The Grail King

by Joy Nash

  “Your lofty Roman standards have fallen mightily, lass.”

  The faint humor in Owein’s tone made her smile. “I suppose they have.”

  He slumped heavily against the door frame. Alarmed, Clara reached for him with her mind, only to have her overture firmly rebuked. “I failed ye in that tavern,” he said bluntly. “And now … ’tis a poor protector who canna even keep his feet.”

  “You led us to this haven.”

  He slipped the strap of her satchel over his head and nodded at the flint box. “Will ye make a fire? I fear I haven’t the strength.”

  Clara lit the hand lamp first, then knelt and heaped charcoal in the brazier. The tinder sparked, and the coals settled into a glow. She extended her hands over the warmth. Owein sank to the floor, his back propped against the wall. A frown creased his forehead.

  Clara eyed the blood on his shirt. “Your wound—is it deep?”

  He pulled back the torn cloth and inspected it. “Nay.”

  Clara bit her lip. “Eirwen’s handiwork is ruined.”

  He was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “All things pass.”

  She could think of no reply. They sat for a time, not speaking, while the warmth of the brazier filled the room.

  Finally, Owein gave a soft chuckle. “Ye used my lessons to good advantage in the tavern.”

  “You saw? I thought the trance had blinded you.”

  “Nay entirely. I saw the bastard take ye, and I saw your escape. Ye fought like a Celt lass.”

  Clara smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “ ’Twas meant as one.”

  “I’m not sure I deserve praise. I had little choice—I only did what I had to.”

  “That’s called courage, lass.”

  Their eyes locked and held. It was true—she’d fought well, and survived. That alone brought satisfaction, but Owein’s honest regard? It kindled a flame in her chest.

  His gaze flicked over her. “Your hair …”

  Clara’s hand flew to her head. “Oh, no! I’d forgotten.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Do I look horrid?”

  He laughed softly. “Ye could never look horrid.”

  “It was that man sitting next to us, the one who …” She swallowed. “He dragged me away. I had to do something.”

  “No doubt he regrets crossing ye. If he lives.”

  Clara inhaled sharply. “You think I killed him?”

  “Ye might have.”

  The thought sickened her. Her face must have shown her distress, because Owein’s voice turned soothing. “Ye did what ye had to, no more. And proud I am that ye did, for if ye had not we would be dead.” He chuckled. “For a Roman merchant’s daughter, ye have a fine hand with a blade.”

  Clara stared into her lap. She was no merchant’s daughter, but a soldier’s. Once they reached her father’s villa, Owein would discover the deception. She should confess now. She opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat.

  After a moment, she dared a glance at Owein. With a shiver of dread, she saw that his eyes had once again lost their focus. A third vision? But he was already so weak.

  She moved to crouch beside him. “Owein? Can you hear me?”

  He gave no response. He lifted his wounded arm and stared, unblinking, at the crimson stain on the white fabric.

  “Blood,” he whispered. “Why must I always see blood?”

  He was barely breathing. Clara grasped his chin and urged him to look at her. “Owein.”

  His gaze skimmed past her and settled on a point beyond her right shoulder. His eyes were so intent that Clara turned and looked behind her. But there was nothing.

  The breath left his lungs in a rush. He slumped sideways onto the floor and lay still.

  Heart in her throat, Clara closed her hand on his forearm. Despite the room’s warmth, his skin was cold as death.

  Was this the payment the Horned God demanded?

  Chapter Fourteen

  The fog cleared slowly. When the last of the mist was gone, Owein found himself once again in the cozy roundhouse, gazing down on the pallet where his children lay.

  A deep peace spread through him as he watched the innocents slumber. How long had it been since he’d felt such contentment? Not since he’d been a small lad, snuggled against his sister’s side.

  He turned. In the darkest part of the room lay another pallet he hadn’t noticed before. He moved toward it, suddenly aware of the scent of lovemaking.

  He approached the bed, his eyes fixed on the pale curve of a bare shoulder. A long skein of silver-blond hair veiled the curve of a creamy white breast.

  Was this his future wife? The woman fated to be his destiny?

  He stood and looked down at her, his emotions reeling. The woman stirred, rolling onto her back. Her countenance was fair. She had the look of a woman who had just been well loved. Her lips were red and pouting, her breasts full and round.

  Her gray eyes fluttered open and her mouth curved. He felt as though he’d received a secret gift.

  Lifting one hand, she reached for him. “Owein,” she murmured. “Come to me. I await ye in Avalon.”

  “Owein?”

  A woman’s voice came from afar. The scent of springtime drifted with it. Both seemed familiar, but he couldn’t remember why.

  Hands grasped his shoulders. “Answer me!”

  He tried to reply, but no words emerged. He floated in a warm pool of darkness, like a mother’s womb. The warmth grew hotter and the current rougher, until he boiled in a cauldron.

  The voice was fainter now. He could no longer make out the unknown woman’s words. He drifted away, far away, into the darkness.

  And then he felt her.

  She was inside him, all around him. She was cool, like a night’s breeze after a hot summer’s day. She was mist in the valley, the dampness of the earth, the blessed rain that fell from the sky.

  She knew him.

  “Owein,” she whispered urgently.

  He frowned.

  Emotion choked her voice. “I’m … I’m here. Come back to me.”

  He struggled to find her, fighting against the dark current of the spirit world. Three visions he’d had. After such a trial, could his soul ever return to his body?

  It was Clara who found him, Clara who pulled him back. She was before him, showing the way. Beside him, lending her strength. Behind him, blocking the darkness with her Light.

  She was in his arms.

  Slowly, he began to understand his surroundings. The army watch station. He lay on his back, with Clara draped across him. Her rose petal sent surrounded him. Her forehead was pressed into the hollow of his neck. He felt moisture there, as if she were washing him clean with her tears.

  He shifted, bringing her fully atop him, so the length of her body pressed against the length of his. His arms were so weak he could barely move her slight weight. She wriggled, helping him. His cock hardened against the cradle of her thighs.

  She nuzzled his neck, planted a light trail of kisses along his jaw. It felt odd, feeling a woman’s kiss against his shaved chin. She kissed his neck, and lower. The ties of his shirt came undone. Her lips pressed against his breastbone.

  He groaned. She lifted her head and caught the sound with her mouth. She kissed him, deeply, snaking her tongue between his lips, threading her fingers through his hair.

  “Lass …”

  “Shh.”

  She kissed a path across his cheek. Her tongue grazed his ear, traveled down his neck to his shoulder. There was a scar there, a round depression where the metal tip of a flagellum had gouged his skin. She explored the mark with the tip of her tongue.

  A bolt of shame shot through him. He inhaled sharply, his arms tightening around her. He wanted to throw her off, but he was too weak. His hand settled on her shorn head, his fingers spearing the short strands.

  “Leave me, lass.”

  “My name is Clara. Clara, do you hear? And I will not leave you. You need me.” She l
eft the scar to kiss his chest.

  He anchored her hips with his hands. Her bare hips. Like a man caught in a dream, he opened his eyes. Clara straddled him, her tunic unbelted and hiked to her waist. Deliberately, she caught his gaze. With excruciating slowness she lifted the garment over her head.

  She was naked atop him. He could only stare. In the soft glow of the coals, she was more than beautiful. Her supple waist, her pink-tipped breasts, her dark, exotic eyes—aye, even her shorn hair. She was a goddess of the night moon spirit, perhaps—casting her Light upon him. It almost hurt to look at her.

  Her fingers found the laces of his braccas. His blood surged hotly. Her palm closed on his flesh. He shuddered as a brutal stab of lust speared his gut. “What of your honor?” he gasped.

  “I wish to give it to you.”

  “Your Roman father willna be pleased.”

  “I … I don’t care about that. I love you, Owein. I want you to be my first lover.”

  Her expression was sober, her eyes soft and glittering with tears. The glow from the brazier danced over her face in shifting patterns. She slipped within his mind, but stayed hovering on the surface, far from the darkest parts of his soul. The sensation was almost bearable.

  She smiled down at him. “You told me a Celt woman may choose her lover.”

  She kissed her way across his chest, laving first one flat nipple, then the other. Her mind undulated within his. If he hadn’t been so weak from his visions, he might have stopped her. At least that was what he told himself.

  His body tensed as she shifted backward. Her palm pressed the tip of his arousal. It surged into her hand. She tested his length with a virgin’s touch, pressing far too lightly.

  Every drop of resistance bled from Owein’s mind. He felt himself sliding toward an unknown place. His grasp on her hips tightened. He wanted her desperately, but she was a virgin. He had to be sure she understood the risk.

  “Clara,” he said deliberately. Her name felt soft on his tongue. “Look at me.”

  She raised her head, her eyes wide and shining with sudden tears.

  His breath came thickly. “If we do this, I might get ye with a child I couldna claim. What would ye do then?”

  She stilled, and for one sickening instant Owein feared she’d regained her senses. Then he felt her love blossom in his mind.

  “I would hope he has your eyes,” she said. “Your eyes, and your hair.”

  And Owein knew he was lost.

  When she bent her head to his lips again, he didn’t fight. How could he? She’d conquered him, broken through his resistance. When she offered her sweet mouth, he plundered it, taking every comfort she wished to give. When she arched her hips, he gripped her tightly, rocking her woman’s center against his rigid shaft.

  He skimmed his hands over her stomach, her waist, her breasts. Her skin was as soft as new petals. He drank in her dark eyes. She was so fine, so perfectly formed. She was delicacy and strength. Looking upon her filled his heart near to bursting.

  Her fingers struggled with his shirt. “I want this off.”

  He managed to lift his torso enough so she could work the garments from his body. The sleeve of the linen shirt was sticky with blood—it tore away from his wound.

  Clara gave a cry of dismay. “You’re bleeding again.”

  “ ’Tis nothing, lass.”

  “It’s not noth—”

  He rubbed a thumb across her nipple, distracting her. The ruse worked. Her breath hitched, and the words died on her lips. His hand skated down her torso, coming to rest on her hip. Her skin was perfect. So unlike his own scarred and mangled flesh.

  He slid his fingers between her thighs.

  She froze, her grip on his arm tightening painfully. He didn’t care. She was slick with wanting him, and the knowledge caused his chest to expand. He teased her folds and felt her desire coil. The musk of her arousal mingled with her springtime scent.

  He brushed his thumb across the swollen nub hidden in her curls. A tremor shot through her.

  “Owein—”

  She fit so easily in his embrace, as if she’d been fashioned just for him. His hands went to her hair, lifting and separating the shorn ends. He touched her cheeks, traced the line of her brows. “Ye are a beauty. But ’tis your strength that makes me want ye so.”

  She shook her head, but the hint of a smile curved her lips and her eyes sparkled with pleasure. Her hand sought his shaft. With a gentle touch, she guided him to the entrance of her body, only to pause, one hand braced on his chest. Her smile faded.

  “Will it hurt?”

  “The pain will pass quickly.”

  She bit her lower lip and nodded. Closing her eyes, she levered herself up and once again guided his shaft to her opening. Her touch was so light and hesitant Owein was sure he’d go mad before he could slide inside her. With an effort, he lay still.

  She sank down on his shaft slowly. He flexed his hips, easing past her slick folds. When he encountered her maidenhead, he paused. He’d never had a virgin—he had no idea how best to proceed. Gently? Or would a hard thrust make the discomfort pass more quickly? He scanned her face, searching for a clue.

  Her eyes were closed, her lips pressed firmly together. “That feels … strange.”

  “Strange,” he muttered. Leaning forward, he caught the pebbled tip of her breast with his mouth. He suckled it, drawing a gasp of pleasure. At that same moment, he drew her hips down sharply, impaling her on his shaft.

  She gave a strangled cry and instinctively tried to withdraw.

  “Shh …” He clutched her to him, cradling the back of her head. “Stay still a moment, lass.”

  He felt her tears. “Clara,” she muttered into his neck.

  A rumble of laughter vibrated in his chest. “Clara,” he agreed, smoothing her hair from her face. “Does it still hurt?”

  “Not so much now.”

  He flexed his hips, stroking her intimately. “And this?”

  She let out a moan. “By all the gods on Olympus, Owein! That feels …” He moved again and her words were lost in a moan.

  His hands roamed her body, touching her breasts, sweeping over her waist, cupping her hips and arse. She was so delicate, so slight. And yet there was a vein of iron in her.

  And magic. She was strong in the Light. He felt it flowing atop the surface of his mind. A wave of desire broke—a need for a deeper joining. But was the thought his own, or Clara’s? He couldn’t be sure. A frown creased his forehead as he remembered how she’d compelled him to leave the mansio. He’d been caught in a trance, bound like a slave, as he’d been all those years ago.

  There had been no hope of escape …

  Ropes burned his wrists.

  Owein strained, twisting with savage strength. Pain shot up his arms, causing his shoulders to spasm. His ankles were lashed to the wooden frame as well, his legs splayed wide.

  The slave master approached slowly. He snapped the wooden handle of the flagellum against the palm of his opposite hand, allowing Owein plenty of time to contemplate his fate. A slow, painful death, ordered to appease a woman’s pride.

  The rhythm of the flagellum commanded Owein’s complete attention. The thongs swung in the sunlight, the sharpened bits of iron imbedded in the leather glinting. Cold sweat gathered on Owein’s brow.

  Thirty-nine lashes. Each would send dozens of jagged blades into his flesh.

  A small crowd had gathered—mostly ragged, dirty slaves who kept their eyes cast downward. They’d been ordered to witness Owein’s fate, but wouldn’t take pleasure in it.

  Amelia would, though. She was there, in the front of the gathering, clinging to her husband’s arm.

  Owein captured her gaze. His hatred caused her smug expression to falter.

  But only for an instant. She smiled again when the first blow fell.

  Clara’s breath hitched. Her voice vibrated with urgency. “Owein … where are you? What do you see? I can’t—”

  With a start, Owein
came back to himself. Clara was sprawled atop him, her eyes shadowed with his memories. Her small hands gripped his shoulders with surprising strength. Belatedly, he realized he’d withdrawn almost completely from her body.

  His lungs sucked air. Deliberately, he banished the memory of his flogging to the darkest recesses of his mind. He relaxed his arms, guiding Clara as she slid back down his shaft. Gathering her close, he eased her onto her back.

  He rose above her. He could be that much a man, at least.

  “Clara …” Her name was a prayer on his lips. He moved inside her, going deeper with each thrust. He would make her forget his lapse. Forget what she’d glimpsed of his shame.

  If only he could forget as well.

  She clutched his arms, her fingernails digging into his skin. This time, it was pleasure, not terror that gripped her. He could feel her inside his mind, battering the edges of his control.

  His strokes quickened as he struggled to shore up his defenses. Her peak was near and his was not far behind. He dropped his head into the hollow of her shoulder, shuddering as the beginnings of his climax claimed him.

  His fingers threaded her hair. He kissed her, taking her lips with bruising urgency. Her slender legs wrapped his hips. Her breath came in short gasps, her hands moving over him with frantic passion. Her touch was a cool, soothing brand on his hot skin.

  She spoke in his mind. Please, Owein, let me in. Let me share your darkness.

  Ah, lass …

  Part of him wanted to push her away—another part, to accept her gift and lose himself within her Light forever. Helplessly, he thrust deeper as his peak came upon him. Her woman’s passage clenched him like a hot fist. Stars exploded behind his eyes and his consciousness slipped.

  He was inside her, and she within him.

  Too close. He could not bear it.

  He struggled to escape, even as the pleasure exploded.

  Chapter Fifteen

  If not for the soreness between her thighs, Clara might have thought she’d dreamed Owein’s lovemaking. Half-dazed, she snuggled with her back to his chest. His lips brushed against her hair; his temple braid fell across her cheek in a soft caress. The weight of his muscular arm across her mid-section felt pleasantly heavy. The coals in the brazier had gone dark, but she wasn’t cold in the least. Sometime in the night she had pulled her cloak over the two of them.