“A lone Roman woman, afoot, with no servants or baggage? The innkeeper will take ye for a whore.”
Clara hadn’t considered that. Likely, it was true.
“Would it be such a hardship to lie by my side?”
The wistful vulnerability in his tone weakened her resolve. “All right,” she heard herself say. “I’ll lie with you. Only … not for the whole of the night.”
A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Ah,” he said. “Now we’re down to the haggling. Not the whole night, then. How long?”
“Until … until moonrise.”
He laughed. “The moon is full this night. She’ll rise as the sun sets, and the light of day is already waning. ’Tis nay nearly long enough.”
His quiet certainty sent a shiver of anticipation down Clara’s spine. “From twilight until full dark, then.”
“From sunset until the moon shines overhead.”
“But—”
“ ’Tis my final offer, lass.”
She sighed. “All right. Half the night.”
He gazed at her. “And ye’ll accept my hands on your body.”
She bit her lip and closed her eyes. “You may touch me if you keep your hands atop my clothing. I’ll not undress for you.” Surely that restriction would keep her honor intact.
The corner of his mouth crooked. “Any more rules?”
“You’ll shave first. I’ll not lie with a bearded Celt.”
She couldn’t tease out the mix of emotions in the swift glance he sent her. Humor, yes, and desire, but she had seen both before. Now another emotion simmered beneath those, half-hidden. Not anger, precisely. Wariness? But why should that be? He had nothing to fear from her. Just the opposite.
“Sit beside me, lass,” Owein said softly. After a slight hesitation, Clara obeyed. Her heart kicked up a beat when he placed a hand on her calf. Even through the layers of linen and wool, his touch felt warm.
She sat, motionless, barely daring to breathe as she watched his strong fingers dip beneath the hem of her tunic. His rough fingertips skated over her bare skin. Her lips parted on a small intake of air. She heard his soft chuckle. Fire flooded her cheeks, but somehow she couldn’t move, or even look away.
“We agreed you would keep your hands atop my tunic,” she said breathlessly.
“Aye, so we did.” His fingers slid higher, encountering the leather sheath he’d given her. With a deft movement, he slipped the dagger free and withdrew his hand.
Hastily, Clara tugged her hem down to her ankles. Owein tested the blade with his thumb, then, to her surprise, offered it to her. When she didn’t take it, he grasped her left hand and closed her fingers around the hilt.
“Get on with it, then,” he said gruffly, releasing her. “Cut my hair as ye like. Just try not to take my head with it.” He shifted, giving her his back.
Understanding dawned. “You want me to do it?”
“If ye will.”
“All right.” She knelt behind him, her legs slightly splayed, her breasts nearly touching his body. It was an intimate pose, but, she realized, one that signified his trust. No man turned his back on an enemy wielding a blade.
“I’m waiting, lass.”
“Clara,” she said, annoyed. “My name is Clara. Why can you not say it?”
He grunted.
Her hand trembled as she lifted his hair from his neck. Thick and curly, the ends were a mass of snarls, but the russet strands were silky-soft. She fingered the long braid at his temple. It was, perhaps, the most primitive thing about him.
“Dinna cut the plait, lass.” His tone brooked no argument.
“As you say,” she said, draping the braid over his shoulder. She gathered the rest of his hair at his nape.
The blade sliced cleanly. Clara cut away the tangled sections of Owein’s hair, leaving shorter lengths free to curl over at his nape. She had the oddest urge to lean forward and kiss his bared skin. The thought caused heat to rise.
Ye’ll accept my hands on your body.
Her breasts tightened and her belly went into a free fall. Her hands trembled—suddenly, she didn’t trust herself to wield the dagger. She set it aside and tried to cover her unease by running her fingers through Owein’s curls. His scalp was warm.
He went cat-still. Clara’s strokes faltered.
He cleared his throat. “The beard next, lass. Before the light of day fades completely.”
“Yes.” Clara took up the knife and inhaled deeply, willing her nerves to calm. He turned about, returning to his original position reclining against the wall of the cave. She eyed his long, muscular legs, bent at the knee and splayed open.
She would have to kneel between them to execute her barber’s task. From the amused look in his eye, it was what he’d intended.
She pursed her lips. “Remember, I have a blade in hand.”
“Aye, I ken that well enough.” He settled more comfortably against his rocky cushion, his eyelids half-closed.
The sensual, lazy look about him flooded Clara’s belly with twisting heat. She scooted as far forward between his legs as she could without touching him. Unfortunately, he was leaning slightly back; when she reached for his chin she would pitch forward.
“This isn’t going to work,” she muttered.
“I’ll keep ye steady.” His hands went to her hips, then slid upward. “Ye are so slender,” he said, bemused. “I can span your waist with my hands.”
She glanced down, then wished she hadn’t. His big thumbs touched just above her navel; his fingers flexed at the small of her back. His palms were so warm they all but burned her hips through her clothing.
His voice, husky and low, fell on her ear like a caress. “If ye go about your barbering any slower, the moon will be overhead before ye are done. In that case, ye’ll lie with me until dawn.” He gave a self-satisfied smile. “Perhaps longer.”
She stiffened. “I … I don’t want to cut you.”
His hands tightened on her waist. “Just be done with it.”
“All right.” She raised the blade. Gripping the knife with her left hand, she slid the edge down his right cheek. A tuft of red hair fell over her hand.
She cast about for some subject to steady her nerves. “Do you know,” she said, “the great Alexander of Macedonia commanded his men to shave their beards.”
He opened one eye. “And how do ye know that?”
“Father told me. He said Alexander gave the order after he observed that bearded men were at a disadvantage in battle. Oftentimes, the enemy would grasp a man by the beard so as to hold him steady while planting a spear in his chest.”
Owein gave a noncommittal grunt.
Clara transferred the knife to her right hand and began scraping the hair on Owein’s left cheek. His braid brushed the back of her hand. “The Macedonians were stronger for their shorn chins. Don’t you think Alexander was clever to command his soldiers to shave?”
“What I am thinking is no Celt war chief would live long after issuing such an order.” He shifted, causing Clara to jerk the blade back lest she slice his skin. “A Celt cuts his hair only in disgrace.”
Clara’s gaze flew to Owein’s face. “You believe I mean you insult?”
“Nay, lass. What I believe is that my beard frightens ye.”
Perhaps that was true, Clara thought, as more of the unruly mane fell away. Owein was far less forbidding without his facial hair. She drank in the sight of him. His straight jaw. His strong cheekbones. His chin was firm, almost regal.
She reversed the blade and scraped it from the base of his neck to his chin. All the while she was aware of his fingers flexing on her waist, keeping her steady. And pulling her closer. Her knees collided with the inside of his thighs. His thumbs moved on her hip bones.
She traced the curve of his exposed upper lip with her finger, mesmerized. It was so soft, and yet so masculine. His tongue darted out and licked the pad of her thumb. Desire sliced through her.
Her trembling fingers slipped on the dagger’s hilt. “Oh!” She stared down at the drop of blood welling from the fleshy base of her thumb.
Owein’s hand closed over hers. “Let me see, lass.”
He examined the cut, then carried her injured hand to his mouth and suckled the wound. His lips pulled; his tongue soothed.
Flames leaped in her belly and spread lower, to the dark place between her thighs. She stared at him, her lips parting. She couldn’t take her eyes from his newly exposed chin. With his beard gone, he was beautiful.
She’d not been the most skillful of barbers. Stubble clung to his skin, and a red scrape marred his neck. Even so, Clara could hardly grasp the magnitude of the change she’d wrought. How young he looked! And how … civilized. He might have been a man she’d seen haggling in the forum market, or a young officer at one of her father’s military receptions. But for the long, primitive plait dangling from his temple, he resembled a citizen of Rome.
Hesitantly, she put out a hand and traced the arch of one cheekbone. He went instantly still, his breath catching. The sound gave her courage. She drew her finger down the line of his jaw, letting it trail off the tip of his bare chin.
He spoke, his voice low and vibrant, sending a shiver along her spine. “Well, lass. What do ye think of your handiwork?”
“You look … very fine. Noble, even.”
His eyes never left her. “My grandmother was a queen.”
She blinked at him. “Truly?”
“Aye. She was Cartimandua of the Brigantes.” His gaze flicked away. “The Romans took her throne.”
Clara had no reply for that.
His eyes flicked to a point beyond her shoulder. “The moon has risen.”
She started, glancing behind her. Sure enough, a golden disk had appeared, a shining orb above the mountaintops.
Ye’ll accept my hands on your body.
Her mouth went suddenly dry. “So it has.”
His strong hands skimmed over her shoulders and arms. Shivering, she hugged her torso. She felt fragile, like glass.
Owein seemed to sense this. Gently, he retrieved their discarded cloaks. He spread his ragged garment on the ground and urged her to sit upon it. He spread her fine one over her lap.
His hands lingered. “May I lie under your cloak, lass?”
She looked into his eyes and nodded.
Cormac sighed in pleasure.
A long fall of silver hair brushed his hip. Bountiful breasts, soft and full, pressed against his thighs. The wench knew her way around a cock. A fine joke, that. What would the Druids of Avalon do if they knew what their Daughter was about?
His large palm covered her crown, holding her head steady while her clever tongue and teeth worked his shaft. ’Twas hard labor indeed, for his manhood was long and thick—the gods’ compensation, perhaps, for his stunted limbs. Wenches recoiled at the sight of his grotesque form, until they saw what hung between his thighs. Then they lifted their skirts readily enough.
This lass had been a fine conquest. ’Twas nay often that he was the first to bring a woman to bliss. She made a gurgling sound as the tip of his blunt spear touched the back of her throat. He closed his eyes as his pleasure expanded, tugging her silver-blond tresses taut. She responded with a muffled groan.
Her nimble fingers found his stones and squeezed. His hips bucked. By the Horned God! He’d taught her well. Despite the cold seeping through the sparse walls of her crude forest shelter, sweat trickled down his temple to his ear. Her tongue slid along his length and he hardened unbearably. In another heartbeat …
The lass lifted her head and slid from his grasp, as elusive as a running stream.
No!
Cool air struck his cock, causing it to twitch. “By the gods,” he roared, reaching for her. “Finish me, woman.”
“Not that way.” An arrogant smile touched her pouty lips. Cormac’s erection lost some of its urgency. She never missed an opportunity to show him who held the upper hand.
“I want to feel ye, Cormac, deep inside. Like the first time.” Gracefully, she arranged herself on the fur blanket and parted her legs. “Dinna finish too quickly.”
For a moment, he considered walking away. Rising, tying the laces on his
braccas,
and leaving her wanting. As she’d done so many times to him.
Her eyes glinted silver. “Dinna consider it.” Her hands slid up her body, cupping her breasts. She squeezed them in offering.
Cormac wasn’t fooled. ’Twas a command, not a gift.
A command he dared not disobey. He rolled himself between her spread thighs and entered her with one brutal thrust.
“Oh, aye,” she gasped. “Harder.”
He began to work her, surging and retreating in response to her demands, cursing himself for a fool. He’d thought he could handle any woman—but a Druidess? He’d been a fool to attempt it. Now he was a hapless fly caught in her web.
A web of pleasure, to be sure. The lass’s inner muscles were like nothing he’d ever felt, and he’d had more women than he could count. She was alive inside. Legs clamped around his hips, she milked his cock until his brain stuttered. But he knew better than to allow himself release too soon. He’d paid the price for that indiscretion only once. His wrists and ankles bore the scars to prove it.
He closed his eyes, slowed his thrusts, and endured the blissful torture. The wave built like thunderclouds, darkening until he could endure it no longer. His fingers bit into her skin. He plunged deeply, violently, ramming her womb.
An animal cry tore from her throat as she broke. Cormac’s own release followed. He shuddered, pumping his seed into her body. Rolling to one side, he lay panting.
He’d never swived a wench like this one. Never.
His breathing had hardly slowed when she spoke. “Tell me all ye know of the Lost Grail.”
Cormac opened one eye and groaned. “Can it nay wait until morning?”
She sat up, her silver hair flowing over her shoulders. The power of their joining crackled around her. When he squinted, he fancied he could see the faint outline of her magic.
“How could the Lost Grail of Avalon have rested so quietly all these years in Roman hands?” she asked angrily.
Cormac dragged a hand across his eyes. “I dinna know. Rhys brought the news. Why do ye nay ask him?”
“Ye know I canna do that.”
He felt her displeasure shimmering around him like a threat. He sat up, shaking himself awake. He had no desire for his beard to fall out, or worse, to have his ankle broken in a fox hole. “Perhaps the grail awaits its true keeper.”