawn,” Trevor said, clearly not pleased to have Gwen’s attention turn from talk of handfasting. “He wasna happy to find ye gone.”
“I imagine he was not.” Gwen sighed and turned her attention back to Hefin. The bird was one of the few animals, other than Ardra, that did not cower in fear of the wolf. The small falcon shared a magical bond with Gwen’s twin, but with her magic dimmed, she couldn’t feel it.
Gwen looked at Trevor. “I would seek my brother alone. Would ye excuse me?”
Trevor’s disappointment was clear, but Gwen knew he lacked the self-conceit for protest. She felt his gaze on her as she climbed aboard one of the rafts. Hefin took wing when she lifted the long pole laid crosswise atop the craft.
Trevor’s outline faded as the mist closed about her. She felt a twinge of guilt at treating him so poorly, but her regret was small compared to her relief at leaving him behind. She inhaled, filling her lungs deeply with damp, fragrant air. Thank the Great Mother, she was free of the man, if only for a while.