Deep Magic

by Joy Nash

  “Nor will I. But I am not as frail as your father seems to think, despite my age. Lucius will gain another son, and you will get a brother.”

  Marcus grinned. “It’s a boy, then? Are you sure?”

  “Aye, I believe so.”

  A note of humor crept into Marcus’s voice. “Father will be happy for a second chance at a son who loves philosophy and rhetoric.”

  Rhiannon chuckled. “Lucius already has a daughter so enamored. And a son who is a fine artist and a sensitive soul. Whatever this new babe’s inclinations, your father will accept them without murmur.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” Marcus’s arm went around Rhiannon’s shoulders. He placed a kiss on top of her head. Marcus’s love for his stepmother was palpable, as was Rhiannon’s love for the son she had not birthed. Gwen found herself blinking back tears.

  “Thank ye for being who ye are, Marcus,” Rhiannon said. “And for saving that woman and her babe.”

  “I could hardly leave them to die.” He paused. “Gwen says they are touched by magic.”

  “Truly?” Rhiannon sighed. “Then they will go to Avalon, no doubt.”

  “If Avalon is safe, yes. If not …” He sighed and turned to the darkness of the gardens, leaning his forearm on the stone railing.

  Rhiannon touched his arm. “Do not worry so. The Druids’ Light is strong. They will prevail.”

  “I wish I had your faith. But I—”

  Marcus’s words went unsaid as Lucius emerged from the house with swift steps.

  “Rhiannon. What are you doing out here? You should be off your feet.”

  Rhiannon smiled and stepped toward her husband. “I am coming, Lucius. There is no need to scold.”

  Lucius fitted Rhiannon to his side, his arm curved about her shoulders. “I will not have you taxing yourself,” he admonished as he escorted her down the path to the house. “You will come to bed now, and stay there until morning.”

  “Aye?” Rhiannon laughed and drew her husband’s head down to whisper in his ear.

  “Yes, certainly, if that’s what it takes to keep you there,” Lucius said with a grin much like the one Marcus gave Gwen just before he kissed her. Gwen dashed a tear from her eye as the couple disappeared into the house.

  Marcus shifted his stance and looked directly at Gwen. “Hiding in the shadows?”

  With a wry smile, Gwen moved into the moonlight. “I did not wish to intrude on your talk with Rhiannon.”

  “Eavesdropping is not intruding, I suppose,” Marcus said mildly. He held out his hand. Gwen went to him readily. He enfolded her in his arms. His kiss was tender and unhurried, as if he’d been kissing her that way for years and would continue for years to come. The casual familiarity of it stole her breath, and once again, Gwen found herself fighting back tears.

  She felt Marcus’s gaze on her as she blinked them away. “We are so close to the house. Someone might see—”

  “I do not care. I’m not ashamed of wanting you.”

  But she was ashamed of wanting him. Because of Avalon. Because of Trevor. She didn’t say it, but the unspoken words hung in the air between them. Marcus’s hand had been on her waist; now it fell away.

  She cleared her throat. “Rhiannon is not too weary?”

  “Father will see that she rests.” He descended the terrace steps, taking the path that led to the smithy. Gwen fell into step beside him.

  “ ’Tis fortunate you found the slave woman before it was too late. So many women die bearing children.”

  “Rhiannon’s mother did, when Owein was born,” Marcus said. “My own mother as well. The child died with her.”

  “I did not know that. How old were you?”

  “Nine years. I came to Britain with my father soon after.”

  “Was your mother very different from Rhiannon?” Gwen asked.

  “As day is from night. Mother loved new clothes and parties. She and I lived in Rome, and we hardly ever left the city. She never accompanied Father to any of his posts.” He paused. “The child she died giving birth to was not his.”

  “Truly?” Gwen was stunned. “I cannot believe it! No sane woman would reject Lucius for another man.”

  “Apparently, Mother did not find it difficult, as Father was rarely home. Even when he was, they didn’t deal well together. But that is hardly surprising, I suppose, given the fact that they did not choose each other. Their marriage was contracted by their parents.”

  He sent her a meaningful glance—one she chose to ignore. They walked on for a moment in silence, and then Gwen asked, “Did you know your mother had taken a lover?”

  “That’s an odd question.”

  “I’m sorry. Perhaps I should not have asked—”

  “I don’t mind telling you,” Marcus interrupted. “The truth is, I didn’t know.” He gave a rueful laugh. “I was a rather thickheaded child, and whoever the man was, he did not visit our house. I thought the babe was Father’s, even though he’d been away for more than a year when the infant came.”

  “Ye jest.”

  Marcus snorted. “I’m sorry to tell you that I do not. Even at the advanced age of nine, I knew little about carnal relations.” He touched her, his hand coming to rest on her lower back as he guided her over a protruding root on the path.

  “My mother—her name was Tamar—she also had a lover.” The words tumbled from Gwen’s lips before she’d even realized she’d said them. She stopped on the path, aghast. She’d never spoken of it since Mama’s death. Not even with Rhys.

  Marcus’s astonishment was evident. “And you knew this? But you were only seven years old.”

  “Rhys and I … we saw Mama … coupling with the man. At night. She left our hut when she thought everyone was asleep. Rhys and I followed her to a hidden spot near the river.”

  Marcus let out an oath. “Who was he?”

  “A Roman soldier. A centurion. We’d seen him before, at Mama’s market stall.”

  “Did they know you’d seen them?”

  “No. We snuck away immediately. By the time Mama returned to our hut, we were under our blankets, feigning sleep. But I think … I think my father knew. They argued often, and sometimes … sometimes he beat her. She had bruises the day after Rhys and I saw her lying with the soldier. The very next day, Uncle Padrig found Father dead.”

  “The centurion killed him?”

  “We suspected he did, but we never knew for certain. Not long after, the centurion’s anger turned toward Mama. He killed her.”

  “Why?”

  “I think he must have asked her to run away with him, and she would not. At least, that is what Rhys and I heard Mared tell Padrig. Grandfather gave no explanation at all, and Rhys and I knew better than to ask. We buried Mama and left Isca the same day.”

  “You went to Avalon.”

  “Aye. And none of them—Cyric, Padrig, or Mared—ever spoke of Mama’s death again, except to say that the Lady teaches us to forgive those who wrong us.”

  They’d arrived at the smithy door. “These memories aren’t the only thing bothering you tonight,” Marcus said. “Rhiannon told me of your encounter with Strabo—”

  An icy finger moved down Gwen’s spine. “He recognized me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “The sooner I leave here, the better. If we work through the night, the sword will be completed by morning. I’ll leave then. Strabo’s return to Isca may prove to be a boon. I will be able to set new protections around Avalon while the governor distracts him here.”

  “And once the sacred isle is safely hidden, will you marry the man your grandfather has chosen for you?”

  She drew a breath. “Aye. I will marry Trevor. He is a good man. He says he loves me.”

  “He could not love you half as much as I,” Marcus said, causing Gwen’s heart to lurch. He had never before offered such blunt words of love. “And you do not love him. Will you go from my bed to his? Will you tell him to whom you gave your maidenhood?” His tone turned
bitter. “Or will you lie and say that you are untouched?”

  She winced. “Do not make this harder for me than it already is, Marcus. If I were free, I would stay here with you gladly. But I am not. ’Tis my duty to become Guardian of Avalon. To marry as Cyric asks. Even if it were not, there is the wolf—”

  “I am not afraid of the wolf. And I do not care for your grandfather’s machinations.” He all but kicked open the smithy door. “I’ll take you to Avalon, Gwen. When we get there, I want you to give Exchalybur to Rhys and return home with me.”

  “Marcus, ye cannot accompany me to Avalon! A Roman with no magic is not welcome—”

  “I am well aware of that,” he said grimly, “but I’ll see you safely there, regardless. I mean to make you understand you need not sacrifice your life to an old man’s whims. Clara and Owein will ensure the Lady’s line remains unbroken. Rhys will become Avalon’s Guardian, and wield Exchalybur in its defense.”

  Gwen swallowed. She could hardly tell Marcus Rhys would not touch Exchalybur once he realized Deep Magic lived at its core. “I cannot do that, Marcus. There is … more to this than ye know.”

  He dragged a hand over his hair, making the ends stick up. “What is it, then? Tell me and I’ll find a way around it. I don’t want to be without you, Gwen. I love you.”

  Her chest squeezed so tightly, her next breath caused a streak of pain. “Do not ask me to explain, Marcus. Just trust me when I say I cannot leave the protection of Avalon to Rhys.”

  He studied her for a long time, his eyes shadowed by night and emotion. “I will not accept that, Gwen.”

  She did not answer.

  At last he sighed and entered the smithy. “I’ll complete my work on the sword before morning,” he said as he lit the lamps. “But this discussion isn’t over, Gwen. Not at all.”

  * * *

  Exchalybur shone like a sliver of moonlight. Marcus even imagined he could feel the magic Gwen had woven into the bright iron. But surely, that was a figment of his overactive imagination. He had no magic; he could feel nothing.

  And yet, even to his mundane eye it was plain that he’d never crafted a sword so beautiful, nor so deadly. Its weight was slight for such a large weapon, but the blade would not bend or break. It would be lethal in battle, even without its magic.

  He honed the edges to perfection while Gwen dozed on his bed. This was not how he’d envisioned her last night in Isca. In that dream, he had made love to her until dawn, and she had whispered words of devotion—to him, not to Avalon. She’d agreed to give up the sword to Rhys and become Marcus’s wife.

  He could not dismiss that dream as easily as she had.

  When he at last put the sharpening stone aside, he didn’t have the heart to wake her from her much-needed slumber. There was yet an hour or two before dawn. The night was quiet. The gates were locked. Gwen had set magical protections all around the perimeter wall; if Strabo was searching for her, as she’d feared he might, he had not found her.

  He left the finished sword on his worktable, eased open the smithy door, and went to see about provisions for their journey.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sweet warmth enveloped Gwen. She was lying on the softest of cushions, her spine pressed against Marcus’s chest, his strong arms entwined about her body. She arched back, into his heat. His breath caressed her temple. His hips flexed.

  His arousal prodded between the soft globes of her naked buttocks. Moisture gathered between her thighs.

  His big hand moved over her belly, dipping low, his clever fingers finding her body’s dew. His fingertips skated over her mound and through the slick folds between her legs. His thumb circled the tight bud where her pleasure centered.

  Urgent heat spread through her body. She pressed her hips backward with a moan.

  “Marcus …”

  He chuckled, his amusement vibrating through her body. His touch grew bolder. His hand swept up to her breast. He kneaded one breast, then the other. Rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

  Then he pinched. Hard.

  She cried out, twisting and flailing, turning to catch a glimpse of a hard, unforgiving face.

  Not Marcus.

  Strabo.

  A strangled cry froze in her throat. She scrambled to summon a Word of protection, but it would not come. Shock blanked her brain, and her power.

  Nay. More than shock. Blue-black sparks flashed around her. The scent of burning flesh choked her senses. Strabo’s arms banded about her body, his arousal pressed insistently between her legs.

  “Did you think I would let you leave me, too?”

  Panicked, she curled her fingers into a fist and struck behind her. The angle was awkward; with her arms pinned above the elbows, all she managed was a glancing blow to his thigh. He caught her wrists with ease, first one, then the other. Rolling atop her, he lifted her arms above her head, pinning them with one hand. His lower body trapped her legs. She was caught like a fly in honey.

  His Dark aura pulsed ominously.

  She bared her teeth. “This is not real. ’Tis but a dream.”

  “A dream now, perhaps, but soon …” His free hand roamed her body. “Ah, soon enough, it will be truth, my little she-wolf.”

  She started. “Ye know about the wolf.”

  His white teeth flashed in cruel smile. “Of course. You should not have run, that first night I spied you. It was not worthy of what you are.” His dark eyes regarded her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “I thought I came for the old man, but now—I am not so sure. I begin to think you are the better prize. You are so like her.”

  “Like who?”

  He did not answer. She tried again to call a spell—a spell of Deep Magic this time—but she could not make the Words form in her head, nor on her lips. Strabo’s blue-black essence flowed to her from the places their bodies touched, tingling painfully on her skin. Darkness compressed her chest, forcing her to struggle for every breath.

  “Do not tire yourself,” Strabo said. “Your magic is no match for what mine has become. And his … his cannot stand much longer. He cannot save himself, and he cannot save you.”

  “Who?” She did not understand. Strabo was insane, she was sure of it. His eyes blazed darkly. She tried to look away, but his hand came up to catch her chin, preventing it.

  “It will be … almost as it was. How I have longed for that.”

  His head dipped. His mouth covered hers, roughly. What little breath she had was drawn into his lungs. Magic ran in dark waves to her core. Fire kindled in the pit of her stomach, turning her soul to ash.

  He kissed her ruthlessly, as if he could command the response he desired. Dimly, she was aware of his knee sliding between her legs, opening her.

  Finally, the Words she so desperately sought came to her, ringing like the clearest bells in her mind. The wolf sprang from its stupor. The change began, twisting deep inside her.

  The dream broke; Strabo vanished.

  But she heard him laughing as the wolf took control.

  The instant Marcus opened the door to the smithy, he knew something was terribly wrong. Ill-feeling swept over him like a noxious sewer odor, wrenching his stomach and making his limbs tense with dread. Fighting panic, he took two steps toward his bed, then stopped.

  Gwen was gone.

  A faint impression on the blanket was all that was left of her presence. Had she fled alone to Avalon, rather than suffer his escort? But no, that could not be it. Exchalybur lay untouched on his worktable. Gwen might leave Marcus behind, but she would not have left the sword.

  Where was she? He considered the possibility that she might be visiting the latrine near the bathhouse, with its running water, rather than use the covered pot he kept handy for such purposes. A moment later, when he noticed the empty hook where the gate key normally hung, he ground out a foul oath. She’d gone out to the forest. In the middle of the night.

  He ran to the gate leading to the fields. She had not bothered to lock i
t behind her; the iron bars swung free on their hinges. His foreboding accelerated when the moon came from behind a cloud, illuminating a clear path through the barley where the new plants had been broken. She’d been in such a hurry she hadn’t even taken the time to find the path between the fields. What had disturbed her so? Strabo? Or the wolf?

  As he plunged into the woods, he wished he’d taken a few moments to bring a lamp from the smithy. No time to go back for one now. He’d have to rely on the uncertain moonlight. He ran to the clearing where they’d made love—if she were looking for a refuge, perhaps that would be it.

  He drew up short when he burst into the open, quickly scanning the area. “Gwen!”

  He cocked his head, listening. Nothing.

  But she had been here. A swath of trampled grass led to the tree where she had come upon him that first time. At the base of the trunk, a glint of silver caught his eye. Gwen’s pendant, lying in the grass. He picked it up, and closed his fist around it. He’d never seen her take the chain from around her neck. Not even while they’d made love. The gate key lay nearby, half-hidden by a lichen-covered branch. A few steps beyond, Gwen’s tunic lay in a crumpled heap.

  His blood ran cold. Strabo? Or the wolf? He circled the area, searching the shadowed ground for tracks.

  To his relief, he found none that belonged to a man, save his own. Instead he discovered the imprint of a soft pad and four spread toes. A second print, and more, led out of the clearing and deeper into the forest.

  Marcus stood staring in the direction Gwen had gone. As if to taunt him, the moon chose that moment to disappear behind a silver-rimmed cloud. He swallowed hard. He’d never be able to track her in the dark, and even if he could, he would not be able to catch a wolf. But she would return to the clearing for her tunic and pendant.

  Would she come as a wolf, and shift before him? Or would she shift in darkness, and come to him as a woman, naked in moonlight? Or—and this dread thought arrested his growing desire quite effectively—would Gwen’s worst fear come to pass?

  Would the wolf claim her completely?

  Jaw clenched and stomach churning, Marcus returned to the tree with Gwen’s pendant and tunic, and sat down to wait.