The Grail King (22 page)

“ ’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.

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.

So this was what it felt like to be loved by a man. She’d never dreamed it could be such bliss. Her body tingled with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his urgency. She could hear echoes of Owein’s whispers—especially the sound of her name on his lips.

Her conscience was curiously silent. She’d given what her father had guarded so vigilantly—her virginity—to a wild barbarian. The thought should have appalled her. But it did not.

She eased onto her back. It was full daylight outside the watch station—hazy shafts of light pierced the gaps in the roof tiles, casting bright patches of sunlight on the floor and wall. For a moment, she wished the day away. But no—they were but a day’s travel from her father’s villa. She prayed the grail was there, as Owein had seen in his vision. She had to carry it to Father before it was too late.

She sat up, a sudden sick feeling in her stomach. The magic of the grail frightened her, but she would give anything to have her father well again. She loved him so. If he died, what would become of her?

If she refused to marry Valgus, he could use his guardianship to force her to marry him. Now that she knew what lovemaking could be, how could she bear that?

Her only hope lay in Father’s recovery. Once he was well, she would appeal to his reason. Explain why she couldn’t marry Valgus. Surely, she could make him understand that being a Senator’s wife wasn’t worth her happiness.

The warmth of the night deserted her. Troubled, she eased from Owein’s side, and let her cloak fall from her shoulders. Groping for her tunic, she pulled it on quickly. Where were her girdle and sleeve pins? There. She fastened the pins and buckles with shaky fingers, then slid her feet into her boots.

The door groaned on its pegs when she opened it. Wrapping her cloak tightly about her, she stepped out into the daylight, blinking at the dazzle of the sunlight on the sea.

It took her a moment to realize she was not alone. A strange boy stood nearby, hands on his hips, watching her. Her eyes narrowed. Not a boy—a man. A man whose head was no higher than her breasts.

He had a grotesque melon of a head, accented by a bulbous nose. His torso was heavily muscled and nearly the proportion of a normal man’s, but his legs and arms were thick and stumpy. He wore a mail shirt, a
gladius,
and a Legionary battle dagger, but no one could mistake him for a Roman soldier. His blond mustache and beard, shot with gray, were braided in the same primitive style Owein’s had been.

Behind her, she heard Owein expel a mutter of astonishment. She turned slightly to look at him, while keeping the newcomer within her sight. Owein stood in the doorway to the watch station, dressed only in his
braccas.
With a start, Clara realized he was unarmed. As was she. Both their daggers had been lost in the fight at the
mansio.

But while Owein was clearly amazed at the sight of the newcomer, he didn’t seem concerned for their safety.

“Cormac,” he said, shaking his head.

Clara started. Owein knew this gnome?

The little man inclined his head. “Well met, lad.”

Owein snorted. “I canna imagine why I am surprised to meet ye here. Ye’ve ever had a talent for turning up in unexpected places.”

The dwarf hooked his thumbs in his belt. “I thought ye dead.” His eyes were bright. Clara realized with a start that they were wet with tears.

Owein looked very much like he wanted to embrace the small man, if he could figure a way to do it without dropping to his knees. Apparently he could not, for he made do with a nod. A succession of emotions, not all pleasant, flitted across his face.

“I’m very much alive, as ye can see.”

Cormac’s gaze darted to Clara, then back to Owein. He grinned, showing a row of crooked teeth. “ ’Tis seven years since I last laid eyes on ye, Owein, but I’d nay have guessed ye’d change so much as to be plowing a Roman field. Ah, well. I suppose a woman’s willingness overcomes her bloodline.”

“Ye’d best watch your words,” Owein cautioned.

Cormac shook his head. “Alive. By the Horned God, I’m glad to find it true. I looked for ye, ye know, after the battle.”

The muscles in Owein’s neck tensed. “I saw ye fall.”

Cormac scoffed. “No Roman can keep me down. I gained my feet in time to retreat.” His rough voice turned hoarse. “Ye were taken?”

Owein crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye.”

“But escaped as well, I wager.”

“After a time.” A muscle ticked in Owein’s jaw. “How long have ye been on my trail?”

“Since first light. Ye know how to unsettle a fine tavern, lad, that much I can say for ye. I arrived past midnight to find the place in an uproar. A man dead, even. When I got the full tale from the innkeeper, I knew the flame-headed Druid they spoke of had to be ye.”

Owein cursed. “Are ye sure none followed ye?”

“Are ye daft? Ye frightened the stones from between their legs. They call ye demon, ye ken? Ye spurt fire from yer mouth and sever a man’s cock with a lift of a finger. None of those cowards would seek ye out. Still,” he added thoughtfully, “I wouldna pass that way again if I were ye.”

“I dinna intend to,” Owein muttered.

“Wait,” Clara said suddenly. Both men looked toward her. She fixed her gaze on Cormac.

“You said you thought Owein was dead. Why would you suspect he was the Druid from the tavern?”

Cormac shifted. “Ah, well, perhaps I heard tell not so long ago that my kinsman was alive. That he was the holy man of the mountains whispered about in the alleys of Isca.” He eyed Clara boldly. “Perhaps I even heard tell that the daughter of Sempronius Gracchus himself had run into the hills, seeking his aid.”

Clara’s lungs seized.

Owein’s head whipped around. “Daughter of—” He stared. “Ye told me your father was a merchant.”

Cormac snorted. “A merchant? A fine jest, that. Nay, this lass is Gracchus’s daughter. I’ve seen her often enough in the market in Isca.”

“I … I never saw you,” Clara managed. She was all too aware of Owein’s eyes upon her. Her knees went weak. She put a hand on the hut’s stone wall, steadying herself.

Cormac gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Ah, well, when ye spy for a living, ye learn to be overlooked.”

“Is it true?” Owein asked quietly. “Are ye Sempronius Gracchus’s daughter?”

“I am.” Clara raised her chin and braced herself for Owein’s wrath. He said nothing. She shifted on her feet, wishing he would shout. Even if he were to blast her from here to Isca with his anger, it would be better than enduring his cold, unfeeling gaze.

“Might I ask, Owein,” Cormac said mildly, “where ye are going with Gracchus’s daughter?”

“I’m taking her home.”

Cormac stroked his forefinger over his mustache. “Well, that’s a fine thing, lad. Perhaps while yer in the city, ye might visit Rhiannon. Your sister’s settled nearby, ye ken, with Lucius Aquila and his son.”

Clara’s head jerked up. The Celt healer was Owein’s sister? No wonder he’d reacted to her name.

Owein regarded Cormac impassively. “I canna believe Lucius Aquila welcomes ye in his house. Ye tried very hard to kill him.”