The Grail King

by Joy Nash

“ ‘Where’ is the better question, lass.”

  “All right. Where?”

  “Such an endeavor is best done in a place of power. A circle ordained by the Old Ones.”

  “A ring of stones, you mean.”

  “Aye.”

  An unpleasant shiver ran through her. She’d been raised on tales of bloodthirsty Druids and human sacrifices made within those stone circles. She pushed such thoughts aside. “When may we depart?”

  “I depart on the morrow. Ye will stay here.”

  “Alone?” What if he didn’t return? What if he decided to keep the grail for himself? Aiden had declared Owein a man of honor, but what if he were wrong? Her father would die. “No. I’ll go with you.”

  He shook his head. “ ’Twould be folly.”

  “I won’t be a burden.”

  He gave a short laugh. “Ye would be a grinding stone hung from my neck! A mountain in winter is no place for a woman.”

  “Many women once lived in these hills.”

  “Aye,” Owein said. “Celt women, not Roman ones. A Celt woman is strong and clever.”

  “Are you saying I’m weak and dull-witted?”

  “I didna say it, lass.”

  “Clara,” she muttered. “My name is Clara. Not ‘lass.’ ”

  He held her gaze for a moment, then snorted and looked away.

  Clara’s anger surged. She gathered her pride like a mantle around her, straightening her shoulders and drawing herself up to her full height. “I’ll not be left behind. If you try to leave without me, I’ll follow.”

  “If I were of a mind to lose ye, lass, ’twould be no challenge.”

  Her hands fisted in her lap. “You won’t go without me.”

  His lips pursed. “I willna carry ye.”

  “You won’t need to. I give my word on it.”

  “Ah, that’s fine. The word of a Roman. Forgive me, lass, if I’m nay overwhelmed with joy.”

  Barbarian. The thought rose sharply. She hadn’t realized she’d sent the word into his mind until she saw his eyes narrow. Again, they were joined. And just like before, she had no clear idea how the union had come about.

  His swift rage seared her. She withdrew as quickly as she could, heart pounding.

  He rose and stepped toward her, causing her to tip her head back. He towered over her, his blue eyes glittering. “Keep to yourself, lass,” he said evenly.

  “I … I didn’t mean to do it,” she whispered. “I’ll try not to let it happen again. Please. Let me go with you. I’ll be no trouble.”

  He stared at her for what seemed a long time. Then his expression turned calculating. “Perhaps I’ll take ye to the stones,” he said, “if ye agree to give me something first.”

  Tiny wings fluttered in her belly. “Coin? Gold?”

  “Nay. ’Tis something I’ve wanted since I first laid eyes on ye. Worth more, I am thinking, than all the jewels in your wee bag.”

  “What is it?” Clara whispered.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth. “A kiss, lass. I would have a kiss.”

  Chapter Five

  “A … a kiss?”

  Owein suppressed a snort of amusement. The expression on Clara’s face—wary and curious at once—brought to mind a kitten exploring dangerous ground. His fingers itched to unravel her braids and spread her glossy tresses about her shoulders. She was unaware of it, but a pin on the sleeve of her tunic had come undone, baring a swatch of creamy skin. If only one or two more clasps would break, the yellow wool would surely slip far enough to reveal the curve of her breast.

  He captured her gaze. “Aye. A kiss.” He was crazed, perhaps. But it had been more than two years since he’d seen a woman, and he’d seen more of this Roman lass than he could bear. The strain of denying his desire had only grown. Just thinking of claiming Clara’s lips had his body tightening in anticipation.

  He’d wanted her the moment she’d blinked up into his eyes. But now that he’d discovered she wasn’t so powerless as he’d first supposed, there was a more urgent purpose for his pursuit. He had to prevent her from dropping into that clear, calm state of mind that engendered magic. And there was no better way to achieve that end than to stir her emotions.

  “I … cannot think why you would want to kiss me.”

  “Drop your gaze a bit, lass, and ye’ll see why.”

  Her gaze darted downward, then snapped back to his face. She took a step back, her face flooding crimson. He didn’t have to look into her mind to know that she was thinking of the rutting scene he’d planted there earlier.

  She swiped her palms down the sides of her tunic. “Aiden said you were a man of honor.”

  “Is there so much dishonor in a kiss?”

  “No. I suppose not.” Her gaze moved to his mouth, as if drawn there by some invisible force. “But … you won’t take more?”

  “Only if ye ask.”

  Her eyes widened, as if such a possibility had never occurred to her. “I … I won’t.”

  He laughed out loud. That startled him—he couldn’t remember when he’d last uttered such a sound. “I felt your interest when our minds were joined. Ye canna deny it.”

  “No. It … it was disgust you felt.”

  His grin widened. “A kiss, lass. That’s my price for taking ye with me to the stones. Otherwise, ye stay here.”

  Her breath caught. For a moment, he thought she would turn away, but then her shoulders sagged and she sighed. “Very well, if that’s what it takes to gain your cooperation.” She lifted her chin and squeezed her eyes shut. “Go ahead.”

  Owein crossed his arms over his chest. “Nay, lass. I didna ask if I could kiss ye. Ye must kiss me.”

  Her eyes flew open. “I couldn’t.”

  “Coward, are ye?”

  “No.”

  “Repulsed by my barbarian stink?”

  She scowled. “No. You seem clean enough. It’s just …”

  He spread his arms. “What? Surely ye’ve kissed a man before.”

  Her blush crept to the roots of her hair.

  His cock, already hard, strained the seam of his braccas. “Ye mean to say ye haven’t?”

  She nodded.

  He could scarcely believe it. “Are Roman men blind, then?”

  She blushed harder. “No. It’s because of my father. He’s … formidable.”

  “And ye’ve never slipped his yoke to go behind a haystack with a lad? Not once?”

  She shook her head. “There’s one man I might have kissed, if he’d asked. But my father …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Who was this timid lover, lass?”

  “A young blacksmith. He’s very handsome. I see him each week in the market, and sometimes he remarks on the weather.”

  Owein snorted.

  Clara pursed her lips. “Once my maid dropped a basket of pears and he helped her retrieve them. So when he asked Father for my hand in marriage, I wasn’t unwilling.”

  “So why are ye nay wed to this smith?”

  “Because he is a smith. Father refused him.”

  Owein frowned. “Can a smith nay marry a merchant’s daughter?”

  “A merchant’s—oh!” For some reason, Clara would not meet his gaze. “Of course she could. But Father wants me to marry a Senator, now that he’s amassed enough property to secure such a match. He would never consider a tradesman for my husband.”

  “Ye are virgin, then?” Owein had difficulty anchoring that thought in his mind. No wonder the image of rutting he’d put in her mind had flustered her so. He throbbed at the thought of being the first to slip into her woman’s passage.

  He edged closer and tipped her chin with the knuckle of his forefinger. “One simple kiss, lass.”

  Her dark eyes searched his face. He wondered what she saw there. It had been a long time since he’d seen his reflection in another person’s eyes.

  Whatever she saw, it didn’t seem to frighten her. Or at least, not enough to back off. Her lips firmed as she placed her hands on his
shoulders. She rose on her toes, but the difference in their heights was too great. She couldn’t reach his lips.

  “Come.” He moved to sit in his chair. Taking her hands in his, he re-anchored them on his shoulders. The new position put her head slightly above his. The flash of relief in her eyes told him she was grateful for the small illusion of control.

  He opened his knees wide and pulled her firmly between his legs until he felt the press of her body on his arousal. Her eyes widened. She went still in his arms, but he could see her pulse fluttering in her throat.

  She smelled of flowers.

  “One kiss only,” she whispered. “You won’t force me to give more.” It was half statement, half question.

  “I prefer a willing woman, lass.”

  “Clara,” she said, her voice rising. “My name is Clara.”

  “Aye, so ye’ve said.”

  He waited for her. She drew close, pulled back, then swayed forward again. Her breath whispered over his lips.

  Anticipation stretched him taut, like a rope ready to snap. He couldn’t remember when the promise of a kiss had consumed him so utterly. Perhaps it never had.

  He closed his eyes. The next instant her lips brushed his, soft and hesitant. Cool, like a sip of water from a spring. Fire sprang up inside him but he kept the flames banked. He didn’t wish to singe the kitten’s fur.

  “I … thought your beard would be coarse.” He felt the words murmured against his lips.

  “Nay,” he said thickly. Her springtime scent surrounded him.

  She pressed her mouth against his, inexpertly. He moved his lips on hers, tasting. She caught her breath and tried to move away, but Owein shifted one hand to cup the back of her head.

  “Dinna pull away, lass. Not yet.”

  He lifted her into his lap. She made a startled sound, then surprised him by going soft in his arms. Encouraged, he deepened their kiss, running his tongue along the seam of her lips.

  She opened to him on a sigh, her arms entwining his neck. He plundered her mouth. She whimpered, her round bottom wriggling on his shaft as if seeking a more comfortable position. By the Horned God! This was more torture than any man could be expected to endure—and for a man who’d not bedded a woman in two years …

  He set his hands on her hips and rocked her against him in a steady, sensual rhythm. “Lass, ye are so sweet.”

  To his misfortune, his whispered endearment brought her back to herself. She wrenched her lips from his, shoving against his chest with a cry of dismay. He released her reluctantly.

  She scrambled off his lap and backed away, eyes wide, her hand at her throat. Her gaze flicked to his crotch, then quickly jerked to a point beyond his shoulder. “I … that’s enough.”

  “Not nearly, to my thinking.” He was sure his stones had turned blue. “Lie with me, lass.”

  “I cannot.”

  His gaze softened. “Dinna be afraid. I’ll be gentle with ye.”

  “No,” she said, backing up farther, until she stood almost in the hearth. “You don’t understand. I can’t dishonor my father. He believes a woman’s value is in her purity.”

  “A woman’s value lies in her strength. In the new life she brings to her husband and her clan.” He folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “How many years have ye, lass?”

  “Twenty.”

  “And ye havna the right to choose your own bed partner?” He shook his head. “I dinna pretend to understand the ways of the Romans, but it seems to me they treat their women like children. A Celt lass—”

  Clara stiffened. “I am not a Celt woman. And what I do in my bedchamber is no business of yours. You’ve had your kiss. Our bargain is sealed. I will accompany you to the stone circle. Nothing like this will happen again.”

  But she didn’t sound at all certain.

  The door to the forge swung open.

  A swath of sunlight flashed across the soot-covered floor of Marcus’s workroom. Marcus blinked against the sudden brightness. Working more from habit than sight, he completed his task, maneuvering a set of long tongs to pluck a bloom of iron from the coals in the furnace. He transferred it to the anvil. Only then did he look up to see who had disturbed his sanctuary.

  “Rhys.”

  The greeting had the weight of resignation about it. At Rhiannon’s insistence, Marcus had allowed the Celt to remain a guest in their home. But the thought of sleeping under the same roof as a Druid sorcerer had left a knot in Marcus’s stomach. He’d spent the night in the forge.

  At least he was getting some work done.

  Rhys shut the door, plunging the room into pleasant darkness once more. Unfortunately, Rhys remained inside.

  “Good day to ye, Marcus.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be about before noon,” Marcus muttered. He’d heard Rhys ring the gate bell just before dawn, after providing song at the home of a wealthy Celt merchant.

  “I’ve nay slept at all. The storm may have blown itself out, but I cannot help thinking the reprieve will be brief.”

  “I’ve no wish to hear of storms,” Marcus said, inhaling the tang of hot metal and ash. He brought his hammer down on the raw iron, absorbing a satisfying jolt with his arm. “Nor do I wish to speak of my sister—” He turned the piece and hammered again, flattening the lumpy metal. “Nor your Druid clan, nor”—he slammed the iron with a solid blow—“magic.”

  Rhys drew up a stool and sat. “We’ll speak of your work, then,” he said. His eyes roamed the workshop and came to rest on a plank table shoved up against the wall. An odd collection of throwing knives and silver animal figurines—Marcus’s two hobbies—littered the surface, interspersed with drawings done on wax tablets and scraps of papyrus.

  In the center of the clutter lay a long wrapped parcel. “Ye have a sword ready for delivery?” Rhys asked.

  “Yes.” Marcus transferred the beaten iron back to the furnace, then moved to the bellows. He sent a long, steady stream of air across the coals, watching the flare of heat carefully. Too much, and the iron would soften more than he intended. Too little, and it would be brittle when it cooled.

  A trickle of sweat rolled down the side of his face. His hair clung his scalp; his shirt to his torso. “The sword goes to Aurelius Valgus.”

  “The tribune? I didna ken ye had trade with the man.”

  “I don’t,” Marcus said sharply. He pulled the heated iron from the fire and folded the glowing metal on the surface of the anvil. “At least, I didn’t before today. Sempronius Gracchus commissioned the sword. But now the commander is ill, and Valgus is in command. He’s even moved into Gracchus’s residence. The tribune demanded I deliver the sword to him.”

  “Ah,” Rhys said. “Last night’s feast was abuzz with the news that Valgus is to marry your fair Clara.”

  Marcus slammed his hammer on the anvil. “I cannot believe Gracchus would give her to that bastard rather than to me.”

  “Valgus is destined for the Roman Senate,” Rhys said easily. “I’ve heard Gracchus wants nothing more than to be father-in-law to a Senator. You, my friend, are a backwater blacksmith.”

  “My blood is as patrician as Valgus’s,” Marcus muttered. “My own grandfather sat in the Senate.”

  “Aye, but your father renounced the seat to marry a barbarian,” Rhys pointed out. “Now he tends wheat fields without the benefit of slaves. His sanity is suspect.” He tipped his stool onto its rear legs and leaned against the wall. “Perhaps Clara asked for the match with Valgus. Does she appear willing?”

  “I wouldn’t know. She hasn’t been at the market in days. That’s one reason I agreed to deliver Gracchus’s sword to Valgus. I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of her.”

  “To what purpose? It will only darken your mood. Choose another woman to woo. There are fair lasses aplenty in Isca.”

  “Perhaps,” Marcus said, setting his hammer and tongs aside. He bent and adjusted the furnace vents. Rhys’s advice, as always, had the ring of wisdom. His obsession was fruitless, and
no one knew it so well as he. Why couldn’t he put Clara out of his head?

  Untying his apron, he hung it on an iron hook. “I’m to deliver the sword before noon,” he said with a mild snort, “so as not to disturb Valgus’s dinner.” Belatedly, he realized he’d slipped into the familiar amity he and Rhys so often shared. He slanted the Celt a glance, conflicting emotions grappling in his chest. His best friend a Druid? The notion didn’t seem real.

  “Will you accompany me to the fortress?” he asked after an awkward pause.

  “With pleasure,” Rhys said smoothly, setting the front leg of the stool down with a bang. Rising, he strode to the worktable. “But first, I would inspect your handiwork.”

  Marcus was at the washbasin, scrubbing soot from his face and hands. He squinted into the polished bronze mirror. He should stop at the main house and change his clothes. He cared little if Valgus sneered at his blacksmith’s garb, but if there was a chance he might encounter Clara …

  Rhys caught Marcus’s eye in the mirror. “Go on,” Marcus told him. “Just be sure to wrap it again.”

  Rhys unrolled the oiled cloth to reveal a sheathed gladius. Intricate silver tracery decorated its crosspiece and pommel. The polished leather scabbard bore a matching silver edging and tip. Rhys slid the sword from its sheath and hefted it, checking its balance. He tested the shining edge with his thumb.

  “A fine piece, Marcus, as usual. Ye are a true artist.” He shook his head. “A fine joke that a man who loathes swordplay should produce such a beautiful weapon.”

  “Indeed,” Marcus said wryly. It was the truth. He was far more captivated by the artistry of swords than by their use. Throwing knives, however, were another story. He had a fine hand with a dagger, especially those of his own design.

  Rhys sheathed the blade and covered it with the oilcloth. “ ’Tis close to midday now.”

  Marcus decided to forgo a change of clothing. He’d most likely not catch a glimpse of Clara, and if he did, what did it matter? She was beyond his reach.

  They trudged the snowy lane to Isca in silence, Rhys squinting skyward repeatedly. Searching for Hefin, Marcus thought. But the merlin was nowhere to be seen. Odd.

  Farmland gave way to the jumble of timbered cottages and thatched roofs that made up the city. The forum market lacked its usual bustle of customers, most likely because of the cold. The arena was busy, however, with men and slaves hurrying about.