The Grail King (21 page)

They stumbled along. Gradually, Clara became aware that the trees seemed to have pulled back from their path, and the ground was no longer uneven under her feet. They followed a narrow road—perhaps an unpaved cart path.

She looked up at Owein. His expression seemed more purposeful—or was the dim light playing tricks on her eyes? “Are you guiding us somewhere?” she asked cautiously.

He leaned heavily on her shoulders, his breath harsh. “I … I think so.”

“You’re not sure?”

He didn’t answer. Tentatively, she extended her mind to him, only to feel his instant recoil. “Do not, lass.”

“Let me,” she murmured. “Please. Let me give you some of my strength.”

“It willna come without cost to yourself.”

“I know,” she said. “I don’t care. You cannot go on much farther alone.”

He drew a breath. An instant later, she felt his mind open. His surrender, though she’d urged it, terrified her. He must truly be weak to accept her aid.

Icy fingers crept along her spine. Owein was so hale, so vibrant. His spirit shone like a living flame. But when the visions came upon him, that light dimmed to ashes.

It was her fault he suffered. She’d come begging at his door, ignorant of the terrible favor she asked. She wondered that he’d agreed to help her at all, despite Aiden’s entreaty. For he’d surely known the cost.

She slipped into his mind, wanting nothing but to give him the strength he’d expended on her behalf. She felt a rush of elation when he didn’t resist her touch. This time, she held herself loosely on the surface of his spirit, avoiding the darkened corners that held memories and feelings she knew he didn’t wish to share.

The task didn’t come easily. Owein’s darkness beckoned. She wanted to submerge herself within it. Burn it away with her Light.

His pain pounded as a dull ache behind her eyes. Nausea surged. Her head felt as though the top of her skull had been lifted into the air. But Owein’s steps grew surer, his breathing less labored.

The moon emerged from the clouds at full light, sharpening the shadows, just as the wood gave way to a bluff overlooking the sea. A small building was visible, nestled at the treeline. Clara blinked, not quite willing to believe it was real.

It was an old army watch station. “Did you know this was here?” Clara asked.

“Nay. Kernunnos led me to this place. The Horned God takes care of his own.” He let out a breath. “When it suits his purposes.”

“Your god is a hard master,” Clara murmured, turning her attention to the structure. A single story, squat, square, and unimaginative, constructed of stone. The door was damaged and a corner of the slate roof was missing.

Clara peered into the dim interior. A stone ledge built into one wall would have accommodated two narrow bunks. A table and two chairs, mostly undamaged, stood in a corner, with a hand lamp atop. But the most welcome sight was the iron brazier and the pile of charcoal and tinder, with a weathered flint box nearby.

“This is wonderful,” Clara murmured.

“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?

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 left 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.”