He’d never tasted such a fine beer.
There were other hints of a woman’s touch. Overhead, neat bundles of herbs hung from the rafters. His shirt and
braccas
were woven from wool—and indeed, there was a loom against the door, displaying a half-finished blanket.
Owein nearly dropped his mug. Beside the loom was a pallet. Two small bodies nestled there like sleeping pups. A lad and a lass, their bodies entwined beneath the furs. The
lass’s curly hair was red, like Owein’s. The lad’s crown was silver-blond.
Owein’s heart contracted. These were his children. He knew it beyond a doubt. A wishful dream—or a vision of the future?
“Owein?”
Clara struggled upright, sleep clinging to her brain like a dirty rag. She wiped a hand across her eyes. They burned. She’d cried herself to sleep after Owein had left her.
The fire’s heat was long gone. The air had warmed somewhat, however—she could hear the drip of melting snow. Mist-gray clouds piled on the horizon. Another snow? She shuddered at the thought.
Her stomach was sour; her limbs tingled with the aftereffects of magic. The union she’d shared with Owein hadn’t been accidental this time. When his pleasure had exploded, she’d seen the path into his mind and had taken it. She’d plunged into the dark of his soul before he’d even had a chance to realize she was there.
Her stomach lurched again. Images of war were etched behind her eyelids. The gasp of a dying woman—Owein’s first lover—echoed in her ears. But the worst had been Owein’s rage. It had rushed through her own veins, hot, terrifying, and endless.
She called his name again. No answer. But surely he couldn’t have gone far. His cloak was spread beneath her and his pack lay open.
Shakily, she gained her feet. The aftermath of the magic caused her to stumble. Joining with Owein in that way had been beyond frightening. And yet—she longed to touch him again. She wished with all her heart that she could offer the Light within her to soothe his darkness. If she could ease his anger and pain, she wouldn’t count the cost.
She drew a steadying breath. Was the tight emotion in her chest love? The notion wouldn’t dislodge itself from her mind. Love Owein? It was laughable. They could share no future. It would be pure folly to love him.
If only she had a choice.
She retrieved her cloak, shaking out the filthy thing and settling it over her shoulders. Her tunic was little better. The wool clung to her skin, making her itch. How she longed for a warm bath! With a sigh, she retrieved her satchel and tried to content herself with the last dab of her rose oil.
Not satisfied, she moved from the camp, following the downward slope of the land. At least she could wash her face and hands in the stream while waiting for Owein to return. Stepping lightly, she made her way down the hill and parted the low brush guarding the water’s edge.
And discovered that Owein shared her desire for a bath.
He stood in the center of the rushing stream, facing the opposite bank, completely unclothed despite the chill air. His hair was slick and gleaming with moisture, his shoulders broad and strong against the light of day. His powerful legs and bare buttocks dripped water.
But his back … Clara swallowed a gasp. By Jupiter! His back was a hideous mass of scars. His skin bore long ridges punctuated with deep, round gouges. Such marks could only have been caused by a Roman flagellum—a slaver’s whip fashioned of multiple leather thongs embedded with bits of sharp metal.
Clara’s gorge rose. The wounds were old, but what agony they must have caused. She’d caught glimpses of public slave floggings in Isca and had never failed to lose whatever food was in her stomach. Had Owein struggled against his bonds as the lash flayed skin from muscle? Had he tried to avoid the cruel blows? Cried out, begging for mercy? Or had he prayed only for a swift death?
For it was surely a death sentence he’d cheated.
Her breath came hard. She wanted nothing so much as to kiss his scarred flesh, let her lips absorb the memory of the lash.
A thin beam of sunshine freed itself from the clouds. With a quick motion, Owein bent and sluiced an armful of water over his head. Drops of water sparkled as they fell, like a thousand gems of light. They bounced on his neck and shoulders, splashed over the broad expanse of his back, painting every lash and pucker with a sheen of wetness. She drew in quick breath.
He went still.
She should have whirled and fled up the trail, but somehow, she couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes from him. He turned and looked at her, his expression inscrutable.
He stood before her, a figure of wild perfection. Despite his shaved chin, his body did not evoke the Roman ideal of masculinity. He was far too powerfully built. His form lacked the languid grace of Apollo or the supple swiftness of Mercury. Nor did he embody the dominance of Jupiter or the arrogance of Mars.
Even a statue she’d once seen of the great Hercules fell short. Perhaps because Hercules had been wrought in marble, while Owein was wrought in flesh.
He was brawny and rough. Red-gold hair, glistening with droplets, curled on his chest. The hair darkened to copper over the rippling muscles of his stomach. Her gaze dropped. A nest of auburn framed a phallus that was growing before her eyes.
She jerked her gaze upward.
She might have thought he would utter a mocking word, but his habitual humor—even the darker aspects of it—was absent.
“You were meant to die under the lash,” Clara said evenly.
“Aye.”
“What was your crime?”
“Rape. Of my master’s wife.”
“You were a slave?”
“Aye.”
She searched his eyes. “The charge was a lie.”
He paced to within arm’s reach. “Ye canna be sure of that.”
“I can. You would never force yourself on a woman.”
“How can ye say that, lass? After last night?”
“I … I welcomed your touch. I wanted more. You were the one who drew back, because of—” She inhaled. “I shouldn’t have slipped into your mind. I am sorry.”
His fingers curled. “Ye dabble with forces ye dinna understand.”
“Then teach me to understand them.”
“ ’Tis nay knowledge for a Roman.”
“But what of the bond between us?”
“We share no bond. Between our people, there is only war.”
“That’s not true,” Clara said. “Perhaps in the north there is war, but here in the south there’s been peace for years. Celts and Romans have joined their lives. Why, you once met Lucius Aquila in battle, but now he’s married to a Celt healer. They—”
“Silence.”
“—they have a daughter—”
“
Silence, I said.
”
Owein’s vehemence startled Clara into obedience. He ran a hand over his face and looked at the treetops. A quick peek told Clara his arousal had faded.
“Does … do your wounds pain you still?”
He looked back at her. “Nay. Most times I forget they are there.”
“And other times?”
“Other times I regret I didna commit the crime for which I paid.”
She inhaled a shaky breath. “How did you come to be a slave?”
For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t speak. Then the answer came, carefully devoid of emotion.
“I was taken in battle and sold as spoils. My master transported me to a quarry in Cambria. For nearly two years, I tried to escape. Each time I was caught my punishment was worse than the one before.”
“And the last?”
“My master’s wife accused me. She was a garish, painted woman who whored with her husband’s slaves. She wished to add me to her stable. In truth, I would have cut off my cock rather than pleasure her with it. I told her as much. By that time I didn’t care if I lived or died. Until I saw the flagellum.”
“How did you survive the flogging?”
“I hardly know. I managed to crawl into the forest. I’m nay sure how much time passed before Aiden found me.”
“You were fortunate he did.”
“Fortunate?” His laugh was harsh. “Aye, I suppose, if ye consider how unfortunate I’d been to have my home overrun by Romans. How unfortunate to be knocked senseless in battle and deprived of the opportunity to fall on my sword. How unfortunate I was to have been sold like a beast.”
“I … I’m sorry.”
“Ye needn’t be. Ye didna wield the sword, nor the whip.”
“Still—”
His expression shuttered. “Toss me my clothes, lass.”
Clara started at the reminder of Owein’s nakedness. Cheeks heating, she retrieved his
braccas
and shirt, which lay drying on the bank. Moving to the water’s edge, she held them out to him. He climbed from the stream, the chilled water already transforming to heat on his skin. How did the fires burn so intensely within him? Clara hugged her arms to her body and stepped back.
To her surprise he didn’t don the garments, only threw them over his arm. Stepping into his boots, he walked naked back to the camp. Once there, he sifted through his pack and drew out wool
braccas
and the white linen shirt Clara had worn while her clothes dried.
“Did your wife make those?”
He shrugged into the shirt. “Aye.”
He shoved his long legs into the
braccas,
but paused before he did up the laces. She looked up to find him watching her, the amused expression she knew so well back on his face. With a start, she realized her attention had been fixed between his legs. Her face reddened.
He laughed softly. She wasn’t aware she’d moved until her back hit the wall of the cave. “ ’Tis no crime to look, lass.”
“I wasn’t—”
“There’s no crime in wanting, either.”
“I don’t want you.”
“Ye did last night,” he taunted softly. “Ye opened your thighs for me.”
“But … you were the one who ran. You’re afraid of me. Of us. Of the connection we have.”
He stiffened. “ ’Twas nay my fear ye felt.”
“I think it was. You’ve seen cruelty and evil, Owein. Darkness lingers inside your mind. It’s crippling you. I … I think I can help, if you’d only let me. Please—”
He gave a swift shake of his head. “Ye don’t know what ye are asking.”
She lifted her chin. “I do, and I’m not afraid.”
He regarded her with sober eyes. “Perhaps ye should be.”
“ ’Tis an outrage! A disgrace.” Padrig’s strident voice sliced through the air. His long limbs jerked as he paced before the fire. The Druid elder looked like a toy Rhys had once seen in the hands of a Roman child—a jointed ivory man mounted on a stick.
Mared lifted a hand. “Have a care what ye say in this place. The Great Mother listens.”
“I’ll nay shrink before the Great Mother,” Padrig snapped. He came to a halt. “And I’ll nay accept the rantings of a possessed man as law. Of course Cyric would name Gwen as his successor. He is caught in her Dark enchantment.”
“Ye canna know that,” Rhys said sharply.
“We must discern the will of the Great Mother,” Mared said.
“The Mother remains silent,” Padrig muttered.
Rhys barely heard their bickering. Cyric had denied him his birthright! The shock of his grandfather’s pronouncement darted through his chest with every breath. His limbs felt almost detached from his body. He looked up at the sky and imagined lifting his arms and becoming lost in the clouds.
Hefin’s silhouette swooped toward him, a black blur against the lightening sky. Rhys held a forearm aloft. The merlin settled on it, ruffling and folding its wings. Rhys took comfort in the bird’s familiar weight.
Padrig’s dour gaze drew him back to the earth. “Ye must lead Avalon when Cyric passes, Rhys. ’Tis your right and your duty.”
“Nay,” Rhys said quietly.
“Ye canna accept an old man’s witless ramblings!”
“There is nothing wrong with Cyric’s wits. I sensed no darkness in his words.” Rhys took a deep breath and ignored the ache in his heart. “If Cyric has declared my sister leader of Avalon, I must abide by his will.”
“But ye are her elder,” Mared protested.
“Gwen’s power is greater. It has always been so.”
Mared frowned. “ ’Tis a power without discipline.”
“Then my sister will learn patience.”
“And what of the clan?” Padrig put in. “Our people want ye at their head, Rhys. Not Gwen. She’s angered many. Ye’ve nay been here to witness it.”
“She shirks her duties,” Mared said. “She disappears into the swamps, sometimes for an entire moon.”
“Avalon has seen even less of me,” Rhys said.
“They see your obedience to Cyric’s will.” Mared advanced to lay one wrinkled hand on Rhys’s arm. “They see ye gathering the blessed from the Roman towns and bringing them to a new life. Most of them came to us through ye.”
“ ’Twas Cyric’s vision that brought the Druids back to Avalon,” Rhys said. “Would ye have me defy his last command?”
Padrig’s eyes were grave. “For the good of the clan.”
Rhys shook his head. Hefin startled at the movement. “Cyric’s Sight is bound to the Great Mother. Perhaps the Goddess has shown him some truth the rest of us are blind to. Nay, I willna go against Cyric, no matter my own wishes. Gwen must lead Avalon.”
“She must be present for that,” Padrig muttered. “And she is not.”
“Surely she’s not far.”
“Cormac searched the swamps and the surrounding hillsides. He found no sign of her.”
“Cormac is nay of Avalon,” Rhys said sharply. “I dinna trust him.” He jerked his arm, sending Hefin skyward. “I will search for Gwen, as I promised Cyric. I will find my sister and bring her home to face her duty.”
“Or her judgment,” Padrig said darkly.
Rhys nodded. “Or her judgment.”
The
mansio
smelled of rotten fish.
The inn was a dingy two-story structure surrounded by a high wall. Clara hadn’t even reached the gates leading into the yard when the rank odor of decayed seafood—and worse—assaulted her. Apparently, the establishment’s isolated location was sufficient guarantee of prosperity. Its owner certainly didn’t aspire to cleanliness.
She bent her head into the icy wind and forced her feet forward. If the place were warm, she could ignore all else. Sleet stung her face like a thousand needles. Worse, the storm’s vague, sparkling undercurrent set her senses on edge. Was this the Deep Magic? She frowned, trying to grasp what she didn’t understand.