The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  “Owein …”

  “Aye, love?” He tugged at her nipples through her tunic.

  A mewling sound emerged from Clara’s lips. Immediately, her body went rigid, as if appalled she’d uttered such a noise. By the Horned God! How was he to survive this half-night of love play?

  He murmured softly, rubbing her shoulders until she relaxed again. Her gaze clung to his. The trust and silent entreaty he saw there nearly undid him. He didn’t deserve her faith. But he was selfish enough to accept it.

  He plucked at her breasts, rolling the peaks between his fingers.

  She gripped his arm. “Owein, no, I … stop.”

  He stilled. “Ye would go back on your word?”

  She hesitated, then let out a long sigh. “No.”

  A chill breeze gusted into the cave, causing the fire to waver. Clara shivered. If Owein could have conjured the hot bath she longed for, he would have done it in that instant. The memory of Clara half-frozen and covered with snow was still fresh in his mind.

  He propped himself on his elbow and looked down at her. She was not pale and cold now—her cheeks were flushed, her lips pink and welcoming. A warm feeling expanded in Owein’s chest.

  Wide dark eyes blinked up at him. She was frightened, aye, but aching for his touch just the same. Passion ran deep inside her. Deeper, likely, than she knew.

  Anticipation pulsed in his veins, settled heavily in his loins. He placed his hand, fingers splayed, on her belly. For a time, he forced himself to do no more than watch his hand rise and fall with her breath.

  When her trembling faded, he moved his hand lower, until his thumb brushed her woman’s mound. Her breathing quickened. If he were to lift her skirt and search beneath, would he find her virgin passage soft and ready? He longed to test the notion, but he’d promised not to delve beneath her tunic.

  At least not until she removed it for him.

  She could never be his in truth. He understood that, accepted it. No wealthy Roman woman would entrust her life to a barbarian outlaw. And as for himself, he would never be free of the dark hatred he held for every part of her world.

  But here, in the wilderness, all that seemed very far away.

  He cupped Clara’s sex. Her hips came off the ground and her legs parted. Her defenses were melting, her body opening. If he’d been hard before, now he was rigid beyond bearing. He set a steady rhythm, rubbing the fabric of her tunic across the bud where her pleasure centered.

  “Owein, I …”

  “Relax, lass. Do ye enjoy my touch?”

  She pulled in an unsteady breath. “I think you know that I do.”

  “Tell me how ye feel.”

  “As though … I’m engulfed in flames.”

  He quickened his rhythm and she writhed, gasping his name. He shifted atop her, anchoring her splayed legs with his lower body, his gaze never leaving her face. He wanted to watch her eyes as the pleasure broke over her. In the soft glow of the full moon and the dying fire, they shone like two unfathomable pools.

  She spread her arms, gathering handfuls of his cloak. “I feel like I’m dying.”

  “ ’Tis a sweet death, to be sure.”

  She arched into his touch. “Don’t let me face it alone.”

  “I’m here, lass.”

  She clutched his arms, her fingernails gouging his flesh. She was close to her release, but she fought her ultimate pleasure. Her reluctance to yield would not last, however. A fierce triumph rose in Owein’s breast. He, a barbarian Celt, would be the first man to demand Clara’s surrender.

  “Let it go, lass,” he whispered. “Take your pleasure.”

  Her passion broke. His fingers moved on her, sharpening her pleasure. A sob tore from her throat. Her body convulsed as she gasped his name.

  The sound echoed in his soul. It caught him and pulled him with her. Sensations expanded, until he could no longer keep them within. His pleasure exploded, shattering what was left of his emotions. The door to his heart splintered.

  And suddenly, he felt her there, inside him.

  Her Light flooded his mind. It probed the deepest corners, seeking to illuminate places best left in dismal darkness.

  Her touch laid his memories bare. A white fog enveloped him, carrying him into the past.

  A war cry tore from Owein’s throat. His victim’s dark eyes went wide. The slash of a blade, a spurt of blood. The body thudded to the ground. Owein yanked his weapon free. His head jerking up, he sought his next adversary.

  Battle calm descended. The grunts and screams of his companions and enemies floated like mist. Owein’s own cries seemed to ring far from his ears. His sword clanged dully against a Roman gladius.

  His armor combined with his hatred to form an invincible shield. His opponent’s snarls and curses did not touch him. Pain, fear, and defeat—they were words with no meaning.

  He would not rest until every Roman was dead. He swung his sword low, cutting his opponent’s legs from under him. The soldier fell. Triumph flashed through Owein, as fierce and sexual as an orgasm. He spun about, ready for more.

  Only to see Nia with a gladius sunk in her belly. Her own sword was limp in her fingers.

  For an instant, Owein hung suspended. An image from the night before flashed through his brain—Nia arching against him, calling his name as pleasure overcame her. Then the memory snapped, shattered by the exultant cry of her murderer.

  The Roman gave his sword a savage twist, his elbow jerking backward. His blade emerged from Nia’s stomach covered with blood, trailing a rope of gut. The woman whom Owein called friend and lover stared down, uncomprehending. Her lips parted.

  She looked up, into Owein’s eyes.

  “Nay …” he whispered. He took a step forward, meaning to catch her in his arms.

  Hot, boiling rage bubbled from a bottomless well of anguish. He opened his mouth, an animal’s cry in his throat. The sound never emerged. A blow came down on Owein’s skull, sending him careening into darkness.

  “Nay.” Owein shoved himself up on shaking arms. Black memories buzzed like a swarm of midges. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  Clara lay beneath him, staring up with wide, shimmering eyes. Shame and anger shot through him. He didn’t want her pity. Couldn’t bear her sympathy.

  “Owein …”

  She moved against him, unconsciously stroking his sex, rigid again. His cock throbbed. He wanted nothing so much as to thrust into her core and forget the past. But he knew, with the unerring instinct that told a man his own death approached, that if he surrendered himself to Clara, he would not be able to hide. She would be inside his mind, probing every dark secret, shedding Light on every humiliation.

  Please, Owein. Let me in.

  The words echoed inside his brain. He stared down at her, aghast. Only the strongest of Druids could speak within another’s mind. Abruptly, he heaved himself off her. He felt her reaction, a single suspended note of hurt and confusion. Summoning all his magic, he snapped their bond.

  He rolled, panting. He had to escape. Had to get away.

  “Owein, wait. What—?”

  He couldn’t answer. Heaving himself to his feet, he lurched beyond the ring of firelight. Clara’s cry echoed in his ear as he stumbled into the night.

  Glancing up, he saw the moon had reached its zenith.

  Chapter Twelve

  He sat on a stool by a hearth mending a plow pony’s harness. The low light of a banked fire illuminated his task. Owein looked down at the leather strap in his hand, bemused. He owned no pony, had no fields to tend. This life, this home, could not be his.

  Yet he knew, with the certainty of a man existing within a dream, that it was.

  A vision. He rubbed the faint ache in his forehead. A bowl of barley dough graced the table near his elbow. Near it rested a mug of cervesia, fragrant and fresh-brewed. He lifted it to his lips and sipped.

  He’d never tasted such a fine beer.

  There were other hints of a woman’s touch. Overhea
d, neat bundles of herbs hung from the rafters. His shirt and braccas were woven from wool—and indeed, there was a loom against the door, displaying a half-finished blanket.

  Owein nearly dropped his mug. Beside the loom was a pallet. Two small bodies nestled there like sleeping pups. A lad and a lass, their bodies entwined beneath the furs. The lass’s curly hair was red, like Owein’s. The lad’s crown was silver-blond.

  Owein’s heart contracted. These were his children. He knew it beyond a doubt. A wishful dream—or a vision of the future?

  “Owein?”

  Clara struggled upright, sleep clinging to her brain like a dirty rag. She wiped a hand across her eyes. They burned. She’d cried herself to sleep after Owein had left her.

  The fire’s heat was long gone. The air had warmed somewhat, however—she could hear the drip of melting snow. Mist-gray clouds piled on the horizon. Another snow? She shuddered at the thought.

  Her stomach was sour; her limbs tingled with the aftereffects of magic. The union she’d shared with Owein hadn’t been accidental this time. When his pleasure had exploded, she’d seen the path into his mind and had taken it. She’d plunged into the dark of his soul before he’d even had a chance to realize she was there.

  Her stomach lurched again. Images of war were etched behind her eyelids. The gasp of a dying woman—Owein’s first lover—echoed in her ears. But the worst had been Owein’s rage. It had rushed through her own veins, hot, terrifying, and endless.

  She called his name again. No answer. But surely he couldn’t have gone far. His cloak was spread beneath her and his pack lay open.

  Shakily, she gained her feet. The aftermath of the magic caused her to stumble. Joining with Owein in that way had been beyond frightening. And yet—she longed to touch him again. She wished with all her heart that she could offer the Light within her to soothe his darkness. If she could ease his anger and pain, she wouldn’t count the cost.

  She drew a steadying breath. Was the tight emotion in her chest love? The notion wouldn’t dislodge itself from her mind. Love Owein? It was laughable. They could share no future. It would be pure folly to love him.

  If only she had a choice.

  She retrieved her cloak, shaking out the filthy thing and settling it over her shoulders. Her tunic was little better. The wool clung to her skin, making her itch. How she longed for a warm bath! With a sigh, she retrieved her satchel and tried to content herself with the last dab of her rose oil.

  Not satisfied, she moved from the camp, following the downward slope of the land. At least she could wash her face and hands in the stream while waiting for Owein to return. Stepping lightly, she made her way down the hill and parted the low brush guarding the water’s edge.

  And discovered that Owein shared her desire for a bath.

  He stood in the center of the rushing stream, facing the opposite bank, completely unclothed despite the chill air. His hair was slick and gleaming with moisture, his shoulders broad and strong against the light of day. His powerful legs and bare buttocks dripped water.

  But his back … Clara swallowed a gasp. By Jupiter! His back was a hideous mass of scars. His skin bore long ridges punctuated with deep, round gouges. Such marks could only have been caused by a Roman flagellum—a slaver’s whip fashioned of multiple leather thongs embedded with bits of sharp metal.

  Clara’s gorge rose. The wounds were old, but what agony they must have caused. She’d caught glimpses of public slave floggings in Isca and had never failed to lose whatever food was in her stomach. Had Owein struggled against his bonds as the lash flayed skin from muscle? Had he tried to avoid the cruel blows? Cried out, begging for mercy? Or had he prayed only for a swift death?

  For it was surely a death sentence he’d cheated.

  Her breath came hard. She wanted nothing so much as to kiss his scarred flesh, let her lips absorb the memory of the lash.

  A thin beam of sunshine freed itself from the clouds. With a quick motion, Owein bent and sluiced an armful of water over his head. Drops of water sparkled as they fell, like a thousand gems of light. They bounced on his neck and shoulders, splashed over the broad expanse of his back, painting every lash and pucker with a sheen of wetness. She drew in quick breath.

  He went still.

  She should have whirled and fled up the trail, but somehow, she couldn’t move, couldn’t take her eyes from him. He turned and looked at her, his expression inscrutable.

  He stood before her, a figure of wild perfection. Despite his shaved chin, his body did not evoke the Roman ideal of masculinity. He was far too powerfully built. His form lacked the languid grace of Apollo or the supple swiftness of Mercury. Nor did he embody the dominance of Jupiter or the arrogance of Mars.

  Even a statue she’d once seen of the great Hercules fell short. Perhaps because Hercules had been wrought in marble, while Owein was wrought in flesh.

  He was brawny and rough. Red-gold hair, glistening with droplets, curled on his chest. The hair darkened to copper over the rippling muscles of his stomach. Her gaze dropped. A nest of auburn framed a phallus that was growing before her eyes.

  She jerked her gaze upward.

  She might have thought he would utter a mocking word, but his habitual humor—even the darker aspects of it—was absent.

  “You were meant to die under the lash,” Clara said evenly.

  “Aye.”

  “What was your crime?”

  “Rape. Of my master’s wife.”

  “You were a slave?”

  “Aye.”

  She searched his eyes. “The charge was a lie.”

  He paced to within arm’s reach. “Ye canna be sure of that.”

  “I can. You would never force yourself on a woman.”

  “How can ye say that, lass? After last night?”

  “I … I welcomed your touch. I wanted more. You were the one who drew back, because of—” She inhaled. “I shouldn’t have slipped into your mind. I am sorry.”

  His fingers curled. “Ye dabble with forces ye dinna understand.”

  “Then teach me to understand them.”

  “ ’Tis nay knowledge for a Roman.”

  “But what of the bond between us?”

  “We share no bond. Between our people, there is only war.”

  “That’s not true,” Clara said. “Perhaps in the north there is war, but here in the south there’s been peace for years. Celts and Romans have joined their lives. Why, you once met Lucius Aquila in battle, but now he’s married to a Celt healer. They—”

  “Silence.”

  “—they have a daughter—”

  “Silence, I said.”

  Owein’s vehemence startled Clara into obedience. He ran a hand over his face and looked at the treetops. A quick peek told Clara his arousal had faded.

  “Does … do your wounds pain you still?”

  He looked back at her. “Nay. Most times I forget they are there.”

  “And other times?”

  “Other times I regret I didna commit the crime for which I paid.”

  She inhaled a shaky breath. “How did you come to be a slave?”

  For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t speak. Then the answer came, carefully devoid of emotion.

  “I was taken in battle and sold as spoils. My master transported me to a quarry in Cambria. For nearly two years, I tried to escape. Each time I was caught my punishment was worse than the one before.”

  “And the last?”

  “My master’s wife accused me. She was a garish, painted woman who whored with her husband’s slaves. She wished to add me to her stable. In truth, I would have cut off my cock rather than pleasure her with it. I told her as much. By that time I didn’t care if I lived or died. Until I saw the flagellum.”

  “How did you survive the flogging?”

  “I hardly know. I managed to crawl into the forest. I’m nay sure how much time passed before Aiden found me.”

  “You were fortunate he did.”

  “F
ortunate?” His laugh was harsh. “Aye, I suppose, if ye consider how unfortunate I’d been to have my home overrun by Romans. How unfortunate to be knocked senseless in battle and deprived of the opportunity to fall on my sword. How unfortunate I was to have been sold like a beast.”

  “I … I’m sorry.”

  “Ye needn’t be. Ye didna wield the sword, nor the whip.”

  “Still—”

  His expression shuttered. “Toss me my clothes, lass.”

  Clara started at the reminder of Owein’s nakedness. Cheeks heating, she retrieved his braccas and shirt, which lay drying on the bank. Moving to the water’s edge, she held them out to him. He climbed from the stream, the chilled water already transforming to heat on his skin. How did the fires burn so intensely within him? Clara hugged her arms to her body and stepped back.

  To her surprise he didn’t don the garments, only threw them over his arm. Stepping into his boots, he walked naked back to the camp. Once there, he sifted through his pack and drew out wool braccas and the white linen shirt Clara had worn while her clothes dried.

  “Did your wife make those?”

  He shrugged into the shirt. “Aye.”

  He shoved his long legs into the braccas, but paused before he did up the laces. She looked up to find him watching her, the amused expression she knew so well back on his face. With a start, she realized her attention had been fixed between his legs. Her face reddened.

  He laughed softly. She wasn’t aware she’d moved until her back hit the wall of the cave. “ ’Tis no crime to look, lass.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “There’s no crime in wanting, either.”

  “I don’t want you.”

  “Ye did last night,” he taunted softly. “Ye opened your thighs for me.”

  “But … you were the one who ran. You’re afraid of me. Of us. Of the connection we have.”

  He stiffened. “ ’Twas nay my fear ye felt.”

  “I think it was. You’ve seen cruelty and evil, Owein. Darkness lingers inside your mind. It’s crippling you. I … I think I can help, if you’d only let me. Please—”