The Grail King (17 page)

“A Daughter of the Lady,” she murmured, her lips curving in a self-satisfied smile. “
Me.
” She laughed, her gaze drifting downward.

Cormac forced a swallow down his dry throat. She was eyeing his cock again. Under her scrutiny, it was growing for the fourth time that night. He repressed a groan. The lass’s magic was going to kill him.

At least he would die in bliss.

She rose and paced the narrow confines of her lean-to. ’Twas no more than a collection of boughs spread across a cleft in the rock, here on the low side of the sacred isle. From the outside, the shelter appeared to be nothing more than a tangle of vegetation. Bold she was, to taunt the Druids of Avalon within reach of their power.

She turned to him. He took a moment to enjoy the sight. Her legs were long and shapely, her waist trim, her breasts full. Gray eyes tipped with dusky lashes; skin so smooth he never tired of touching it. Long silver-blond hair curled enticingly at her hips, framing a matching thatch between her thighs. She was far too fine for a man of his age and temperament. That made coupling with her all the more exhilarating.

“Why did ye nay bring me news of the Lost Grail afore now?” she demanded. “I should have known of it before Rhys.”

“I didna know. I’ve only recently come from Londinium.”

She halted at the darkest part of the shelter, beside the stone. Tall as a man it was, milky white and wedged in the black soil. She’d found it buried, covered with dirt and vines. Cormac couldn’t even touch the thing, so vast was its power. But she could wrap her arms around it with no thought of harm.

“And the Druid king,” she said petulantly. “I should have known of him.”

Aye, the king. Owein, Cormac’s own kinsman from the north. A fair shock that had been. He’d thought the lad long dead.

Her gray eyes turned accusing. “Ye were late in coming to me. Did ye nay hear my call?”

“Nay, lass.” ’Twas a lie, of course. He’d felt her summoning spell clearly. He’d resisted it as long as he could before returning to the swamps. It never did to let a woman think she owned a man, even if it were true.

“I had a job in Londinium. By the gods, how the land is beaten and tamed there. I canna see how any Celt can bear it.”

“Many have grown soft with Roman pleasures,” she said scornfully. “They are no better than the pigs they call masters.”

“ ’Tis true.” On this subject, at least, they were in agreement.

“When the Lost Grail is in my hands, I will make certain the Romans never venture near the sacred isle.”

Cormac’s lips twisted. “The Romans defeated the Druids once before, despite the power of the Masters and the Words of the Old Ones. What makes ye think one lass can stand against them?”

“Ye doubt me?”

“Nay. But I canna help wondering why ye hide yer magic from the others. Surely Avalon should stand united against Rome.”

Too late he saw the menace in her eyes. “Ye dare question my judgment?”

“Nay,” he hastened, alarmed. “Nay. I only—”

“Fool.” She lifted a hand, palm turned upward.

The burning sensation started in Cormac’s toes, then quickly spread up his legs, to his groin, his belly, his chest. He lurched to his feet, stumbling away. “Nay. Please—”

Phantom fire engulfed his head, seared his lungs. He bent double, gasping for air. ’Twas an illusion, he knew, but that only made the agony worse. It could go on forever if she wished.

Pain ripped through his body. He stumbled and fell, sprawling on his arse.

She lowered her hand and the pain stopped. Cormac’s heart pounded.

“Bitch,” he muttered. Lunging, he grabbed her ankle and gave a savage yank. She fell hard atop him. With a deft movement he rolled her onto her belly and pressed her cheek to the cold floor of the hut. Leaving her no time to catch her breath, he lifted her hips and slammed his cock into her.

She pushed herself up on rigid arms, arching her back like a cat. “Aye, Cormac, aye. Like that.”

Her magic glowed around them as they rutted, sparking brighter with each thrust. She needed him for that; ’twas the reason she would never let him go. Her full power had been unleashed by his lovemaking.

He thrust hard, offering her all his strength.

“The Lost Grail,” she panted. “Ye must bring it to me.”

Cormac groaned. Reaching as far as he could with his stunted arm, he entwined his fingers in her hair. Ruthlessly, he tugged her head back. “I’ll need payment, wench. Gold and silver. I know Cyric has a cache of Druid treasure.”

She flexed her inner muscles, tearing a growl from deep in his throat. “Ye’ll have payment when the grail is in my hands.”

He jerked his hips and she moaned. “What would Rhys say if he saw ye rutting like a whore?” he taunted.

“No doubt he’d say ye taught me well.” She rocked against him, her magic crackling around their joined bodies. “How I’ve missed ye, Cormac.” Her tone turned plaintive. “How many women have ye had since last I saw ye?”

He thrust and grunted, emptying what was left of his soul inside her. “None like you, lassie. None like you.”

Owein stretched out beside Clara, drawing her fine cloak over both of them. His heart pounded like a galloping war pony. Hours of darkness stretched before him, hours when he would explore every dip and angle of her lithe body. His loins firmed almost beyond bearing. Why did this Roman lass affect him so deeply? By rights, he should scorn her. But he did not. On the contrary, he’d never been so entranced.

Rolling onto his side, he reached out and gently covered her breast with his palm. Her body stiffened. He made a soothing sound with his tongue, as if calming a frightened kitten.

“Relax, lass. I would never hurt ye.”

“I know.”

He circled her nipples through the soft wool of her tunic.

They peaked to tight beads under his touch. Her small breasts felt full and heavy. She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath coming quicker. Her body was opening for him—he could smell the musk of her arousal mingling with the scent of roses.

He stifled a groan. He was painfully hard, but he tried his best to ignore his clamoring needs. He wanted her pleasure so much more than his own.

“Owein …”

“Aye, love?” He tugged at her nipples through her tunic.

A mewling sound emerged from Clara’s lips. Immediately, her body went rigid, as if appalled she’d uttered such a noise. By the Horned God! How was he to survive this half-night of love play?

He murmured softly, rubbing her shoulders until she relaxed again. Her gaze clung to his. The trust and silent entreaty he saw there nearly undid him. He didn’t deserve her faith. But he was selfish enough to accept it.

He plucked at her breasts, rolling the peaks between his fingers.

She gripped his arm. “Owein, no, I … stop.”

He stilled. “Ye would go back on your word?”

She hesitated, then let out a long sigh. “No.”

A chill breeze gusted into the cave, causing the fire to waver. Clara shivered. If Owein could have conjured the hot bath she longed for, he would have done it in that instant. The memory of Clara half-frozen and covered with snow was still fresh in his mind.

He propped himself on his elbow and looked down at her. She was not pale and cold now—her cheeks were flushed, her lips pink and welcoming. A warm feeling expanded in Owein’s chest.

Wide dark eyes blinked up at him. She was frightened, aye, but aching for his touch just the same. Passion ran deep inside her. Deeper, likely, than she knew.

Anticipation pulsed in his veins, settled heavily in his loins. He placed his hand, fingers splayed, on her belly. For a time, he forced himself to do no more than watch his hand rise and fall with her breath.

When her trembling faded, he moved his hand lower, until his thumb brushed her woman’s mound. Her breathing quickened. If he were to lift her skirt and search beneath, would he find her virgin passage soft and ready? He longed to test the notion, but he’d promised not to delve beneath her tunic.

At least not until she removed it for him.

She could never be his in truth. He understood that, accepted it. No wealthy Roman woman would entrust her life to a barbarian outlaw. And as for himself, he would never be free of the dark hatred he held for every part of her world.

But here, in the wilderness, all that seemed very far away.

He cupped Clara’s sex. Her hips came off the ground and her legs parted. Her defenses were melting, her body opening. If he’d been hard before, now he was rigid beyond bearing. He set a steady rhythm, rubbing the fabric of her tunic across the bud where her pleasure centered.

“Owein, I …”

“Relax, lass. Do ye enjoy my touch?”

She pulled in an unsteady breath. “I think you know that I do.”

“Tell me how ye feel.”

“As though … I’m engulfed in flames.”

He quickened his rhythm and she writhed, gasping his name. He shifted atop her, anchoring her splayed legs with his lower body, his gaze never leaving her face. He wanted to watch her eyes as the pleasure broke over her. In the soft glow of the full moon and the dying fire, they shone like two unfathomable pools.

She spread her arms, gathering handfuls of his cloak. “I feel like I’m dying.”

“ ’Tis a sweet death, to be sure.”

She arched into his touch. “Don’t let me face it alone.”

“I’m here, lass.”

She clutched his arms, her fingernails gouging his flesh. She was close to her release, but she fought her ultimate pleasure. Her reluctance to yield would not last, however. A fierce triumph rose in Owein’s breast. He, a barbarian Celt, would be the first man to demand Clara’s surrender.

“Let it go, lass,” he whispered. “Take your pleasure.”

Her passion broke. His fingers moved on her, sharpening her pleasure. A sob tore from her throat. Her body convulsed as she gasped his name.

The sound echoed in his soul. It caught him and pulled him with her. Sensations expanded, until he could no longer keep them within. His pleasure exploded, shattering what was left of his emotions. The door to his heart splintered.

And suddenly, he felt her there, inside him.

Her Light flooded his mind. It probed the deepest corners, seeking to illuminate places best left in dismal darkness.

Her touch laid his memories bare. A white fog enveloped him, carrying him into the past.

A war cry tore from Owein’s throat. His victim’s dark eyes went wide. The slash of a blade, a spurt of blood. The body thudded to the ground. Owein yanked his weapon free. His head jerking up, he sought his next adversary.

Battle calm descended. The grunts and screams of his companions and enemies floated like mist. Owein’s own cries seemed to ring far from his ears. His sword clanged dully against a Roman
gladius.

His armor combined with his hatred to form an invincible shield. His opponent’s snarls and curses did not touch him. Pain, fear, and defeat
—
they were words with no meaning.

He would not rest until every Roman was dead. He swung his sword low, cutting his opponent’s legs from under him. The soldier fell. Triumph flashed through Owein, as fierce and sexual as an orgasm. He spun about, ready for more.

Only to see Nia with a
gladius
sunk in her belly. Her own sword was limp in her fingers.

For an instant, Owein hung suspended. An image from the night before flashed through his brain—Nia arching against him, calling his name as pleasure overcame her. Then the memory snapped, shattered by the exultant cry of her murderer.

The Roman gave his sword a savage twist, his elbow jerking backward. His blade emerged from Nia’s stomach covered with blood, trailing a rope of gut. The woman whom Owein called friend and lover stared down, uncomprehending. Her lips parted.

She looked up, into Owein’s eyes.

“Nay …” he whispered. He took a step forward, meaning to catch her in his arms.

Hot, boiling rage bubbled from a bottomless well of anguish. He opened his mouth, an animal’s cry in his throat. The sound never emerged. A blow came down on Owein’s skull, sending him careening into darkness.

“
Nay.
” Owein shoved himself up on shaking arms. Black memories buzzed like a swarm of midges. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

Clara lay beneath him, staring up with wide, shimmering eyes. Shame and anger shot through him. He didn’t want her pity. Couldn’t bear her sympathy.

“Owein …”

She moved against him, unconsciously stroking his sex, rigid again. His cock throbbed. He wanted nothing so much as to thrust into her core and forget the past. But he knew, with the unerring instinct that told a man his own death approached, that if he surrendered himself to Clara, he would not be able to hide. She would be inside his mind, probing every dark secret, shedding Light on every humiliation.

Please, Owein. Let me in.

The words echoed inside his brain. He stared down at her, aghast. Only the strongest of Druids could speak within another’s mind. Abruptly, he heaved himself off her. He felt her reaction, a single suspended note of hurt and confusion. Summoning all his magic, he snapped their bond.

He rolled, panting. He had to escape. Had to get away.

“Owein, wait. What—?”

He couldn’t answer. Heaving himself to his feet, he lurched beyond the ring of firelight. Clara’s cry echoed in his ear as he stumbled into the night.

Glancing up, he saw the moon had reached its zenith.

He sat on a stool by a hearth mending a plow pony’s harness. The low light of a banked fire illuminated his task. Owein looked down at the leather strap in his hand, bemused. He owned no pony, had no fields to tend. This life, this home, could not be his.

Yet he knew, with the certainty of a man existing within a dream, that it was.

A vision. He rubbed the faint ache in his forehead. A bowl of barley dough graced the table near his elbow. Near it rested a mug of
cervesia,
fragrant and fresh-brewed. He lifted it to his lips and sipped.