“Clara,” she said, her voice rising. “My name is Clara.”
“Aye, so ye’ve said.”
He waited for her. She drew close, pulled back, then swayed forward again. Her breath whispered over his lips.
Anticipation stretched him taut, like a rope ready to snap. He couldn’t remember when the promise of a kiss had consumed him so utterly. Perhaps it never had.
He closed his eyes. The next instant her lips brushed his, soft and hesitant. Cool, like a sip of water from a spring. Fire sprang up inside him but he kept the flames banked. He didn’t wish to singe the kitten’s fur.
“I … thought your beard would be coarse.” He felt the words murmured against his lips.
“Nay,” he said thickly. Her springtime scent surrounded him.
She pressed her mouth against his, inexpertly. He moved his lips on hers, tasting. She caught her breath and tried to move away, but Owein shifted one hand to cup the back of her head.
“Dinna pull away, lass. Not yet.”
He lifted her into his lap. She made a startled sound, then surprised him by going soft in his arms. Encouraged, he deepened their kiss, running his tongue along the seam of her lips.
She opened to him on a sigh, her arms entwining his neck. He plundered her mouth. She whimpered, her round bottom wriggling on his shaft as if seeking a more comfortable position. By the Horned God! This was more torture than any man could be expected to endure—and for a man who’d not bedded a woman in two years …
He set his hands on her hips and rocked her against him in a steady, sensual rhythm. “Lass, ye are so sweet.”
To his misfortune, his whispered endearment brought her back to herself. She wrenched her lips from his, shoving against his chest with a cry of dismay. He released her reluctantly.
She scrambled off his lap and backed away, eyes wide, her hand at her throat. Her gaze flicked to his crotch, then quickly jerked to a point beyond his shoulder. “I … that’s enough.”
“Not nearly, to my thinking.” He was sure his stones had turned blue. “Lie with me, lass.”
“I cannot.”
His gaze softened. “Dinna be afraid. I’ll be gentle with ye.”
“No,” she said, backing up farther, until she stood almost in the hearth. “You don’t understand. I can’t dishonor my father. He believes a woman’s value is in her purity.”
“A woman’s value lies in her strength. In the new life she brings to her husband and her clan.” He folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “How many years have ye, lass?”
“Twenty.”
“And ye havna the right to choose your own bed partner?” He shook his head. “I dinna pretend to understand the ways of the Romans, but it seems to me they treat their women like children. A Celt lass—”
Clara stiffened. “I am not a Celt woman. And what I do in my bedchamber is no business of yours. You’ve had your kiss. Our bargain is sealed. I will accompany you to the stone circle. Nothing like this will happen again.”
But she didn’t sound at all certain.
The door to the forge swung open.
A swath of sunlight flashed across the soot-covered floor of Marcus’s workroom. Marcus blinked against the sudden brightness. Working more from habit than sight, he completed his task, maneuvering a set of long tongs to pluck a bloom of iron from the coals in the furnace. He transferred it to the anvil. Only then did he look up to see who had disturbed his sanctuary.
“Rhys.”
The greeting had the weight of resignation about it. At Rhiannon’s insistence, Marcus had allowed the Celt to remain a guest in their home. But the thought of sleeping under the same roof as a Druid sorcerer had left a knot in Marcus’s stomach. He’d spent the night in the forge.
At least he was getting some work done.
Rhys shut the door, plunging the room into pleasant darkness once more. Unfortunately, Rhys remained inside.
“Good day to ye, Marcus.”
“I didn’t think you’d be about before noon,” Marcus muttered. He’d heard Rhys ring the gate bell just before dawn, after providing song at the home of a wealthy Celt merchant.
“I’ve nay slept at all. The storm may have blown itself out, but I cannot help thinking the reprieve will be brief.”
“I’ve no wish to hear of storms,” Marcus said, inhaling the tang of hot metal and ash. He brought his hammer down on the raw iron, absorbing a satisfying jolt with his arm. “Nor do I wish to speak of my sister—” He turned the piece and hammered again, flattening the lumpy metal. “Nor your Druid clan, nor”—he slammed the iron with a solid blow—“
magic.
”
Rhys drew up a stool and sat. “We’ll speak of your work, then,” he said. His eyes roamed the workshop and came to rest on a plank table shoved up against the wall. An odd collection of throwing knives and silver animal figurines—Marcus’s two hobbies—littered the surface, interspersed with drawings done on wax tablets and scraps of papyrus.
In the center of the clutter lay a long wrapped parcel. “Ye have a sword ready for delivery?” Rhys asked.
“Yes.” Marcus transferred the beaten iron back to the furnace, then moved to the bellows. He sent a long, steady stream of air across the coals, watching the flare of heat carefully. Too much, and the iron would soften more than he intended. Too little, and it would be brittle when it cooled.
A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His hair clung his scalp; his shirt to his torso. “The sword goes to Aurelius Valgus.”
“The tribune? I didna ken ye had trade with the man.”
“I don’t,” Marcus said sharply. He pulled the heated iron from the fire and folded the glowing metal on the surface of the anvil. “At least, I didn’t before today. Sempronius Gracchus commissioned the sword. But now the commander is ill, and Valgus is in command. He’s even moved into Gracchus’s residence. The tribune demanded I deliver the sword to him.”
“Ah,” Rhys said. “Last night’s feast was abuzz with the news that Valgus is to marry your fair Clara.”
Marcus slammed his hammer on the anvil. “I cannot believe Gracchus would give her to that bastard rather than to me.”
“Valgus is destined for the Roman Senate,” Rhys said easily. “I’ve heard Gracchus wants nothing more than to be father-in-law to a Senator. You, my friend, are a backwater blacksmith.”
“My blood is as patrician as Valgus’s,” Marcus muttered. “My own grandfather sat in the Senate.”
“Aye, but your father renounced the seat to marry a barbarian,” Rhys pointed out. “Now he tends wheat fields without the benefit of slaves. His sanity is suspect.” He tipped his stool onto its rear legs and leaned against the wall. “Perhaps Clara asked for the match with Valgus. Does she appear willing?”
“I wouldn’t know. She hasn’t been at the market in days. That’s one reason I agreed to deliver Gracchus’s sword to Valgus. I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of her.”
“To what purpose? It will only darken your mood. Choose another woman to woo. There are fair lasses aplenty in Isca.”
“Perhaps,” Marcus said, setting his hammer and tongs aside. He bent and adjusted the furnace vents. Rhys’s advice, as always, had the ring of wisdom. His obsession was fruitless, and no one knew it so well as he. Why couldn’t he put Clara out of his head?
Untying his apron, he hung it on an iron hook. “I’m to deliver the sword before noon,” he said with a mild snort, “so as not to disturb Valgus’s dinner.” Belatedly, he realized he’d slipped into the familiar amity he and Rhys so often shared. He slanted the Celt a glance, conflicting emotions grappling in his chest. His best friend a Druid? The notion didn’t seem real.
“Will you accompany me to the fortress?” he asked after an awkward pause.
“With pleasure,” Rhys said smoothly, setting the front leg of the stool down with a bang. Rising, he strode to the worktable. “But first, I would inspect your handiwork.”
Marcus was at the washbasin, scrubbing soot from his face and hands. He squinted into the polished bronze mirror. He should stop at the main house and change his clothes. He cared little if Valgus sneered at his blacksmith’s garb, but if there was a chance he might encounter Clara …
Rhys caught Marcus’s eye in the mirror. “Go on,” Marcus told him. “Just be sure to wrap it again.”
Rhys unrolled the oiled cloth to reveal a sheathed
gladius.
Intricate silver tracery decorated its crosspiece and pommel. The polished leather scabbard bore a matching silver edging and tip. Rhys slid the sword from its sheath and hefted it, checking its balance. He tested the shining edge with his thumb.
“A fine piece, Marcus, as usual. Ye are a true artist.” He shook his head. “A fine joke that a man who loathes swordplay should produce such a beautiful weapon.”
“Indeed,” Marcus said wryly. It was the truth. He was far more captivated by the artistry of swords than by their use. Throwing knives, however, were another story. He had a fine hand with a dagger, especially those of his own design.
Rhys sheathed the blade and covered it with the oilcloth. “ ’Tis close to midday now.”
Marcus decided to forgo a change of clothing. He’d most likely not catch a glimpse of Clara, and if he did, what did it matter? She was beyond his reach.
They trudged the snowy lane to Isca in silence, Rhys squinting skyward repeatedly.
Searching for Hefin,
Marcus thought. But the merlin was nowhere to be seen.
Odd.
Farmland gave way to the jumble of timbered cottages and thatched roofs that made up the city. The forum market lacked its usual bustle of customers, most likely because of the cold. The arena was busy, however, with men and slaves hurrying about.
“There’s a slave auction on the Ides,” Marcus told Rhys.
“You’ll be there, I trust.”
“Of course.” Marcus attended every auction, buying what slaves the family finances could afford. And earning the contempt of the patrician Romans in Isca when he immediately granted their freedom. Another strike against Marcus as far as his offer for Clara was concerned. No doubt Sempronius Gracchus thought him mad.
Some of the slaves Marcus freed stayed on at the Aquila farm, working for board and a small wage, but most did not. Financially and socially, the endeavor was a losing proposition. And yet Marcus’s only regret was that he wasn’t rich enough to free every slave brought to the auction stone. Men and women shouldn’t be traded like cattle.
They approached the fortress. The massive gates stood open, as was common during daylight hours. Isca had been a secure city for two generations. The only threat the two soldiers at guard were likely to encounter was boredom.
“Marcus Ulpius Aquila, blacksmith,” Marcus told the man who appeared the most alert. “I’ve a delivery for Tribune Valgus.”
“And your friend?” the man asked, eyeing Rhys.
“My assistant.”
The man made a note on a wax tablet and jerked his head, indicating they were free to pass. Inside the gates, the disorder of the village gave way to neat workshops, granaries, and stables. Commander Gracchus’s legendary discipline was evident everywhere. Soldiers went about their business with quiet purpose, streets were empty of debris, and the buildings were in such good repair that they might have been erected yesterday rather than fifty years earlier. Suddenly, Marcus regretted not changing his sooty clothes.
They approached Gracchus’s residence, an impressive two-story house located in the center of the fortress. Marcus had barely rapped at the door when it swung open. An elderly porter wearing an expression of disdain took one look at the ragged pair on his doorstep and directed them to the servants’ entrance.
Rhys chuckled. “ ’Tis true enough, Marcus, ye could use a visit to the baths.”
“As if you smelled like a rose,” Marcus grumbled.
They followed an alley to the rear of the building. A kitchen slave directed them to an unroofed yard off the central court. Rows of amphorae, the rounded clay shipping containers favored for oil and wine, bordered one side of the space. In an opposite corner, freshly washed linen grew stiff in the cold air.
A portly Roman with shining white hair and an equally shining white tunic appeared. Marcus knew the man to be Gracchus’s steward.
“How fares the commander?” Marcus asked.
The man nodded. “Of course, blacksmith.”
Belatedly, Marcus remembered that the elderly steward was all but deaf. He repeated the question more loudly.
The steward’s expression sobered. “Not well. The commander clings to life, but I fear it won’t be long before he stands on the banks of the Styx.”
“And his daughter? How is she?”
The question seemed to frighten the man. His gaze dropped to the floor. “As well as can be expected.”
Marcus cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.” He lifted the wrapped sword. “Tribune Valgus is expecting this delivery.”
“He requests you await him in the main courtyard. He wishes to inspect the sword before extending payment.”
“As the Tribune wishes,” Marcus said. In an undertone, he added to Rhys, “Valgus had better part with the full amount.”
“Don’t count on it,” Rhys murmured back to him as they followed the steward out of the work yard. “Gossip has it that he’s in arrears all over town.”
An interminable wait ensued. Female voices drifted from the kitchen. Marcus cocked his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of Clara on the upper-story balcony, but to no avail.
Valgus strode into the yard. Though only two years older than Marcus, the tribune already sported the thickened look of a man past thirty. He wore his haughty air with considerable pride. Many considered him a fine-looking man, and Marcus supposed he might have agreed, if it hadn’t been for Valgus’s eyes. Small and black, they had the unsettling habit of never resting in one place.
Marcus stepped forward. Forgoing a formal bow, he simply unfolded the oiled cloth and presented his sword.
Valgus accepted the blade, sliding it from its scabbard and testing the edge as Rhys had done. It was perhaps the finest
gladius
Marcus had ever made—with it, he’d hoped to gain Gracchus’s favor, but that had been before Clara’s betrothal. Now all he wished for was payment.
The tribune’s expression betrayed nothing as he slashed a wide arc with the gleaming weapon. “It will do, I suppose.”