The Grail King (30 page)

Rhys stared at the animal, the fine hairs on his nape rising. Nay. It could not be …

Do ye nay know me, brother?

He nearly lost his grip on the taper. “Gwen?”

The wolf dipped its head.

He stared, his jaw slack, his mind stunned beyond belief. Aye, he’d heard tales of Old Ones who could alter their human forms, but such Deep Magic had been long lost in the mists of time. No Druid in a thousand years had touched it.

“What enchantment is this?” he whispered. “Have ye sold your soul to learn it?”

Nay, Rhys. ’Tis part of me. I had but to answer the call of the Deep Magic.

“Little wonder ye hid this power from Cyric.”

Aye, he would have forbidden it, and that I couldna bear. When the Deep Magic compels, I must obey.

“And the she-wolf who led me here?”

Ardra is my companion. As Hefin is yours.

A cold hand touched the back of Rhys’s neck.

Rhys, does our grandfather still live? Or has he succumbed to Blodwen’s darkness?

“He lives, but for how much longer I canna say.”

Ye must find a way to release me from this enchantment. With our power joined, we may have a chance. We can call the Deep Magic together.

“Cyric willna allow it.”

We have no choice. Blodwen seeks the Lost Grail. She means to use it in darkness, to avenge herself on those who stole her innocence. If she finds it—

“ ’Tis too late,” Rhys said softly. “The Lost Grail is in Blodwen’s hands.”

Then we must take it. When she raises the grail in darkness, the Deep Magic will rise. She believes she can control it, but I tell ye, Rhys, she cannot. She will destroy far more than her enemies. She will destroy Avalon itself.

The wolf that was Gwen struggled to its feet and lurched forward, only to fall to the ground in a heap. Rhys strained to reach his sister. He spoke a Word, called every bit of his magic. But try as he might, he could not break through Blodwen’s spell.

“It’s no use. I am not strong enough.”

Rhys, ye must break through this spell! I must get free. Ye dinna understand the secret of the grail.
He felt her desperation deepen.
Only a Daughter of the Lady can call the power of the grail.

Rhys stared. “Truly? Are ye sure?”

Aye. Mother told me the secret before she died. If ye cannot free me, all is lost. If Blodwen uses the grail to call dark magic, I alone possess the power and the birthright to stop her.

“Nay,” Rhys whispered, stunned. According to old Aiden, Clara Sempronia had touched the magic of the grail. Could it be that the grail was her birthright as well?

“Gwen,” Rhys said shakily. “Dinna lose faith. Ye are nay alone in this. I believe … I believe there may be another Daughter.”

Clara’s heart pounded. Rhiannon’s encouragement had given her hope enough to make the journey across the frozen garden. But as she slipped through the door of the sheep barn, her resolve faltered. Owein hated the Roman world so thoroughly that he would not even sleep under his beloved sister’s roof. What hope did Clara have of convincing him to stay in Isca?

She stood motionless in the sliver of moonlight that spilled past the edge of the plank door. The barn smelled of hay and wet wool. She wrinkled her nose. Not long ago, she would have thought the odor rank and groped for her rose oil. But now she took comfort in the animals’ warmth and peace.

The deep rise and fall of Owein’s breath drifted from the loft. After so many nights spent lying beside him, the rhythm was almost as familiar as her own heartbeat. She pictured him sprawled on the hay, a formidable figure even in sleep. Tiny bird wings fluttered in her belly. It took all her resolve to force her sluggish feet to the base of the ladder.

She climbed. The ladder’s rungs were rough under her hands. A sharp splinter slid into her flesh. She bit her lip rather than cry out.

Owein was stretched out on his stomach atop a checkered blanket. A shard of moonlight fell across his splayed legs. Clara paused, breathless. Even sleeping, even scarred, he was beautiful.

Creeping forward as silently as she could, she knelt beside him. He didn’t stir.

His bent arms pillowed his cheek. She studied his profile, taking in the auburn stubble covering his chin. His hair was mussed, curling this way and that, with a bit of hay tangled in it. Gently, she tugged the stalk from the auburn strands.

There was a slight chill in the loft despite the heat of the animals below. Clara hesitated, then lay down on the blanket beside Owein, warming herself, wondering again how his body could hold such flames within. Propping herself on one elbow, she let her gaze roam over his body. He wore no shirt—only the bandages Rhiannon had wrapped around his torso.

In the darkness, Clara could just make out the angry cuts of the slaver’s whip across his shoulders, glossed with healing salve. The aroma of the herbs, combined with Owein’s own clean masculine scent, set her senses spinning. Deep inside, Clara felt the wanting begin.

Her instinct was to reach for him with her mind as she’d done so many times before. But he would not want that. So she simply leaned into him and kissed an angry welt on his shoulder.

A ripple passed through his body. He tensed, his breath running shallow. He lay still for a moment, then, slowly, rolled onto his side and propped his head in his hand.

She held his gaze and said nothing.

His expression veiled his thoughts. She felt an urge to leap to her feet and run, but she quelled it. She started to reach for him, then let her hand fall to the blanket. “Are you … well?”

He gave a short laugh. “Aye, well enough, lass.”

Tears formed in her eyes. “Clara.”

He smudged the moisture from her cheek with his thumb. “Clara,” he agreed softly, his lips quirking.

His expression grew intent, the dark heat of his eyes drawing her in. But it didn’t last. His gaze dropped.

“Did Aquila’s son ask for your hand?”

Clara’s lips parted. “How did you know?”

“Ye told me once of his interest. ’Tis easy enough to see it hadn’t dimmed.”

“It has now,” Clara said.

“I dinna understand.”

“I refused Marcus’s proposal. I … I told him I love you.”

She held her breath, hoping Owein would echo her sentiment. But as the moments spun out and he made no response, her heart sank into her stomach. Perhaps Rhiannon had been wrong. Perhaps Owein didn’t care for her at all. Was she the worst of fools, following him into a hayloft like a wanton?

And yet, he owed her some answers. “You’re afraid of my power,” she said quietly. “You have been from the first. Is that why you refused to teach me?”

“Lass—”

“You needn’t fear me, Owein. I want only to help you release the darkness in your past. But you won’t let me.”

He crushed a stalk of hay between his fingers. “I heard a Roman tale once. Or perhaps it was a story from the Greeks. ’Twas of a man lost at sea for many years.”

“Ulysses?”

“Aye, I believe so. He met a temptress, a woman whose song lured sailors to crash their ships on her rocky shore. They died in ecstasy, the siren’s voice echoing in their ears. All their yearning to possess her was for naught, for she was beyond their reach.” He crumpled the hay in his fist. “So it is with us. Ye are beyond my reach. Wanting ye will destroy me.”

“Because I am Roman?”

“At first, I would have given that as the reason. But the rift between us is much wider than the circumstances of our births. Ye have so much Light inside. I would taint ye with my darkness. I could not live with that.”

“Then renounce your darkness. Let it go.” Her voice shook. “I know you’ve endured much, but—”

“Ye know little of it, lass. Nor would I ever wish ye to know more.”

“But I want to know,” she whispered. “Please. Tell me.”

He rose so abruptly he nearly smacked his head on a roof rafter. “I can tell ye this—I was a quarry slave. My job was hauling stone from the pit to the loading yard. Every day without end until I thought I would go mad. The food was rancid, barely enough to keep me alive. Each night, my shackles were fastened to an iron ring. Each morning, I grieved death hadna come while I slept.”

He leaned one hand on the rafter, his head bent. Clara longed to go to him, to reach for him with both her body and her mind. But she sensed she wouldn’t be welcomed.

“I escaped,” he said, “more than once. Each time I was whipped. And the last time … have ye seen a flagellum, lass? ’Tis a most effective tool.”

Tears stung Clara’s eyes.

“They bound my limbs,” he said evenly. “Stretched my arms and legs taut on a wooden frame. At first, I tried not to cry out as the lashes fell. But as the flogging went on, I found that vow impossible to keep.”

“Oh, Owein.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I wish I could take it all from you.”

“Ye cannot.” He shook his head. “That’s why ye must leave.”

“But—I know you want me.”

He made an impatient motion. “That means nothing. Any man who breathes would want ye.”

She moved close, drawn by his pain. “But I don’t want any man. I want you. I love you, Owein.”

“Lass …”

She leaned forward and covered his mouth with hers. “Clara,” she said against his lips. She skimmed her palm over his arm, his waist. After a brief hesitation, she slid her hand between them and cupped his phallus through the soft wool of his
braccas.
“My name,” she said, “is Clara.”

He held himself very still. “Have ye gone from virgin to siren, then?”

“You’ve only yourself to thank if I have.” She kissed him again. “Lie with me, Owein.”

He broke contact with a muffled curse. He pressed his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged. His hand closed on her upper arm. He didn’t draw her closer, but neither did he push her away.

“ ’Twould nay be right.”

“Why not? You told me Celt lasses may choose their lovers. Why can I not choose you?”

“Ye are nay a Celt lass.”

“Perhaps not, but there’s no one left to guard my virtue. My father is dead.”

His grip gentled. “I am sorry for that.”

She searched his gaze. “Are you truly? Even after what he did to your village?”

Owein let out a long breath. “Your father was a soldier discharging his duty. If that put him at odds with my people, ’tis no fault of yours. I dinna hate ye for it. I mourn your loss, because you loved him.”

Clara’s eyes stung. “Thank you,” she whispered. She sensed Owein’s will softening. Perhaps, if she kept her mind separate from his, he wouldn’t feel the need to push her away.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts against his chest. Her thighs cradled his erect phallus. A small moan escaped her lips.

She kissed him, her tongue running along the seam of his mouth. When his lips didn’t part, she kissed her way along his jaw, down his neck. The pulse at the base of his throat pounded a rapid beat.

She pressed a hot kiss upon it. She trailed her fingers down his bare chest and stomach, and lower, searching for the laces of his
braccas.
His phallus strained against the ties.

Heat lapped her loins in exquisite waves. An ache quickly spread through her belly to her chest, making it difficult to draw breath. Swiftly, she loosened the ties at his waist and slid her hands inside his
braccas,
over his bare hips.

“Stop, lass.” But he made no move to enforce his command. His voice was strained.

A husky, seductive laugh emerged from her throat. She hardly recognized the sound as her own—she had never before imagined herself in the role of siren. She tugged apart his
braccas,
freeing his phallus. It sprang hot and heavy into her hand. The joy of touching him in this intimate way moved her deeply.

She peered at his face. His features were rigid, as if carved from granite. His blue eyes were indigo in the darkness, the ring of color almost consumed by its black center.

She began a slow stroke of his phallus, base to tip, moving the silken heat of his skin over the iron-hard muscle beneath. He sucked in a breath. His hand cupped the back of her head, drawing it to his chest. She kissed the bare skin above his bandages, tasting salt.

“Lass …”

“Clara.”

He let out a groan. “Clara … ye must stop this madness.”

She let her mouth drift lower. Dropping to her knees, she skimmed her lips past the linen bandage to brush his bare belly. His taste intoxicated her. “I want madness, Owein. And I want you. All of you. The light and the darkness.”

He groaned again, tightening his grip on her hair past the threshold of comfort. She didn’t care. She wanted to take him inside her. Consume him, feel his pleasure and his pain. She wanted to know the vulnerable part of him that showed only when their minds and bodies were joined. She wanted to kiss his scars, those on his skin and those in his heart. Heal him with her love.

She could do it, if he would only let her.

He wanted to bury himself inside her.

He wanted to mark her as his. Love her so thoroughly that she would never be free to love another. The temptation was overwhelming, but Owein fought it with all his strength. For he couldn’t take Clara without offering his own surrender.

And that he could not do. He had no place in her world, and despite Aiden’s entreaties, Clara had no place in his. Owein’s destiny lay with the Druids of Avalon, with the silver-haired woman of his visions.

Clara trapped him with her dark, luminous gaze. Giving a siren’s smile, she dipped her head and slowly, deliberately kissed the tip of his arousal.

By the stones and the sky! With a groan he hauled her to her feet, holding her apart from him with rigid arms. Cool air flowed between their bodies. He released her and stepped back, shaken.

She was wearing one of Rhiannon’s tunics, a colorful garment of homespun wool. In it, she looked almost like a Celt lass.

“Go back to the house,” he bit off. “Return to your soft bedchamber.”

“Come with me.”

“I dinna belong there.”

“You hardly belong in a sheep barn!”