Celtic Fire (28 page)

Her eyes widened at the sight of him. No doubt he looked worse than she did. He’d neither slept nor shaved in two days. But now that she had returned, he felt his desperation fade.

“Lucius,” Rhiannon breathed and swayed on her feet.

He caught her by the arm, holding her steady until she regained her balance. Then he drew his hand back, unsure if his touch was welcome. “You came back.”

“Yes.” She looked past him. “Marcus. Is he—”

“He lives still.” Lucius stepped aside and allowed her to pass.

She bent low over Marcus’s bed and smoothed one hand over his forehead. “I am sorry, Magister. It was necessary I gather the herb alone. The sacred grove lies close to my village.”

“You might have trusted me to understand,” Demetrius said.

“I couldn’t take that chance.”

Lucius understood only too well. Rhiannon dared not reveal the location of her village and risk the lives of Aulus’s murderers.

Demetrius set his hands on the bed and pushed himself to his feet. “Do not speak of it further.” He touched the knot of roots she’d laid on the blankets. “What will you need? Mortar and pestle?”

“Yes. And hot water,” she said, not looking up from her examination of the boy.

Demetrius left them alone. Lucius told himself to keep his distance, but the siren call of Rhiannon’s presence proved impossible to resist. Yes, she’d protected her murdering kinsmen, but she’d sacrificed her sudden freedom to return to the fort, for Marcus’s sake if not for his own.

He moved to stand behind her, close but not touching. When she straightened and looked up at him, her face was flushed. She spoke, her voice so low he had to dip his head to make out the words. “Lucius, I must warn you. Marcus is weak and this cure is dangerous in itself. It may only hasten his death.”

“Yet it has cured some?”

“Many.”

Lucius paced around the bed, halting at the table upon which Demetrius’s instruments had been set out. His hand closed on the goblet he’d overturned earlier. He righted the cup and busied himself mopping the spilt wine with a cloth. Twilight gloom was gathering swiftly. He relit the hand lamp, gathered the soiled rags, and placed them in a heap by the door.

When at last he turned back to Rhiannon, his surge of helplessness was, if not vanquished, then tightly under control. “Do what you must. Marcus has little time left as it is.”

She moved toward him and cupped his cheek with her palm. “Thank you for your trust. I know I’ve done little to deserve it.”

His jaw worked to force a swallow past the burning lump in his throat. He looked toward the newly lit lamp. The flame stung his eyes.

Rhiannon’s hand dropped away and the loss of her touch brought an ache to Lucius’s chest. As she peeled away the swath of blankets shrouding Marcus’s upper body, he found himself wishing for Aulus’s presence, however gruesome, at his side.

If he needed final proof of his insanity, the fact that he missed his brother’s ghost was surely it.

Rhiannon wet a clean length of linen and began to sponge Marcus’s face and torso. Lucius wondered at her actions—Demetrius had insisted the boy remain warm. Yet he didn’t question her method. He had placed his son’s life—and his own heart—in Rhiannon’s hands. He could do no less than to trust her.

Marcus stirred and his eyelids fluttered open. “Rhiannon.” The word was little more than a hoarse croak.

“I’m here, Marcus.” She brushed a kiss on his forehead.

Lucius’s heart clenched. She loved his son. He could see it in her eyes, in her touch. How Lucius wished he could earn even a half measure of that emotion.

Demetrius returned, followed by a slave woman carrying a steaming bowl of water.

“Both leaves and roots,” Rhiannon said. Demetrius took up a pestle and crushed the first bit of root. Rhiannon leaned low, her lips grazing Marcus’s ear. “I need you to take a draught. A potion.”

Marcus’s eyes were two wide pools. “A witch’s brew?”

Rhiannon’s lips curved, even as her tears welled. “Yes. It will be horrid, but it will make you better.”

Demetrius finished his preparations and filled a cup with liquid. Rhiannon murmured her most potent healing spell as she slipped her arm under Marcus’s shoulders. A spasm gripped the lad’s body. His arm flailed, striking her in the face.

Lucius was at her side in an instant. His arms closed about Marcus in gentle restraint. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

Marcus’s fit passed. Lucius held him upright while Rhiannon dripped her brew down his throat. When she finished, he eased his son’s head onto the cushions.

“How long?” he asked grimly.

Rhiannon met his gaze. “We will know by morning.”

“It wants but two nights to the summer moon.” Edmyg eyed the skull atop Madog’s staff. “My warriors are eager.”

Owein stood silent, watching the firelight paint the chieftain’s arrogant features in wavering shadows. Even at a distance of twenty paces, Owein could see hatred burning in his kinsman’s eyes. Pain spiked into his temple. The visions called. He leaned heavily on the rough doorframe of Madog’s hut and fought against them. When they came upon him, he lay as helpless as a babe. He knew Edmyg wished to kill him. He dared not show his vulnerability.

“We will be ready,” Madog said. His hand shifted on his staff, causing the dead man’s visage to swivel in Owein’s direction.

“How, when Rhiannon has failed to deliver the Roman?” Edmyg asked.

At that, Owein moved from the shadows into the firelight, fighting the pain with each step. “Deliver? How so?”

Madog’s gaze shifted toward Owein before returning to Edmyg. “A stag will take the Roman’s place,” he said.

Edmyg spat in Owein’s direction. “A poor substitute for an enemy’s blood. The chieftains will nay be pleased.”

Madog shrugged. “When warriors are discontented, the fault lies with their leader.”

Edmyg bristled. “Watch your tongue, old man.”

Another brilliant shaft of agony exploded in Owein’s head. He took a deep breath and waited for the worst of it to pass. “How was Rhiannon to deliver the Roman? She’s his prisoner.”

Edmyg paid him scant attention. “Dinna bring the lad to the circle,” he told Madog. “He is no longer of the clan.”

“Think ye that blood can be denied?” said Madog. “Ye will find otherwise.”

“He killed Glynis and her babe. My son.”

“True enough. Yet he did nay more than Kernunnos commanded.”

Owein’s blood ran cold. Madog believed his Sight had caused the death of Glynis and her bastard? Could it be true? He’d not sought to form the vision. It had come unbidden.

Edmyg snatched his dagger from its sheath and pressed the tip to Madog’s throat. “Ye set him to it, old man. Dinna be denying it.”

Owein seized the Druid sword from the scabbard at his belt. But Madog raised a palm to Owein and merely met Edmyg’s gaze with a cold stare. Edmyg slammed his weapon back into its sheath.

He turned on Owein. “Yer precious sister plays the whore with the Roman.”

“The dog forced himself on her.”

“Nay. Cormac reports she takes her pleasure gladly. Cartimandua’s blood runs strong in her veins.”

“ ’Tis a lie!”

Edmyg gave an unpleasant laugh. “Is it? Rhiannon kens she has but to lure her lover outside the fort to gain her freedom. Yet she doesna climb from his bed.”

Owein stared at him. “What do ye mean?”

“I sent her word through Cormac instructing her to bed the Roman and contrive a way to lie with him in the forest, away from his guards.” He made a slashing motion with one hand. “I was to be waiting, to take him alive.”

“She will yet bring him to the circle,” Madog said.

Owein spun toward him. “Ye knew of this?”

“Aye,” answered Edmyg. “He knew.”

Owein felt sick. “How could ye ask Rhiannon to debase herself so?”

Madog’s eyes took on a hard glint. “How many Druid women suffered worse degradations at Mona only to have their throats slit by Roman swords after? ’Tis no shameful role Rhiannon takes in this. ’Tis vengeance. She wields a weapon only a woman can hold.”

He caressed the skull atop his staff. “Revenge is precious. It canna be gained without sacrifice. Who better to offer it than a queen?”

Rhiannon awoke by small degrees, fighting a dream in which she searched the ground within the sacred stones, but could not find the Roman skull.
Nay.
It had to be there. But the spike that had once held Aulus’s severed head was empty.

She jerked upright, heart pounding. It was no dream she saw, but a memory. She’d searched the Druid circle after gathering mistletoe from the oak grove. She’d intended to bury Lucius’s brother’s remains before returning to the fort, but had found the skull missing. Had Madog moved it? If so, why? She would have searched further, perhaps even ventured near the Druid’s hut, but her fear for Marcus’s life had driven her back to the fort.

Marcus. Did he live?

She could just make out his motionless form nestled on the bed at his father’s side, but from her vantage point on the floor she couldn’t tell if he breathed or not. Lucius lay stretched on his back, his arms flung over his head. Sleep softened the hard angles of his face, giving Rhiannon a glimpse of how he might have looked as a youth.

She flung aside her hasty pallet of blankets and forced herself to her feet. Dreading what she might find, she inched toward the bed, steeling herself for the worst. Halting by Marcus’s side, she looked down at the lad.

Her heart slammed into her chest. The lad slept. Not the fitful rest of the last days, but a deep, natural slumber. The heat and flush of his skin had receded and his breathing had eased. Rhiannon gripped the bed frame in a dizzying flood of relief.

Marcus would live.

At least until Edmyg laid siege to the fort.

The summer moon was but one night away. Rhiannon harbored no illusions that any Roman, no matter how young, would be spared her kinsmen’s vengeance. And whether she watched the Celt warriors approach or stood behind their battle surge, she could only be a part of the losing side. There would be no winners in this war unless she could stop the fight entirely.

Could she escape Vindolanda a third time? She turned to the window as if she would find the answer somewhere in the lane below or the hills beyond the perimeter walls. She’d thrown open the shutters during the night, hoping to relieve the stench of the sickroom despite Demetrius’s disapproval. Now she saw that the glow of dawn lay low on the horizon. The day would be clear. If only her heart were as well.

“My son lives. Thanks to you.”

She spun around. Lucius had eased himself to a sitting position in the bed, his son nestled close to him. The sight of them together filled her heart to bursting.

The dark stubble on Lucius’s chin gave him the look of some wild Roman god. His face was haggard, but his eyes spoke gentle whispers, dark and warm like a summer night. Truly, he was a king among men—strong and proud, with a heart that loved deeply and true.

She turned away.

A soft, bitter laugh reached her ears. “I deserve your disgust after my conduct in the forest, I am quite sure of that.”

“No,” she said, her voice breaking. “I could never hate you, Lucius.”

She heard him rise, heard the sound of Marcus being shifted from his arms. She turned to see Lucius drawing a blanket over his son. Bending low, he placed a kiss on the lad’s forehead.

He approached her slowly as if he thought she would bolt if he dared to get too close. “You have every right to despise me, yet you repay my harsh treatment by trading your freedom for my son’s life.”

“I love the lad,” she said simply.

Lucius’s eyes glittered like dark, brittle stars. “I envy him that. I would give much to hear you say the same of me.”

An ache rose in Rhiannon’s breast. She would give anything to say those words, but she dared not. Once said, there would be no going back to her people. No going back to Owein.

Lucius touched his finger to her chin and lifted it. There was heat in his gaze now, fused with another, deeper emotion. One that frightened her even more than his anger had done on the day he’d prevented her escape. She blinked, trying to quell the rise of her emotions before they caused her heart to break.

She caught his wrist. “I’m not what you think, Lucius.”

“Do you know what I’m thinking?” He took her hand in his and turned it over, tracing circles on her palm with the tip of his forefinger. “Surely you do not. If you could look into my mind at this moment, you would not be standing so calmly before me.”

She trembled as sweet sparks shot from his touch directly to her loins. Her tears began in earnest, streaming down her cheeks. Lucius bent his head and caught one on his tongue. “Why do you weep, my nymph?” He pulled back and looked into her eyes, his hands steady and warm on her shoulders.

She knew she should turn away. Knew she should step back and shatter the intimacy of his touch. But when she searched his gaze and read a note of uncertainty there, her limbs went weak. She could no more turn away from him than water could refuse to rush over the falls.

Slowly, she moved her palms up his torso, over the taut muscles of his stomach and the sleek strength of his chest. She explored the breadth of his shoulders. He stood motionless, neither inviting nor rejecting her advances. She stroked the column of his throat, finding the steady pulse there. Then she entwined her arms about his neck and pressed her body into his comforting heat.

Only then did he dip his head. His mouth took hers in a sweet, almost chaste kiss. His second kiss delved only a fraction deeper. He lingered on her lips, coaxing, teasing, for endless aching moments.

A fierce hunger came over her, an untamed craving so great she was powerless to resist it. She probed Lucius’s lips with the tip of her tongue, hesitantly at first, then with growing passion, demanding entrance.

He opened to her at last, allowing her plunder and taking his own. His hands cupped her buttocks, lifting her slightly, then sliding her cleft along the hard ridge beneath his tunic. He repeated the motion, raising and lowering her in a sensuous rhythm until she thought she would go mad.