by Joy Nash
Marcus found his stepmother’s attentions profoundly irritating. The reaction shamed him. Was he so petty a man to begrudge Rhiannon’s love for her brother? Or Breena’s starry-eyed worship of the uncle she’d just met?
Perhaps the blame for Marcus’s foul mood more properly rested upon the obvious fact that the woman he loved was enraptured with a Druid. Clara had hardly glanced away from Owein since he’d entered the room. Her gaze drank in the Celt’s every movement—despite the fact that Owein hadn’t addressed a single word to her, nor even, so far as Marcus could tell, glanced in her direction.
Owein was clearly uncomfortable in his sister’s home. He’d refused to enter the indoor bathing rooms, insisting instead on washing outdoors in the frigid kitchen garden with a few rags and buckets of heated water. Even now, ensconced by the hearth, he sat stiffly. Marcus doubted Owein’s rigid posture had anything to do with the salve Rhiannon was applying to the cuts on his back. No, Marcus suspected the wounds that pained Owein were far older.
Rhiannon’s finger traced a puckered gouge on Owein’s shoulder that could only have been made by a slaver’s flagellum.
“When were ye taken?” she asked softly.
For a moment, Marcus thought Owein wouldn’t answer. When he did, his tone was without inflection. “Seven winters past, in the north of Cambria. I … I dinna remember much of the battle.”
Rhiannon’s fingers stilled. “How long were ye … ?”
“Almost two years.”
Rhiannon dipped her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. “If I had known …”
Owein covered her hand with his. “Dinna cry, little mama.” He nodded across the table to Aiden. “The Great Mother sent this man to my aid.”
The old Celt beamed. “Aye, my clan was blessed that day. Our people were glad to have a Wise One among us.”
“It did ye little good in the end,” Owein muttered.
An awkward silence ensued.
Owein lifted his gaze to Marcus. “I will repay my slave price, Roman.”
It was an empty promise, and both men knew it. Owein could labor for years without earning the sum of fifty gold aurei, let alone the true value of Clara’s jewelry and Marcus’s dagger. To Marcus’s credit, he just nodded. He found he hadn’t the stomach to rip away Owein’s last shred of dignity.
And yet, he wanted to. The lout could at least address him by name, rather than with the dubious title “Roman,” pronounced with as much respect as the word “pig.” An urge to sink a blade into the far wall struck hard. Marcus’s hand was halfway to the hilt of his favorite dagger before he remembered he’d bartered it for Owein’s freedom. He flexed his fingers, cursing under his breath.
Breena approached Owein, her head inclined shyly. She carried a bowl heaped with stew and chunks of bread. “Will ye eat, Uncle?”
“Aye, lass.” Owein took the food, his mouth curving briefly.
Marcus’s sister responded with her most dazzling smile. Owein’s gaze lingered on the girl, his eyes narrowing when he saw Rhys’s Druid pendant around her neck. Owein’s gaze lifted to Breena’s face. Marcus’s frown deepened as the Druid’s eyes lost their focus.
After a long moment, Owein gave a swift shake of his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Rhiannon’s gaze was troubled. “Are ye in pain, Owein? Is it—”
Owein’s eyes were sober. “Your daughter has the Sight. What does your Roman husband think of that?”
Rhiannon bit her lip. “He doesn’t know.”
“Rhys wants to take me to the sacred isle,” Breena put in. “To be trained in the ways of the Light.”
Owein’s brows lifted. “Rhys? The Druid Cormac told me of?”
Rhiannon nodded. “Rhys’s grandfather, Cyric, wants Breena to foster on Avalon. He fears if she’s not trained in the Light, her link to the Deep Magic could be turned to the Dark.”
Owein’s eyes were grave. “As Madog turned mine, all those years ago.”
Rhiannon looked away. “Aye.”
“And will your Roman husband give up his daughter to a band of Druids?”
“No,” Marcus cut in. “He will not. And neither will I.”
“Marcus, please. Let us nay speak of this now.”
“You cannot avoid it forever, Mother.”
Breena hastened to Marcus’s side and put a hand on his arm. “Marcus, Owein is here now. Perhaps … perhaps he can teach me.”
Rhiannon turned hopeful eyes to her brother. “Ye are welcome here. Will ye stay, Owein?”
Owein looked into his bowl of stew. “I’m nay one to teach any of the Light. Also, I canna imagine Lucius Aquila would tolerate me in his house. I nearly killed him.”
“I will handle Lucius,” Rhiannon said quietly.
Privately, Marcus entertained doubts about that.
“Ye are my brother,” Rhiannon continued. “Ye’ll always have a home with me.”
“I canna accept your offer,” Owein said quietly. “I mean to be gone in the morning.”
“Gone?” Clara, who until now had remained silent, half-rose from her seat. “Gone where?”
Owein met Clara’s gaze fully for the first time since Marcus had taken him out of the arena. “Where I go is no concern of yours.” His tone was almost brutal.
Clara paled.
Marcus could tolerate this travesty no longer. Abruptly, he strode across the room and held out his hand to Clara. He pitched his voice low, speaking in Latin. “Please. Walk with me. Outside, in the garden.”
Clara looked toward Owein, who was staring so intently at his stew he might have been inspecting it for swimming insects. “All right,” she said tightly.
She put her hand in his and his fingers closed around it.
Clara had left the house with her blacksmith.
The words that would have called her back had been on the tip of Owein’s tongue. They’d gone unsaid. He could hardly bear to look at her, knowing what she’d witnessed in the arena. His shame was hard enough to bear before Rhiannon and her Roman son. Before Clara, his humiliation was complete. How she must pity him.
No man should be pitied by the woman he loved.
For he did love her. The realization struck him with all the swiftness and fury of the slaver’s whip. He loved her delicacy, her strength, her courage in the face of things far beyond her sheltered experience. But he could offer her no life, no future.
He could never dwell here, in her world. This Roman city burned a hole in his spirit. The arena and slave market, the press of bodies, the jumble of buildings piled atop one another—all these things were bad enough. But perhaps the worst was the high, somber walls of the fortress, declaring the might and supremacy of Rome. And the soldiers. They strode through the streets at every turn. He’d had a difficult time restraining his rage at the sight.
Valgus was one of those soldiers.
Owein had failed to kill the man. No doubt the snake had slithered back to his fortress, where Owein could never gain access. With Gracchus dead, Clara was in Valgus’s power.
He raised his head and found Rhiannon watching him. Looking around, he realized he was alone with his sister. Breena had gone with Aiden to the kitchens just after Marcus and Clara had departed.
“What troubles ye so?” Rhiannon asked softly. “Your wounds?”
Owein shook his head and placed his half-empty bowl on the table. “Tell me,” he asked. “What is needed to remove Valgus as Clara’s guardian?”
Rhiannon’s brows furrowed. “I’m not sure. Most likely a petition to the governor in Londinium, with a request to appoint another guardian in Valgus’s stead.”
“Would your husband agree to act as such?”
“I’m sure that Lucius would. He’s in Londinium now. I could send him a message.”
“Nay. Have Clara go to Londinium herself. Can ye spare Aquila’s son to escort her?”
“Of course.”
“Will ye see to it then? Have her leave as quickly as possible, in secret. V
algus didna see Clara at Gracchus’s villa. She’s been gone from Isca for days—perhaps Valgus believes her lost, or dead. All the better if he does.”
“Ye have the right of it.” Rhiannon touched Owein’s cheek. “But ye should take Clara to Londinium yourself.”
“That I canna do,” Owein said quietly.
Rhiannon said nothing, but the expression in her eyes told Owein he’d disappointed her. She wanted him to stay, become part of her world. Owein returned his attention to his stew, his heart hollow in his chest. He did not belong in her Roman house, no matter how warm the hearth, or how much he yearned for family. No matter how fiercely he wished he could be the civilized man Clara needed, he knew the task was beyond him.
Nay. He would leave in the morning, before his resolve weakened. He’d seen his future in Avalon. He would join with a silver-haired Druidess. Become the father of her children. He would live with others of his kind, in the wilderness, in whatever peace magic could provide.
A Roman farm could never be his home.
Clara tugged her hand from Marcus’s as soon as she stepped from the hearth room. Her heart was pounding. Why had he sought her out? She slanted him a glance, but his dark eyes were fixed straight ahead. He said nothing as they passed under the covered walk and into the yard.
An air of hopelessness clung to the snow-shrouded garden. The trees were bare; the herbs drowned in graying slush. The thorny canes of the roses reminded her of death. Marcus didn’t stop until he reached the fountain at the garden’s center. Then he swung around and faced her, legs braced wide.
“You’ve lain with him,” he said bluntly.
Whatever Clara had expected the bashful blacksmith to say, it hadn’t been this. “Why do you think that?” she asked carefully.
“Because of the way you look at him. The pain in your eyes.” He ground his fist into his palm. “He pays you no notice at all! Why do you shame yourself before him?”
Clara stiffened her spine. “I cannot see how this is any concern of yours.”
“I know of your father’s will,” Marcus said moodily. “It’s all about town. He betrothed you to Valgus in manu.”
Clara nodded.
“You can’t mean to marry Valgus. He’s a man of dishonor.”
“I’ve no wish to be his wife. But he’s my guardian. I’ll have to answer to him somehow.”
“What if you were to walk away? Offer to leave the money and the property in his hands?”
“I would be destitute! Where would I go?”
Marcus drew a breath. “You would stay here. As my wife.”
Clara’s jaw slackened. “You’re offering me marriage?”
“It shouldn’t come as such a shock,” he said irritably. “I offered for you once before.”
He was not jesting. His jaw clenched with such force that Clara was afraid he might break a tooth. It occurred to her that behind the blacksmith’s even-tempered façade lurked a depth of passion she’d not guessed at.
“Such an offer is a treasure, Marcus Aquila. Any woman would be proud to call you husband. But I cannot accept.” She looked away. “You were right, a moment ago. Owein and I—”
“No,” Marcus said quickly. “Don’t tell me.”
“But you asked if I had lain with him!”
“I shouldn’t have. Clara, it makes no difference to me. My offer of marriage stands.”
Clara shook her head. “You’re far too noble, Marcus. I cannot accept you. I love Owein, and yes, I have lain with him.”
Marcus swore.
“I’m sorry. Owein has my heart.”
“He’s not worthy of it,” Marcus muttered.
Chapter Twenty
Rhys paused on silent feet, listening to the sounds of the night. He sensed an animal padding a short distance behind him. A wolf. The beast had made no move to attack. And yet, it remained close. Strange behavior for a wild creature.
Rhys’s footsteps turned to the north. The wolf circled, forcing him back to the south. Back to Avalon. A sudden thought struck. Was the animal herding him?
He muttered an oath. This would not do. He’d come into the Mendip hills to search for Gwen. Now this wolf was forcing him to retrace his steps.
Hefin flew to and fro above him, wings flapping in agitation. Three times the merlin had rushed the wolf, talons extended menacingly. The animal had snarled and snapped its jaws, once even coming away with a tail feather between its teeth. After that, Hefin kept his distance.
This farce could not go on. Rhys pivoted to face the direction where he believed the wolf to be lurking. He spread his legs and flexed his knees, his palm resting lightly on the pommel of his dagger. If this animal wanted a confrontation, so be it.
“Come out,” he commanded. He was not sure his attempt at communication would work—he was most gifted in sensing the knowledge of birds, not the intentions of four-footed creatures. Still, he could try.
“Step into the moonlight, where I can see ye.”
To his amazement, the wolf obeyed.
The beast was a female, with a silver-gray coat and dark markings around its eyes. It didn’t take a threatening stance, as Rhys had expected. Instead, it went down on its haunches and laid its head on its paws. Rhys could have sworn the animal was bidding him draw near.
His hand dropped from his dagger. He paced a few steps closer, then, when the wolf made no threatening move, he stepped closer still and dropped into a crouch.
“What is it ye want of me, friend?”
The wolf raised its muzzle, gave a brief yip, then turned and bounded off. A moment later, it paused and looked back. Rhys rubbed the stubble on his jaw, bemused. The wolf meant for him to follow.
He did. When the animal plunged into the water, close to the raft Rhys had left hidden in a clump of reeds, Rhys followed. The she-wolf paddled toward the sacred isle, though not to the hidden dock near the village. Bemused, Rhys poled his craft to the far side of Avalon’s smaller hill. The wolf emerged from the swamp, shaking its coat. Rhys leaped off the raft and pulled it onto the shore.
Above, Hefin screeched disapprovingly. The wolf padded forward into a bright patch of moonlight. It halted to nose a hollow in a rotting stump, as if trying to pull something out. Hunkering down beside the animal, Rhys peered inside.
The dull gleam of aged silver caught his eye. He extended an unsteady hand into the cavity and drew forth a pendant. For a long moment, he just stared at the pattern on its face: the mark of the Druids of Avalon, the same design Rhys bore on his chest.
Rhys’s heart nearly seized. This was Gwen’s pendant.
She’d worn it since the day of their mother’s death, had duplicated its pattern in her forge, crafting similar pendants for the women of Avalon. Never had he seen her without it—it was too old and powerful, and far too dear to her. The sister he’d once known would never have tossed it aside. Unless …
He shoved his arm into the hollow and pulled out a wad of damp fabric. He recognized the tunic as Gwen’s. His gut twisted. Was his sister dead, or taken by a slaver? Or was there some other explanation?
His attention snapped to the wolf. The beast had brought him to this place for a reason. Tentatively, he reached out with his mind, as he so often did with Hefin. But if the wolf held knowledge of Gwen in its primitive brain, Rhys couldn’t discern it. And yet …
“Show me,” he said softly.
The wolf inclined its head and thumped its tail once, then turned and started picking its way up the slope. Rhys looped the pendant’s chain around his neck and followed. The animal set a swift pace, disappearing beyond a turn in the trail. Rhys hastened after it. Finally, it paused. At first Rhys saw nothing out of place. But then he sensed the tingle of magic. Dark magic. His eyes adjusted, picking out a subtle cleft in the hillside. The form of a rough shelter was just visible.
A grunting akin to the song made by rutting pigs drifted from the makeshift hut. A man moaned; a woman gave a sharp cry.
The wolf stood motionless, hack
les raised. Rhys knew a rush of sickening dread. Time and again, his sister had refused Cyric’s instruction to take a husband. Rhys had believed Gwen defied their grandfather because she wasn’t yet ready to give her body to a man. Had he been wrong?
Had Gwen truly fallen from the Light?
“What in the name of the Horned God himself are ye doing out here, lad?”
Aiden’s complaint drifted into the loft where Owein lay on his stomach, atop a wool blanket spread on a heap of straw. The open cuts left by the slaver’s lash made it difficult to stretch out on his back, as was his usual habit. His head ached. The image of Clara placing her small hand in Marcus Aquila’s large one was vivid in his mind.
He shoved himself up on his hands and knees, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. Rhiannon had bandaged his torso, clucking and scolding as she wound the strips of linen tightly. It had almost seemed as though he’d gone back in time, with his sister tending him after some youthful mishap. Until he looked up and saw Clara’s hopeful eyes, watching him.
Crouching, he peered over the edge of the loft. Aiden stood below, leaning heavily on a stout oak walking stick. “Answer me!” Aiden’s thin voice was surprisingly vehement. “What are ye doing in this sheep barn?”
“I could be asking ye the same question, old man. Ye should be abed.”
Aiden shook his staff. “Come down here, Wise One. I mean to speak with ye.”
Owein snorted at the title. Half the time, he didn’t know if Aiden pronounced it in reverence or in jest. There was no use in trying to send Aiden away. Owein knew his grandfather by marriage well enough to realize the man would have his way.
It had been much the same when he’d offered Eirwen as Owein’s bride.
“Lower your voice, old man,” he said as he descended the ladder. “You’re disturbing the sheep.”
“Hmph,” Aiden replied, blinking as Owein presented himself, A fat ewe bleated, crowding her lambs into a corner.