* * *
Exchalybur shone like a sliver of moonlight. Marcus even imagined he could feel the magic Gwen had woven into the bright iron. But surely, that was a figment of his overactive imagination. He had no magic; he could feel nothing.
And yet, even to his mundane eye it was plain that he’d never crafted a sword so beautiful, nor so deadly. Its weight was slight for such a large weapon, but the blade would not bend or break. It would be lethal in battle, even without its magic.
He honed the edges to perfection while Gwen dozed on his bed. This was not how he’d envisioned her last night in Isca. In that dream, he had made love to her until dawn, and she had whispered words of devotion—to
him,
not to Avalon. She’d agreed to give up the sword to Rhys and become Marcus’s wife.
He could not dismiss that dream as easily as she had.
When he at last put the sharpening stone aside, he didn’t have the heart to wake her from her much-needed slumber. There was yet an hour or two before dawn. The night was quiet. The gates were locked. Gwen had set magical protections all around the perimeter wall; if Strabo was searching for her, as she’d feared he might, he had not found her.
He left the finished sword on his worktable, eased open the smithy door, and went to see about provisions for their journey.
Sweet warmth enveloped Gwen. She was lying on the softest of cushions, her spine pressed against Marcus’s chest, his strong arms entwined about her body. She arched back, into his heat. His breath caressed her temple. His hips flexed.
His arousal prodded between the soft globes of her naked buttocks. Moisture gathered between her thighs.
His big hand moved over her belly, dipping low, his clever fingers finding her body’s dew. His fingertips skated over her mound and through the slick folds between her legs. His thumb circled the tight bud where her pleasure centered.
Urgent heat spread through her body. She pressed her hips backward with a moan.
“Marcus …”
He chuckled, his amusement vibrating through her body. His touch grew bolder. His hand swept up to her breast. He kneaded one breast, then the other. Rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
Then he pinched. Hard.
She cried out, twisting and flailing, turning to catch a glimpse of a hard, unforgiving face.
Not Marcus.
Strabo.
A strangled cry froze in her throat. She scrambled to summon a Word of protection, but it would not come. Shock blanked her brain, and her power.
Nay. More than shock. Blue-black sparks flashed around her. The scent of burning flesh choked her senses. Strabo’s arms banded about her body, his arousal pressed insistently between her legs.
“Did you think I would let you leave me, too?”
Panicked, she curled her fingers into a fist and struck behind her. The angle was awkward; with her arms pinned above the elbows, all she managed was a glancing blow to his thigh. He caught her wrists with ease, first one, then the other. Rolling atop her, he lifted her arms above her head, pinning them with one hand. His lower body trapped her legs. She was caught like a fly in honey.
His Dark aura pulsed ominously.
She bared her teeth. “This is not real. ’Tis but a dream.”
“A dream now, perhaps, but soon …” His free hand roamed her body. “Ah, soon enough, it will be truth, my little she-wolf.”
She started. “Ye know about the wolf.”
His white teeth flashed in cruel smile. “Of course. You should not have run, that first night I spied you. It was not worthy of what you are.” His dark eyes regarded her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “I thought I came for the old man, but now—I am not so sure. I begin to think you are the better prize. You are so like her.”
“Like who?”
He did not answer. She tried again to call a spell—a spell of Deep Magic this time—but she could not make the Words form in her head, nor on her lips. Strabo’s blue-black essence flowed to her from the places their bodies touched, tingling painfully on her skin. Darkness compressed her chest, forcing her to struggle for every breath.
“Do not tire yourself,” Strabo said. “Your magic is no match for what mine has become. And his … his cannot stand much longer. He cannot save himself, and he cannot save you.”
“Who?” She did not understand. Strabo was insane, she was sure of it. His eyes blazed darkly. She tried to look away, but his hand came up to catch her chin, preventing it.
“It will be … almost as it was. How I have longed for that.”
His head dipped. His mouth covered hers, roughly. What little breath she had was drawn into his lungs. Magic ran in dark waves to her core. Fire kindled in the pit of her stomach, turning her soul to ash.
He kissed her ruthlessly, as if he could command the response he desired. Dimly, she was aware of his knee sliding between her legs, opening her.
Finally, the Words she so desperately sought came to her, ringing like the clearest bells in her mind. The wolf sprang from its stupor. The change began, twisting deep inside her.
The dream broke; Strabo vanished.
But she heard him laughing as the wolf took control.
The instant Marcus opened the door to the smithy, he knew something was terribly wrong. Ill-feeling swept over him like a noxious sewer odor, wrenching his stomach and making his limbs tense with dread. Fighting panic, he took two steps toward his bed, then stopped.
Gwen was gone.
A faint impression on the blanket was all that was left of her presence. Had she fled alone to Avalon, rather than suffer his escort? But no, that could not be it. Exchalybur lay untouched on his worktable. Gwen might leave Marcus behind, but she would not have left the sword.
Where was she? He considered the possibility that she might be visiting the latrine near the bathhouse, with its running water, rather than use the covered pot he kept handy for such purposes. A moment later, when he noticed the empty hook where the gate key normally hung, he ground out a foul oath. She’d gone out to the forest. In the middle of the night.
He ran to the gate leading to the fields. She had not bothered to lock it behind her; the iron bars swung free on their hinges. His foreboding accelerated when the moon came from behind a cloud, illuminating a clear path through the barley where the new plants had been broken. She’d been in such a hurry she hadn’t even taken the time to find the path between the fields. What had disturbed her so? Strabo? Or the wolf?
As he plunged into the woods, he wished he’d taken a few moments to bring a lamp from the smithy. No time to go back for one now. He’d have to rely on the uncertain moonlight. He ran to the clearing where they’d made love—if she were looking for a refuge, perhaps that would be it.
He drew up short when he burst into the open, quickly scanning the area. “Gwen!”
He cocked his head, listening. Nothing.
But she had been here. A swath of trampled grass led to the tree where she had come upon him that first time. At the base of the trunk, a glint of silver caught his eye. Gwen’s pendant, lying in the grass. He picked it up, and closed his fist around it. He’d never seen her take the chain from around her neck. Not even while they’d made love. The gate key lay nearby, half-hidden by a lichen-covered branch. A few steps beyond, Gwen’s tunic lay in a crumpled heap.
His blood ran cold. Strabo? Or the wolf? He circled the area, searching the shadowed ground for tracks.
To his relief, he found none that belonged to a man, save his own. Instead he discovered the imprint of a soft pad and four spread toes. A second print, and more, led out of the clearing and deeper into the forest.
Marcus stood staring in the direction Gwen had gone. As if to taunt him, the moon chose that moment to disappear behind a silver-rimmed cloud. He swallowed hard. He’d never be able to track her in the dark, and even if he could, he would not be able to catch a wolf. But she would return to the clearing for her tunic and pendant.
Would she come as a wolf, and shift before him? Or would she shift in darkness, and come to him as a woman, naked in moonlight? Or—and this dread thought arrested his growing desire quite effectively—would Gwen’s worst fear come to pass?
Would the wolf claim her completely?
Jaw clenched and stomach churning, Marcus returned to the tree with Gwen’s pendant and tunic, and sat down to wait.
She did not know this forest.
She ran blindly, sharp brambles tearing at her fur.
She did not care how far or in which direction she traveled. It was often so when the wolf had not been free for some time. It was as if the beast longed to outrun everything human.
This time, Gwen wanted to outrun her nightmare as well. The memory of Strabo’s intimate assault pursued her through the shadows more ruthlessly than any hunter. Had the horror come from her own mind? Or had the sorcerer cast a Dark dream? As disturbing as the first notion was, she infinitely preferred it to the second.
But the second was much more likely. Strabo had recognized her on the road into town. Now he was telling her he knew about the wolf. And boasting to her of what she feared was all too true: that his magic was greater than hers.
She raced deeper into the forest. Was he here, in these woods, waiting for her? He would not catch her. The wolf would not allow it. The beast was the strongest part of her.
She called a spell of protection to mind. A spell of Deep Magic. As they had not in her dream, the Words came easily. Because of the wolf. The beast was closer to the magic of the gods than her human form could ever hope to be.
A small falcon flew overhead, swooping low. The sudden motion disturbed her. She stumbled to a halt, disoriented. It was then that she became aware of a familiar scent in the air. She lifted her nose and sniffed.
Marcus.
He was part of her now; she would know his scent anywhere. The wolf had accepted him as her mate and master, sensing, perhaps, that his domination would never hurt her. She could feel his desire, pulsing with the night wind. He wanted her to come to him. Unerringly, she turned and padded toward him.
She had no clear idea of how much time had passed since she’d left the smithy. Not long, perhaps, because the eastern sky was only just beginning to lighten. Her body hummed like a plucked string on Rhys’s harp. It was only when she was almost upon the clearing—just as her eyes found Marcus, standing with his back to her, peering intently through the trees—that she fully understood what he wanted.
For her to shift in front of him.
Her paws froze in midstep. Her human mind recoiled. She could not do it. She could
not.
He’d said watching her shift had not been a horror, but she did not believe him. She could not bear to see the revulsion in his eyes when he looked upon her.
She backed away, slowly, praying he would not sense her presence. He did not turn, did not so much as move. Creeping slowly through the underbrush, she did not stop until she’d put a good distance and a solid outcrop of rock between them. She fell into a deep crouch on the damp, shadowed loam. She would shift here, then go to him. That, she could bear.
She let the Words seep into her mind. After only a brief hesitation, the wolf lowered its head in acquiescence. Brilliant pain suffused her limbs, sinking deep into her bones. She did not dull it with a numbing spell. The pain reminded her that the wolf would always be a part of her. If she did not keep that thought foremost in her mind, she would never be able to turn her back on the life Marcus offered her.
She endured the suffering as she always did—silently and without tears. Once she felt secure enough in her woman’s form, she opened her eyes. All around her, the world was flat, devoid of magic. Like the life ahead of her, lived without Marcus. She felt as though a hole had been ripped in her heart.
Perhaps she’d not been made for happiness. Perhaps this penance was the price of her mother’s dishonor.
Her woman’s body fully re-formed, she heaved her aching limbs into a crouch, steadying herself with one hand as a rush of lightheadedness pulsed and receded.
Behind her, a twig snapped.
She turned her head quickly, sucked in a breath. Marcus stood just three strides before her, her pendant dangling from his fingers. His eyes glittered with dangerous emotion. Not horror. Not disgust. Not even pity.
Lust.
“Get up.”
The note of absolute command in his voice caused her stomach to clench. Heat pooled in her belly, slipped slickly between her thighs. Her nipples tightened.
Slowly, not taking her eyes from him, she obeyed.
“Lift your arms above your head. Clasp your elbows.”
The motion lifted and parted her breasts, increasing her vulnerability. His eyes consumed her. She thought her skin would burst into flames from the heat of his gaze. Erotic fire flashed through her, every bit as potent as the magic that, in the wake of her shifting, she could not feel.
He took a step toward her, her pendant slowly swinging on its chain. She could smell his heat, his lust. Her body responded, softening in preparation for her inevitable surrender. The wolf could not deny its mate. Nor did the woman want to.
But her shame would not abate. “Ye … saw?”
“Yes.”
“I wish ye had not. I wish ye had stayed away.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “I’d have sooner cut off my right arm.”
He advanced another step. She arched her back, silently offering him her breasts. He did not touch them. Instead, he placed her chain over her head. With studious deliberation, he lifted her hair, guiding the long, tangled locks through the silver circlet. The metal, warm with the heat of his touch, nestled against her bare skin.
His gaze drifted to the spot where she’d shifted, then slid back to her. His hands dropped to his waist, unlacing his
braccas.
His erection sprang free from a thatch of dark, curling hair. He wrapped his fingers around it.