by Joy Nash
“Oh, aye,” Gwen replied. “Ye must not worry about that. Mared’s healing skills are vast.”
“And Owein?” Rhiannon asked, taking an empty chair. “How does he fare? I canna believe my brother will soon be a father.”
“He will be a fine one,” Gwen replied. “He hovers over Clara so closely, she barely has space to draw breath.” Rhiannon laughed and asked more avid questions. Marcus knew she regretted not being able to travel to Avalon for the birth.
Breena returned from the kitchen with a tray of bread and cheese, followed by Alma, who carried a platter of cold mutton. Marcus was not hungry. He retreated from the table to stand with his back to the wall, sipping his beer. Breena took an empty seat across from Gwen. His sister’s gaze clung to their visitor as if she were a goddess come to life.
Marcus scowled. It was bad enough Breena looked at Rhys that way. She didn’t need another Druid to idolize.
Rhiannon turned and frowned at him. He recognized his stepmother’s expression for what it was—a summons to the table. With a sigh, he took the last empty seat, next to Lucius, and accepted a plate of food he did not want.
“What do you make of the army sending an expedition to the Mendips?” he asked his father in an undertone. “Those mines were abandoned years ago.”
“And yet the existence of Avalon’s mine proves that silver can still be found, if one is willing to dig deep enough. An unscrupulous legate could skim a fine profit off the top before the army records the weight of the metal extracted.”
Marcus frowned down at his mug. “If the army finds silver, they’ll build a permanent fort. Avalon will be even more vulnerable. The Druids will have no choice but to flee.”
“Perhaps,” Lucius allowed. His gaze drifted to Gwen. “What do you make of her coming here?”
Marcus’s eyes cut to Gwen. She was relating a humorous story about Clara’s adjustment to life in Avalon.
“Certainly, she wishes to protect her home,” Marcus said in answer to his father’s question. “But she is not being entirely truthful.” He paused. “She told me Rhys sent her here.”
“You do not believe that.”
“I think it highly unlikely, especially as she has not come for Breena. If I were given to gambling, I’d wager half the farm that Rhys has no idea where Gwen is. And the other half that Rhys would be furious if he knew.” And what of Gwen’s betrothed? Marcus mused silently. Did the man know his intended’s whereabouts?
“Why would she go behind Rhys’s back, do you think, seeking a magic sword?” Lucius said.
“I don’t know,” Marcus replied grimly. “But I mean to find out.”
An hour later, Gwen’s lithe form moved through the smithy door and into Marcus’s private sanctuary. The place was ruined for him now. It was a testament to the potency of his unabated lust that he did not care. How many times had he dreamed of her here? More than he could count. She approached the sturdy oaken worktable. He’d once fantasized about taking her on that table. Now she paused just in front of the place where he’d imagined her sitting, naked, with legs spread wide in welcome, and touched the blade of a just-completed dagger.
He let out a slow, painful breath.
“It’s beautiful,” she said in Celtic, trailing a finger along the edge of the dagger’s blade.
He reached out and caught her wrist. “Have a care. I just honed that last night. It’s very sharp.”
She started, staring down at their joined hands. Despite her height, her hand was much smaller than his. Her fingers and palms were callused from years of hard work. He drew his thumb across the base of her fingers.
Her head came up; her eyes were wide. She took her hand from his grip with an embarrassed laugh. “I will endeavor to be more careful.” He watched as she put some distance between them, first inspecting the furnace, then studying a rack that held daggers and swords in varying stages of completion. When she peered around the wooden screen that hid his rumpled bed, color rose in her cheeks. But she did not, Marcus noted with interest, immediately turn away.
Was she a virgin? She was betrothed. Her intended must not be much of a man, to let her travel alone to Isca. Had she already lain with her Caledonian? It was entirely possible; she was no girl, after all. She was near the same age as Marcus—twenty-five. She should have wed years ago.
He cleared his throat. Gwen, who was still staring at his bed, spun about. The flush on her cheeks was a becoming pink.
“I sleep here sometimes, when I’m working on a difficult piece,” Marcus offered.
“Ah. Ye must love your work, then.”
“I do. I was ten years old when my father retired from the army and purchased this farm. I spent all my spare time here in the smithy, watching the old smith. There was something about working iron that fascinated me. Father, of course, was appalled when I declared I wanted to learn the craft.”
“But why?”
“Patrician Romans do not, as a rule, become craftsmen.”
“I do not understand. Why not?”
“It’s beneath us,” he said wryly. “We patricians own land, and serve as military officers and civil magistrates. We don’t engage in mercantile trade. But I hated politics and war, and loved the forge, so I was determined to become a smith. If we lived in Rome, it would have been impossible. Even here on the frontier, I’m ridiculed. The patricians in Isca think I am mad.” He smiled. “But somehow, that does not stop them from offering me commissions.”
“Because your swords are so beautiful.”
“Any fool can make a beautiful sword. No, they seek me out because my blades are strong. They won’t bend or shatter.”
“Why is that?”
“A smith is like a cook. His ingredients must be pure and his methods precise. The iron cannot be inferior, and it must be forged at the right temperature. If it’s not worked long enough, the blade will be too soft. It won’t hold an edge, and can bend in battle. But if it’s worked too long, after a time its strength fades. An overworked blade is brittle, in danger of breaking. It’s a smith’s task to strike the right balance.”
“And ye have found this balance.” She crossed to the forge and peered into the furnace. “Your furnace is very large. I use only a small fire when working silver.”
“I work in silver and bronze on occasion,” he said, indicating his own clay crucible on a stone ledge nearby. “Soft metals such as silver melt at lower temperatures. With iron, a large chamber is needed to accommodate enough fuel to sustain a high heat.”
“It must be a very hot fire indeed, judging from the mountain of charcoal ye have piled outside your smithy.”
She eyed the separate chamber he’d lined with new brick. It was not yet as black with soot as the rest of the furnace. The floor in front of it was littered with rejected half-hammered blooms of newly smelted iron. “This section is new?”
“Yes. It’s the reason there’s so much charcoal outside. I’m trying to smelt a newer, stronger type of iron.”
“Bright iron, ye mean.”
He blinked. “You’ve heard of it?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Rhys told me of it, only a few days ago. Have ye met with success?”
“Some.”
“But not as much as ye want.”
“No,” he admitted, then frowned. “But I didn’t bring you here to discuss innovations in smithing. I need some answers. The truth, this time. Rhys doesn’t know you are here, does he?”
Gwen’s brows rose. The half smile was back, playing on her lips. “Whatever sort of man ye are, Marcus Aquila, ye are not an unintelligent one.”
He did not acknowledge her compliment, if indeed it was one. He was too arrested by the clear gray of her eyes, made even more compelling by the tilt of her chin and the regal set of her shoulders. Her clothes were at odds with her bearing. Her tunic was old, almost threadbare. The slight swell of her small breasts barely filled the thin wool. She was tall and thin—most men would say too thin. Marcus had never
understood the Roman obsession with small, curvaceous women. He much preferred Gwen’s sleek, willowy form.
Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from her body and returned it to her face, flushing when he read the frank knowledge of his appraisal in her eyes. But she didn’t mention his rudeness. Instead, she answered his question.
“Ye have the right of it. Rhys does not know where I am.”
“No doubt he’s worried about you.”
“And angry at me besides. Neither emotion, I fear, is anything new.”
Marcus filed that information away. “I suppose that means he also doesn’t know about this sword you wish me to make.”
“Nay. He does not.”
He paced to his anvil. “A magical sword. Tell me, exactly how am I to provide you with that? And why?”
She turned away, studying his rack of tools. Half of them were missing, scattered about the smithy. She hefted a wooden mallet that he seldom used, testing its weight. “How else might a small band of Druids face the threat of a Dark sorcerer, except with magic?”
“You speak of Legate Strabo. I’ve met the man. He is not at all magical.”
“Forgive me for speaking plainly, but ye are hardly an expert in matters of magic. Rhys hid his power from ye for years.”
Marcus felt his face heat as his old anger flared. He did not like remembering what a fool he’d been. “Let’s not mince words, then. Tell me everything. Describe this sword you wish me to forge, what magic you mean to bind to it, and, most importantly, why Rhys and Cyric disapprove.”
“ ’Tis not so much a matter of disapproval,” Gwen said quickly. “ ’Tis only that if I’d told Rhys of my plans, he would have insisted I bring the matter before the Elders. Mared, Avalon’s healer, and Padrig, my uncle, would never support any plan I put forth.”
“Why not?”
Gwen grimaced. “They do not trust me.”
“And why is that?”
She weighed the mallet first in one hand, then in the other, as if weighing the possible answers she could give. He wondered how much of what she told him was the truth.
“Cyric has chosen me to be Guardian after his passing,” she said finally. “But Mared does not believe I have the constancy for the role. She and Padrig believe the role of Guardian should pass to Rhys. Indeed …” Her voice faltered. “Even I believe it.”
The self-doubt that flitted across her face made something in Marcus’s chest catch. “Rhys doesn’t believe that, I’m sure. He’s told me your magic is stronger than his.”
“That may be true,” she said, “or not. Rhys does not embrace his full power.”
“How can you say that? The man can change into a bird! If there’s a power beyond that, I don’t want to know about it.”
The mallet slipped through Gwen’s fingers and fell to the floor with a thud. She gripped the upper bar of the tool rack. “What did ye say?”
Marcus regarded her with some amazement. “You didn’t know?”
“Did he … did he tell ye he could shift?”
“Hardly. Breena and I saw him change quite by accident. It was in the wood behind the barley fields, last year, when you were … in danger. Rhys flew from Avalon to Isca as a merlin, searching for Clara.”
“After I begged him to try to shift,” Gwen whispered. “He did it. But he never told me. He only warned me …” Her expression hardened.
“Warned you about what?”
She shook her head, her brow creasing. Her upper teeth caught her bottom lip and she bit down on the tender skin, hard.
Marcus’s groin tightened. Hastily, he looked away.
Bending, Gwen retrieved the dropped mallet and replaced it on the rack. She let out a slow, tightly controlled breath as she exchanged it for a smaller iron hammer.
“Were ye disgusted? When ye saw the change?” Her tone was carefully bland. Marcus did not miss the raw pain beneath. She was not, he thought, speaking of Rhys.
“No,” he said, because it was the truth. He’d been shocked when Gwen had shifted in his arms. And yes, terrified—at least for an instant, before he’d become unbearably aroused. But disgusted? He almost laughed. No, not disgusted.
But he could hardly tell Gwen that just the memory of watching her shift from wolf to woman left his cock hard and his stones aching. She bit her lip again. Lust struck like hammer against anvil. His body vibrated with the sheer force of it.
She met his gaze. His throat tightened as her pupils went dark, the gray circle of her iris thinning to a slender ring. The gray was lightest near her pupils, and deepened to charcoal at the outer ring.
The hot thread of emotions drew taut between them. Her fingers twisted together. She felt the attraction between them, as he did. He was sure of it. Gods help him.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. His brain had gone blank. He didn’t dare touch her, but he didn’t—couldn’t—hide his desire for her. Her eyes flicked downward, then widened. He could tell she thought she should look away. But she didn’t.
A sense of unreality settled around him. He wanted her. What was he thinking? This was no tavern girl, no marriageable neighbor. She was Rhys’s sister. Promised to another man. A Druidess. A shape-shifter. A wolf.
None of it mattered. He wanted her, with a lust so fierce it sucked the air from his lungs.
She finally snatched her gaze from his body, her breathing rapid and shallow. Taking a step backward, she looked about—most likely for anything other than his … regard for her, he thought wryly. And so it was with a sense of burgeoning inevitability that he watched her become aware of the high shelf above his worktable. Her gaze touched on each animal figurine in turn, until it came to rest on the wolf.
“What—” She swallowed visibly. As if in a trance, she took the few steps needed to bring her within reach of the display. She surprised him by touching not the wolf, but a fat sheep.
“What charming figures. Did ye make them?”
“Yes.”
“They seem so … frivolous. So unlike ye.”
He grimaced. “Am I so deadly dull, then?”
“Nay! I did not mean it that way. I only meant it seems odd that a man who forges weapons also crafts such whimsical ornaments.”
“I started when Breena was small, when the old smith was still alive. I made most of these figures for her.”
Gwen’s gaze darted to the wolf.
“But not all.” Deliberately, he reached past her and picked it up. “This one, I made for myself.”
She bit her lip again. He nearly groaned out loud. “Is … is it … me?” she asked.
“It might be. Then again, it could be my ancestors’ lare.”
“I do not know that word.”
“The lares are Roman guardian spirits. My full name is Marcus Ulpius Aquila. In Rome, the second of a man’s three names comes to him from his ancestors. Mine is especially ancient. Ulpius. In the oldest language of Latium, it means wolf.”
“The wolf is the guardian of your clan?” Her shock was palpable.
“Yes.” Marcus ran his thumb over the curve of the silver wolf’s back, then set the figure on the worktable between a sheet of papyrus and an open wax tablet. “But you’re right—I would be lying if I said I was thinking of my forefathers when I fashioned this figurine. I thought only of you. As I have every night since I carried you out of that cave.”
Distress flashed in her eyes. Distress, and something more. His body tightened. He felt a predator’s energy gather inside him, as if the spirit of the wolf his forefathers had worshipped had come to life in his belly.
“I have thought of ye as well,” she said in a rush. “I’ve long wanted to thank ye for saving me. When I woke from Blodwen’s spell, ye seemed like a dream scattered by the dawn.”
“No. No dream.”
“I also wondered … what was it like for ye, watching me change? Ye are the only one who has ever seen it. I cannot help thinking it was horrible.”
“I won’t insult you by
pretending it wasn’t a shock. But horrible? No. That’s not the word I would use.”
Her laugh was bitter. “What, then? Repulsive? Perverted? An abomination?”
He caught her arm and waited until she looked at him. “It was none of those things.” His voice sounded raw to his own ears. “Startling, yes, even though Rhys had told me you were trapped in the form of a wolf.”
His gaze drifted to her lower lip, red and a little swollen where she’d bitten it. Gods. Her eyes were so innocent, so uncertain. And he was so hard. How could she not know how her nearness affected him?
His fingers pressed more deeply into her upper arm. He had to be hurting her, but she didn’t try to pull away. “The experience was far from repulsive, I assure you.”
The doubt and shame didn’t leave her eyes. He was gripped by a visceral need to banish it. And so he lowered his head, intending to kiss her, just to prove his words were true.
He moved swiftly, sensing that if she guessed what he planned, she’d push him away. When his lips met hers, she stiffened in surprise, drinking in his breath with a soft gasp. On the next heartbeat, her body went soft.
Marcus’s head spun, as if he’d drunk a pitcher of unwatered wine, too quickly. He watched as if outside himself as his lips brushed over hers. Fire burned in his veins; a savageness almost wholly unknown to him screamed at him to take her, mark her as his, whether she was willing to accept such intimacy or not. But violence was not his way. In truth, he abhorred it. His muscles went rigid as he fought to stay in control. She belonged to another man—he shouldn’t even have touched her. But now that he had, he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.
He kissed her again, suckling and nipping her lower lip. She tasted of wild things—heather and honey, and the wind on the moor. He cupped her cheek; he marveled at the softness of her skin under his callused fingers. His tongue teased the ragged terrain of her lower lip. He ran a hand over her hair, wishing fervently it weren’t bound in a braid. He wanted it loose and flowing.
She trembled under his touch. Not from fear. Or anger. He was certain of that much, at least. The knowledge emboldened him. He pushed aside all thoughts of her betrothed. If the man hadn’t been able to keep her by his side, he did not deserve her.