Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  He pressed his thumb to her chin, parting her lips so he could slip inside the slick hot mystery that was her mouth. She made a sound in the back of her throat as his tongue touched hers. Not a protest. Not exactly, anyway.

  She tensed, her palm flattening against his chest. He thought she would push him away—he’d even begun to withdraw. Then her fingers fisted in the loose fabric of his shirt. A small, helpless moan sounded in the back of her throat.

  He resisted the fierce urge to press her against the edge of the worktable and grind his lower body into the soft cradle of her thighs. Instead, he held himself still while she hesitantly returned his kisses. They were sweetly innocent gems, uncertain and untutored. Elation filled him. She had not yet given herself to her intended. He was all but sure of it.

  His shaking hand moved to her shoulder, then skimmed down her arm and settled on her waist. All the while, he feasted on her lips and rained kisses on her cheeks and eyelids. He nuzzled her jaw, suckled the spot just below her ear.

  She slid her arms around his neck. Gods, yes.

  “Marcus …”

  The breathy, sensual quality she brought to his name fired a streak of desire directly to his loins. Lust dazed his mind. He calculated the distance and direction to his bed. No more than a half-dozen steps to the left. He would lay her on the mattress. Cover her body with his. Plunge into her sweet, wild heat.

  She seemed to sense—and approve—his fevered decision. Her kisses grew frantic, ardent. She pressed her body against his. His tongue swept along her jaw, lapped and nibbled at the corner of her mouth. A low, growling vibration sounded in her throat.

  Without warning, pain exploded in his lip.

  He jerked back. “Ow!”

  Gwen inhaled sharply, her eyes flicked to his mouth, then widened in horror. She looked as though she would be ill. “Great Mother … Oh, Marcus, I am sorry! I did not mean …”

  He touched his mouth. His fingers came away smeared with blood. His blood.

  She’d bitten him.

  By Pollux. She’d bitten him, as a she-wolf might nip its mate. His rod hardened unmercifully. He should have been appalled. He was not. He was unbearably, insanely aroused.

  Hades. What would she be like in his bed? Would loving her kill him? For an instant, he was willing to risk it.

  Then sanity slammed into his brain like a load of bricks falling from the top of a scaffold. Watching a wolf turn into a woman—that experience had driven him out of his mind with lust. But taking a woman to bed, only to have her morph into a snarling, vicious beast …

  That prospect would give any man pause.

  He’d survived an encounter with Gwen as a wolf once—when she’d been weak and wounded. At full strength, he had no doubt the wolf could rip out his throat.

  Abruptly, he turned and paced a few steps away. Ran his hand over his head, then glanced back at her. The self-hatred in her eyes had returned—it made him feel like the worst of louts. She thought she’d repulsed him. Not true. His phallus was throbbing and his stones were so tight they were probably blue. He was struck with an absurd urge to laugh.

  He cursed under his breath instead. “Forgive me. I should not have … accosted you. You’re Rhys’s sister. He’d kill me if he were here.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. She stiffened, her fingers curling into small fists. “Rhys does not command me.”

  “No. I doubt any man could.”

  Then why was he struck with an irrational urge to order her behind the screen and into his bed? He shook his head slightly and cast about for something safe—or at least something safer—to say. He could think of nothing, except, maybe, yesterday’s rain.

  “Tell me more about this sword you require,” he said at last, plunging headlong into the next dangerous topic. “You don’t want a gladius, I’m sure. Do you mean for me to forge a Celt sword?”

  “I … hardly know. I know nothing of swords. There are no weapons on Avalon—Cyric does not allow it. The sword I need … I held it in a dream. I fought Strabo’s magic. The blade shone like polished silver.”

  “Chalybs shines, just as you’ve described.” He paused, thinking on her words. “Why do you believe you were fighting Strabo’s magic in your dream? It might have been a meaningless nightmare.”

  “Nay, the magic was real. I saw the Lady. It was she who handed me the sword. I used it to counter a dread beast. The creature was shrouded with the same Dark aura I’d seen about Strabo’s head.”

  “Aura?”

  “A glow that clings to someone touched by magic. Not many Druids can sense auras, but Rhys and I have a strong talent for it. The color we see tells us the type of magic a person is bound to. Seers are surrounded in white light. Yellow means a healer, green denotes a nurturing magic. Those with a light blue aura—like Rhys and me—are protectors.”

  “Ah. I know what you mean. Old Aiden claims to see such things.”

  Gwen smiled. “Aye, Owein told me. He says it’s the only magic the old man has.”

  “So you can see magic whenever you look at a person?”

  “ ’Tis a magical sort of looking. The colors come into my mind.”

  He didn’t understand, but then, he hadn’t expected to. Magic was beyond his comprehension. “And when you cast your senses toward someone with no magic—like me—you see nothing?”

  Sudden mischief danced in her eyes. “I see many things when I look at ye, Marcus Aquila.”

  The lightening of her expression made her look like a girl—carefree and happy. She should smile more often, he decided.

  He grinned in return. “Many things? Like what?”

  But she only shook her head slightly and turned away, as if she’d suddenly realized she’d been too lighthearted. “What ye say is true. Those who have no magic, have no aura.”

  He wished he could bring the teasing light back into her eyes, but he wasn’t sure how to do it. “So,” he said slowly. “If I forge this sword for you, what would you do with it? Attempt an attack on Strabo? Because if that’s your intent—”

  “ ’Tis not. The Druids of Avalon use magic only for good, or in defense.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “I intend to bind powerful spells of Light to the sword. The presence of the blade on Avalon will strengthen the mist.”

  Marcus considered her words. The Light, he knew, was not as dangerous as Deep Magic. But it was magic nonetheless, and powerful. He wanted nothing to do with it. And yet—could he afford to refuse her? There was Breena to consider.

  Gwen sensed his hesitation. “I know ye have no love of magic. No doubt ye do not wish to help me.”

  “I’m not completely unwilling. But if I agree to do this for you, I will require a service in return.”

  She looked wary. “What service?”

  He expelled a breath. “It has to do with Breena. I don’t want her to go to Avalon, but she’s troubled by visions …” He paced in front of the furnace, stirring up puffs of ash. “The dreams stopped last summer, but now they’re back with a vengeance. She won’t complain, because she doesn’t want to upset Rhiannon, but I’m afraid she’s close to breaking. I fear for her health.” He stopped and looked at her. “Rhys told Breena you helped Owein overcome the pain of his visions, and that you could do the same for her.”

  “I have a talent for spellcraft. I weave the ancient Words of the Old Ones into new patterns. I crafted a spell that helped Owein greatly. If Breena came to the sacred isle, ’tis likely I could do the same for her.”

  “I want you to help her here, in Isca. Then there will be no need for her to leave.”

  Gwen’s brows rose. “Rhys has been given the task of bringing Breena to Avalon. He would be furious if I were to do such a thing.”

  “As you said, Rhys’s anger is not an unusual occurrence.”

  She gave a reluctant laugh. “Nay, it is not.” Her expression turned serious. “Are ye saying that if I teach Breena to control her visions, ye will forge my sword?”

  “There is one ot
her condition as well.” One that would allow him to endure her presence without going mad.

  “Tell me, then, and let us come to an agreement.”

  Instead of replying, he asked another question. “You traveled here as a wolf, didn’t you?”

  “You cannot know that.”

  “You carried no pack and wore only the thinnest cloak, despite the chill. No woman would travel so far with so little.”

  For a moment, he thought she would deny it. But then she shrugged. “I needed to travel swiftly, and a wolf is a poor packhorse.”

  “Shape-shifting is Deep Magic. Forbidden magic.”

  “I know what it is,” Gwen said sharply.

  “You have little respect for Cyric’s teachings, then.”

  “Nay! I, more than anyone, know the dangers of Deep Magic. I do not call it lightly.”

  Marcus crossed his arms and hardened his voice to match hers. “If my father knew you’d run here as a wolf, he would throw you out. He has no more love for Deep Magic than I do.”

  “Do ye mean to tell him?”

  “No. No one in my family knows of your power. I never told them. And only Breena knows about Rhys’s shape-shifting. Your secret is safe.”

  Her shoulders eased. “I thank ye for that.” She looked up. “What is this last condition you mean to insist upon?”

  He captured her gaze. “You must promise not to call the wolf while you are here.”

  She crossed her arms and rubbed her hands over her upper arms, as if suddenly realizing she was cold. She bit her lip. Silence stretched between them.

  “I must have your word,” Marcus said.

  “And if I give it, ye will forge the sword? Help me bind my magic to it?”

  He nodded once, slowly.

  “Then aye, Marcus. Ye have my promise. I will not call the wolf.”

  Chapter Five

  It was not really a lie.

  Gwen told herself that as she exited the smithy with Marcus. She kept a careful distance between them as she walked at his side along the path to the main house. She’d told him she would not call the wolf. She could keep that promise. What she couldn’t promise was that the wolf would not call her.

  Somehow, she did not think Marcus would appreciate the distinction.

  And yet, what could she do? If she refused his terms, he would not forge her sword. And Avalon had need of the weapon in her dream. She was sure of it. Her vision had been a true one.

  Why hadn’t she told Rhys?

  Pride. She had not wanted to present her vision to her brother and listen to a disapproving litany. She was sure of her path, and she would take it, despite the fact that she’d had to break her promises to Cyric in order to do so. Once she returned to Avalon with the sword, the Elders would understand. And it was not as if she’d left Avalon unprotected, even if Cyric grew too weak to hold the mist. Rhys was there. Rhys was Cyric’s blood as much as she. His power could hold the mist.

  Rhys, who had shifted and never told her. Rhys, who had berated her for giving in to the Deep Magic of the wolf.

  Resentment hit like a storm, turning her vision red. She would never have guessed that Rhys—honest, honorable Rhys—was such a hypocrite. His power was not less than hers, as he’d always claimed. Nay, as she’d suspected, his magic mirrored hers.

  “Gwen?”

  She was so absorbed in her anger that at first she thought she’d imagined her brother’s voice in her mind. Then it came again.

  “Gwen. Do ye hear me?”

  She closed her eyes briefly. She and Rhys had been constantly in each other’s minds as children, but when they reached adolescence, and grew apart, they’d let the link lapse. Until last year, when Gwen, trapped in wolf form and desperate for help, had reached out to her twin with her mind. After her rescue, the renewed intimacy had been awkward. They had not spoken silently since then. Until now.

  “I am here, Rhys.”

  His relief—and his anger—flowed into her mind. She fought to control her own anger. He had lied to her! Well, she allowed, perhaps he hadn’t lied, but he had omitted telling her that he was bound to Deep Magic as surely as she was.

  “Why are ye calling to me? Has something happened?” Anxiety snaked through her gut. “Has Strabo pierced the mist?”

  “Not yet. Where are ye?”

  “I … I cannot say.”

  “What are ye doing, then? Tell me that, at least.”

  Gwen hesitated. “I do what I must. Trust me, Rhys.”

  “What ye must do is come home, Gwen.”

  She did not answer.

  “Gwen, so far I’ve kept your absence from Cyric, but I cannot keep up the pretense much longer.”

  “Then I pray ye do not. I will be gone for some time. But be assured what I do, I do for the good of Avalon.”

  “Or for what ye think is the good of Avalon. But it does not bode well that ye think ye need to do it in secret. I can think of only one reason for that. Deep Magic.”

  Again, she was silent.

  “Whatever your plan, abandon it, Gwen.”

  “How can ye ask that of me? Ye do not even know what I intend!”

  “I do not have to. If it involves Deep Magic, it is better left undone. Ye know Cyric’s teaching: whatever good can be accomplished with Deep Magic is far outweighed by the danger it represents. Ye vowed to walk only in the Light, Gwen. Do not forget it. Come home, where ye belong.”

  She remained silent.

  “Gwen? Do ye hear me? Gwen? Gwen!”

  Hot with anger, she threw up a spell to block Rhys from her mind. How dare he judge her! She would do what she knew was right, what was necessary. She would be careful. Rhys should know that. He was her twin. He should trust her. But he did not.

  She dared a sideways glance at Marcus, who had not spoken since they’d left the smithy. His expression was grim; he did not want to forge her sword, but he was willing to do it if it meant Breena could avoid traveling to Avalon. Rhys and Cyric would not be pleased, but Gwen could not refuse Marcus’s bargain if it meant she would gain the Lady’s sword. And a chance to be close to him.

  She could not deceive herself—her journey to Isca had as much to do with this darkly handsome, bluntly charming Roman as it did with any message from the Lady. She’d wanted to see him. Talk to him. Know him as something more than a vague memory. She suffered a pinch of guilt when she thought of what she had not told him about the sword. Resolutely, she ignored it. It was not necessary that he know.

  She could hardly believe she was walking beside him now. Nor that he had kissed her—kissed her! For the past year, her single memory of him—the expression in his beautiful eyes as he’d watched her shift—had burned in her mind. After just a few hours in his presence, that one image of him had been joined by a hundred more.

  For a year, he’d been a dream. Now he was a man.

  And what had she done? Bitten him.

  Her cheeks burned with humiliation. And fear. The wolf had howled for freedom—what would have happened if she hadn’t been able to hold it back? She could not bear to think of it, so she hastily shoved the thought from her mind. The solution was simple. Marcus could not be allowed to kiss her again.

  They traveled the crushed-gravel path leading from the smithy to the main house, a rambling, one-story villa with stucco walls and a red-tiled roof. The home occupied the center of a much larger compound, which included several outbuildings, gardens, and small fields. The entire complex was enclosed by a high stone wall punctuated by iron gates. The sheer size of Marcus’s home amazed her. The Aquila farm was several times larger than the entire Druid settlement on Avalon.

  “What you see within the perimeter wall is only a small part of my father’s land,” Marcus said, breaking the silence. “The wheat and barley fields lie beyond.”

  “And inside? What are all these buildings used for?”

  “The stable and smithy are near the main gates. My stepmother’s rose garden is here in front of the house; the veget
able and herb gardens are behind the kitchen, near the bathhouse. Beyond the rear terrace are the orchard, various barns, a dovecote, a hare run, and cottages for the servants and field laborers.”

  “Rhys has told me ye keep no slaves, as most Romans do.”

  “Another reason why we’re looked down upon. Father is not willing to keep his wife’s kinspeople as slaves.” Marcus snorted. “Even if Rhiannon would tolerate such a thing.”

  Gwen thought of Lucius Aquila, graciously doing his best to speak his wife’s native tongue. Marcus, with his broad shoulders and shining dark hair, resembled his father greatly. Lucius, no doubt, was an image of what his son would look like in years to come, when his soulful eyes were tempered by crinkles at the corners, and his thick hair softened with hints of gray. Both men had a comforting presence about them, one that spoke of strength and constancy. But they were not precisely alike. Where Lucius’s mien was almost regal, enhanced by his military bearing, Marcus’s posture was more relaxed, his artist’s eye more watchful. His emotions were much closer to the surface.

  Marcus did not lead her back to the front door of the farmhouse, but down a path that rounded one of the house’s long wings and gave out into the herb garden. As they walked between the rows, Gwen cast her senses toward the plants. No glow of magic returned. Her Light had not yet recovered from its encounter with the wolf’s Deep Magic.

  She paused, stifling a yawn. The brief energy the morning meal had given her was gone.

  Marcus shot her a glance. “Tired from your journey?”

  “Aye.” She did not tell him the journey was the least of it.

  “No doubt Rhiannon is already preparing your bedchamber, though I wish she wouldn’t tax herself.”

  “Ye are very protective of her.”

  “We all are. Rhiannon doesn’t carry babes well. She’s lost several, both with her first husband and since Breena was born.”

  “Oh! I did not know.”

  “That’s why Breena hasn’t told Rhiannon or our father that her visions have returned. I must ask you to be discreet as well. It’s best if they know nothing of Breena’s lessons.”