by Joy Nash
His throat nearly closed. “Breena. I have no home, and seldom stay in one town or village for more than a fortnight. I travel long and hard, sleep in the forest, or someone’s barn, or, if I am very lucky, on the floor before a stranger’s hearth. It is not a life into which I would bring a wife, even one who is accustomed to hardship, as you are not.”
“I … don’t care.” But her voice wavered.
Thank the Goddess, her pouting expression reminded him of the child she’d been, rather than the woman she was rapidly becoming. He seized on her uncertainty. He summoned just the right tone—patronizing, with a large dose of amusement.
“Ah, but ye do care, Bree. Ye are so young, and have lived all your life in luxury. Ye have no conception of a grown woman’s life, especially a woman with no home of her own.” He forced a chuckle, because he knew she hated to be laughed at. “Ye are a child yet.”
“I am not a child!” She stamped her foot, looking so much like she had when she was a small lass that he would have laughed in truth, if the situation hadn’t been so delicate. Aye, he wanted her to abandon her romantic notions, but he didn’t want her to hate him.
“Ye dream of marrying me only because I’m familiar, Breena. Ye do not love me. Not really.”
“I do.”
“Well, I do not love ye. Not that way.”
“But—”
“Stop, lass. Before ye shame yourself even more.”
“You … truly do not want me?”
“As a wife? Nay, I do not. And I never will.”
She stared at him, light fading from her beautiful blue eyes even as her spine stiffened and her chin came up. Rhys’s chest tightened painfully. He ignored the discomfort. The sooner Bree accepted that her future did not lie with him, the better off she would be.
“Your life is just beginning, Bree. Ye are strong in the Light, and visited by powerful visions. One day ye will journey to Avalon to find your power. And join with a Druid worthy of being your husband. But that man will not be me. Put the notion from your mind.”
She stared at him for a long time, her tears drying on her cheeks, her hands clasped in front of her. The neckline of her tunic had slipped off one shoulder. Rhys kept his expression stern, his gaze fixed on her eyes.
“I understand,” she said finally. Her shoulders straightened. “I am sorry to have disturbed you with my childish fantasies.”
He gave a brief nod. “I accept your apology. Do not trouble yourself about it. A child is not fully responsible for her actions.”
Her eyes widened at this final insult. With a strangled sound, she turned and fled through the door. Rhys strode to the threshold just in time to see Trevor, who was coming up the passageway, stand aside to let her run past.
“What was that about?”
“Ye do not want to know.”
Trevor took him at his word. “Have ye seen Gwen, then?”
Rhys frowned. “Breena said she was with ye.”
“I went to look for her, aye, but she was not in the smithy. Nor anywhere else, and no one I questioned has seen her.” He paused, his expression grave.
“The sword is gone as well.”
The elm where Gwen and Rhys had played, where they’d seen Mama with Strabo—where Mama had met her death—was gone.
In its place was a warehouse, used to store goods arriving by boat; extensive docks marked the place where the River Usk ran into an inlet of the sea. Gwen hesitated, considering her path. Rhys and Trevor would surely assume she’d taken the shortest route to Avalon: south to Venta Silurum, across the Sabrina channel by boat, then along the edge of the Mendips until she reached the swamps surrounding Avalon.
But Gwen had no coin to pay a fisherman to take her across the channel. Also, she did not wish to argue again with Rhys. Aye, he’d agreed to see the sword presented to Cyric and the Elders, but it was very likely the Elders would order the sword destroyed. Gwen could not allow that. She would call the sword’s Deep Magic herself, once she neared Avalon—alone.
Rhys and Trevor would reach Avalon before her, but that did not matter. When she reached the coast road, she turned east. She’d take the same route home she’d traveled when she’d run to Isca as a wolf: east along the channel, until the inlet narrowed into a river and she was able to cross. Then she would travel south and west into the swamps.
She was not sure if Strabo would know immediately that she had left Isca, but she suspected he might—he’d known enough to appear in her dream. He might, even now, be following her.
Quickly, she put the thought out of her mind and adjusted the sword’s belt across her shoulder. The weapon was long; it hung almost to her knees, striking her hip with every step that took her farther from Isca. From Marcus.
Thinking of Marcus made her stomach turn to lead. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but she knew she had—deeply. But she’d had no choice! She was the only Druid willing to do whatever was necessary to protect Avalon. She couldn’t abandon that responsibility.
She’d known from the first that her time with Marcus would be brief. Her fantasy of living in Isca as his wife, was just that—a fantasy. She could not live in the Roman world; magic was the root from which her life had grown. And despite Marcus’s confidence that the wolf would never turn on him, she could not be completely sure that was true. The wolf was a creature of Deep Magic. And Deep Magic, ultimately, was out of her control.
Deep Magic. It sang within the bright iron, calling her, urging her to set it free. It reminded her of the wolf. Forging this sword had been a grave risk. Despite the confidence she’d feigned before Rhys and Trevor, Gwen had no way of knowing whether the spells of Light she’d woven into Exchalybur would fully contain the Deep Magic at its heart.
She set a swift pace. The dull no-magic aftermath of the wolf had passed, allowing her to lay spells of confusion in her wake. She did not want Strabo to overtake her until after she had set strong, Deep Magic spells of protection around the sacred isle. When Avalon was cloaked, then she would be free to turn and fight to keep it that way.
Day gave way to night. She did not stop, even when darkness descended. Rhys did not call to her in her mind. That was odd—she had expected to feel his anger as soon as he discovered she was gone. Which he surely had by now. But his voice in her mind was silent, as it had been for days before his arrival.
It was nearly dawn when she sensed she was being followed. She could feel a subtle vibration beneath her feet. The wolf inside her sprang up and held its body completely motionless, absorbing the threat. It raised its snout and sniffed the air.
She rebuffed the beast. If the wolf emerged now, she’d be unable to carry the sword to Avalon. That would be a disaster.
The vibrations resolved into the pounding of horses’ hooves. She moved off the road, angling her path towards the darkest part of the woods. She should have kept to the woods from the start, despite the slower pace that would have meant. Too late now. Casting her most potent not-there spell around herself, she prayed the rider would pass her by.
He did not. He left the road, closing the distance between them. Gwen slipped deeper into the woods, cast another spell, but her pursuer did not hesitate. Strabo. Could she face him here, so far from Avalon? She would have to. She moved into the shelter of a rocky cove. Reaching up over her shoulder, she grasped the sword’s hilt and eased the weapon from its scabbard. Holding it before her, point raised, both hands wrapped around the hilt, she opened herself to its magic. And waited.
He dismounted. His footsteps drew closer. Her fingers tightened on the sword’s grip. Light flashed along the blade, from crosspiece to tip, ending in a white streak of lightning. Wind filled her ears. It felt as if her body were expanding, rising. She was ready. She would battle him here.
And then, without warning, the unthinkable happened.
She began to change.
Chapter Eighteen
“Gwen?”
Marcus glimpsed a flash of light through the trees. It had to be Gwen
—his horse had become increasingly nervous with every step it took. Dismounting, he tethered the fretful animal to a tree and moved toward her.
“Gwen?”
He called louder this time, but no answer came. Forging ahead, he kept his gaze fixed on the flickering glow between the trees. He was almost upon it when a blurred form leaped from the shadows, striking him squarely in the chest. Its weight threw him backward. He landed hard on his back in the dirt.
The silver-gray wolf loomed over him, paws pinning him to the ground, jaws open, teeth bared, ears flattened. Its eyes gleamed with a feral light. Hot breath bathed his exposed neck.
A low, menacing growl sounded in the back of its throat. The beast did not recognize him.
“Gwen …” he choked out. “It’s me. Marcus.”
The wolf stiffened. Marcus locked eyes with the beast and kept his breathing even. A difficult task, when his heart was pounding so madly in his chest, he was sure the wolf could hear.
Did she know who he was? Or had the wolf taken over completely? No. He would not believe that.
He lifted one hand, very slowly. “Gwen. It’s all right. I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you. Let me up. Please.”
The wolf blinked once, then cocked its head as if considering his words. Its ears rose.
It backed away, until it stood at his feet. Pulse still pounding, Marcus rose first onto his elbows, then to a sitting position, careful to keep his movements unthreatening. The wolf went down on its haunches, watching him with wary eyes.
The creature’s silver fur shone in the subtle moonlight. The animal was so beautiful. Gwen, he reminded himself. This was Gwen. The part of her that was bound to Deep Magic.
He loved her. All of her. Even this. Even if, as she feared, her magic could destroy him.
He gladly accepted that risk.
He waited, thinking she would shift back to her human form. After a time, when she did not, he stood up. The wolf did the same.
He studied the animal. Gwen. What did she want from him? Was this a test, to see if he would run in the face of the magic he’d once despised so completely? If it was a test, he had no intention of failing. His feelings about Deep Magic had become much more complicated since he’d come to love her.
No, he would not fail.
Slowly, he approached the wolf. Laid a hand on its head.
“Where is Exchalybur?”
Gwen paused on the trail and looked back at Marcus, towering above her on the back of a very nervous horse. The animal clearly did not like the wolf; it was a testament to Marcus’s skill as a horseman that he was able to follow her at all.
But follow he did, and closely, too.
Gwen’s clothes were stuffed in a pack tied to his saddle hook. Her pendant was around his neck. The Lady’s sword was strapped to his back, the hilt protruding above his left shoulder. She was struck by the dark beauty of him, even viewed through wolf’s eyes. She felt his unwavering gaze even when her back was turned.
She’d thought he would leave her when she deliberately did not shift back into human form. He hadn’t. He’d found the sword and her clothing and calmly told her to continue her journey. Confused, she obeyed. She understood that he’d been looking for her, but wasn’t completely sure how he’d managed to break through her spells. He should not have been able to.
Her mind flickered, and for a moment she forgot what she’d been thinking of. The wolf’s instinct came to the fore, concerned only with the scents and sensations of the path ahead. Time passed; how much, she couldn’t be sure—the wolf did not concern itself with such things.
When her human mind finally surfaced, it was with an undercurrent of panic. On the trip from Avalon to Isca, she’d traveled three days as a wolf, but had no problem retaining her human mind or regaining her woman’s form. Now it seemed the wolf had been made stronger, by her increasing willingness to call and use Deep Magic.
They’d traveled past dawn and well into the next day. Soon a second night would fall—it would be pure folly to stay in wolf form for another full day of travel. Avalon could not be much farther. Losing her wolf form meant temporarily losing her magic. She would need a full day to recover before she could use the sword to raise a veil of Deep Magic around Avalon.
She halted in a sheltered clearing. Marcus reined in his mount and waited, watching her with silent eyes. When she didn’t resume the journey, he stopped and dismounted, tethering the horse a fair distance away, out of sight of Gwen. She listened to him speak to the animal, his voice low and gentle. Finally, he left the horse and rejoined her.
He crouched before her and offered her his hand. She approached shyly, licking it, then retreating. She knew what she had to do next. She also knew that Marcus would not let her hide it. She told herself that he’d already seen her shift, not once, but twice. The thought did little to reassure her. The first time she’d been wounded and half-mad. The second time she hadn’t known he was watching.
This time, she knew what she was doing. She knew he would be watching. She knew, too, how it would affect him.
Heat flowed through her body. She felt so vulnerable, so uncertain. So … aroused.
She let the Words seep into her mind. She felt the change begin, deep inside her. Marcus’s attention did not waver; the light in his dark eyes flared. Gwen wanted to look away; she could not.
Bone and muscle twisted; fur melted into skin. Light shimmered, reclaiming her soul, stretching and molding her wolf’s body into that of a woman. When it was over, she lay naked and panting, slick with sweat. She opened her eyes to find Marcus crouching before her. Wordlessly, he reached out and cupped her cheek. Dipping his head, he caught her lips with his.
She ran her hands over his body as he kissed her. Her fingers brushed his sex. He was aroused, enormously so, as she had known he would be.
“Why does my shifting affect ye like this?”
He gave her a wry, embarrassed smile. “I don’t know. But it has, ever since the first time. Just thinking about it makes me hard.”
His desire fanned hers. She stroked him through his braccas. “Then take me, Marcus.”
“Here?”
“Aye.” She started unlacing his braccas.
He needed no further encouragement. He shrugged the sword and its belt from his shoulder and laid it aside. His shirt, pants, and boots soon followed. She drew him down on top of her, stroking his back, his shoulders, his face. She’d thought she would never lie with him again—now she had one more chance.
She lay back on the soft moss, cradling his face between her hands and kissing him. She loved him so—her heart nearly burst with it. He shifted to lie beside her, his arousal hot and insistent against her thigh. She rolled to face him, hooking one leg over his hip. He pulled it higher over his hip bone, his other hand cupping her bottom. She encircled his neck with her arms; he joined their bodies with a powerful thrust that touched the very center of her soul.
“Gods, Gwen.”
Their coupling was slow and fierce. Marcus’s thrusts took her with deep, deliberate possession. He anchored her gaze with his, and would not let her look away.
“You are mine.”
The vow was low and vibrant in his throat, as it had been during that first violent joining, when he’d tamed the wolf. He thrust into her, at the same time pulling her toward him, leaving her no space or opportunity for retreat.
“There will be no other man. Not Trevor, not anyone. Not ever. You’ll give your body only to me.”
She shut her eyes. “Marcus, ye know I cannot promise …”
“You will promise.” His hips stilled, leaving him buried deep inside her. She could feel him pulsing, hotly. Slipping a hand between their bodies, he pressed the tight bud just above their joining.
Stars exploded behind her eyelids. She flexed her hips, wanting more, wanting him to move, but he tightened his grip on her hip, stopping her. Then he jerked his hand away.
“Nay, Marcus! Do not—”
“Pr
omise me, Gwen. You will not take Trevor—or any man—into your body.” He flicked his thumb again, drawing a gasp from her lips. “Say it, Gwen.”
“I’ll not marry Trevor,” she whispered. How could she? She would feel like a whore, lying with one man while dreaming of another.
He touched her again, too lightly. And still did not move.
She writhed, trying to make him relent. “Marcus …”
“Again, Gwen. Tell me again. No one else. No one but me.”
“Aye. I promise. No one but you.”
He started moving again—long, sweet strokes of mindless pleasure. She buried her face in his chest, inhaling his scent, his arousal, his passion. A coil wound tight in her belly.
“Gwen. You feel so good. So right.”
He stiffened inside her, causing her inner muscles to tighten. Her climax rushed at her. Marcus growled and thrust deep, and the pleasure sliced like a white-hot knife. She gave herself to it. To him. This was magic, deeper than anything she’d ever imagined. More than anything she deserved.
He was right. There could be no other. Not when he possessed her heart, her mind, and her soul.
Too soon, the mindless bliss receded, leaving her trembling. She clung to his neck, drinking air in gulps while his hand stroked rhythmically up and down her spine.
“Mine,” he said.
She let out a long, shuddering breath. “Aye, Marcus. Yours.”
“Ye should not have come after me,” she told him later, after she had dressed and regained her wits. “I might have killed ye.”
“No. You would not have. Don’t you realize that by now? The wolf will never hurt me.”
She did not agree. He shrugged into his shirt, then picked up the sword and offered it to her.
She shook her head. “I don’t have the strength to carry it.” She’d spent far too much time as a wolf in the last few days.
He gave her a long look, then buckled the sword belt over his own shoulder.
“When I heard ye pursuing me, I thought ye were Strabo, coming after me. He spoke to me in my dream … I was afraid he could sense that I had left Isca.”