Celtic Fire Page 18

  She closed her eyes. Raising her hips, she met him thrust for thrust and gasped with the glory of it. His hand stole to her breast and plucked her taut nipple. Another wave of agonizing pleasure broke, driving her up the spiral, lifting her to darkest ecstasy. She knew not where the storm would end. Yet she yearned for Lucius to carry her through it, though she suspected she would emerge battered and broken.

  She reached for her destruction with her whole being.

  Lucius’s cock stiffened between her legs. He was thrusting now with feverish speed, shaking the bed. The taut spiral of need inside her stretched to its limits, caught and stretched even more. He thrust one more time, driving himself deep, and the coil snapped.

  She clung to him as the final shattering crash of pleasure broke over her. He cried her name and braced himself on rigid arms as his hot seed spilled into her womb. She gripped his torso and arched against him, crushing her breasts against his chest, no longer certain where he ended and she began and no longer caring.

  They existed for a glorious moment as one being, entwined and complete for all eternity. Then reality whispered, pulling Rhiannon back to awareness. She collapsed onto the cushions, Lucius atop her, their legs still entwined, their bodies still joined.

  “My nymph,” Lucius murmured. “You are everything I imagined, and more.” His breathing deepened and slowed and Rhiannon realized he’d fallen asleep.

  With the loss of Lucius’s attentions, the walls of the bedchamber seemed to draw inward, cold and threatening. Rhiannon pressed her body against her lover’s warmth, but her own rest eluded her. Tears came instead and she could do nothing to stop them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The slanting rays of the setting sun bathed the stones of the Old Ones in red. The sky above, framed by a fringe of oak leaves, darkened. Owein lay on his back at the center of the circle and squinted up at the night as the first star winked to life, an ember in a sea of ash. The cool earth, fed by the blood of his enemies, cradled his bare skin like a mother’s arms.

  Five iron swords encircled him. The first skewered the soil at his head, the flat of its blade grazing his scalp. Two more touched the soles of his feet; two others rested at the farthest reach of his outstretched arms. The power of the stones gathered, leaping across the circle to the swords. Owein could feel the might of the Old Ones, crackling, ready to make a second leap into his flesh.

  Pain beat a tattoo in his skull, causing his vision to pulse red. The agony had begun the moment his head touched the soil within the Druid circle. His crown lay closest to the eastern stone. His splayed legs pointed west toward the setting sun and the gates of Annwyn.

  A cool breeze stole into the glen, raising the hairs on Owein’s naked body. His cock stiffened slightly, then relaxed. An itch crept into his right foot—a niggling annoyance, but he gave it scant notice. Madog had ordered him to remain motionless.

  As the last glow of twilight faded, Owein’s mentor stepped from the shadows of the oaks and passed into the circle. He halted at Owein’s feet, just beyond the blades. His right hand encircled his staff, holding aloft the skull of the Roman commander.

  The Druid’s breath came hard. Owein’s own breathing was shallow, spiked with the pain that threatened to cleave his skull in two. Madog made a circuit of the stones, bowing and chanting in the old tongue. He tapped each ancient sentinel with his staff, then moved toward the center of the circle. With a sudden motion, he sank the twisted shaft into the soft earth between Owein’s legs, barely a finger’s breadth from his cock.

  Owein flinched but managed to keep his hands pinned to the ground. Madog’s staff had united earth and sky, opening a path through which the power of creation flowed. The Druid nodded once, then paced to the east, beyond Owein’s vision. His voice lifted in prayer. Words, ancient and powerful, moved through the forest like the winds before a storm. When the shrill entreaty fell silent, Owein drew a breath and took up the chant.

  The syllables flowed from his tongue like a language remembered. The learning of it had been like a homecoming—each sound Madog had taught resonated in Owein’s soul.

  Crackling energy leapt from the swords to his limbs. It coursed to his heart, igniting wild desire and fierce hope. A comet trail arched across the sky. Owein tracked it with his gaze, his lips never faltering in the chant. His summons must be perfect if it was to be worthy of Kernunnos’s answer.

  The last syllable faded into darkness. Far above, stars illuminated the skies, but little of their light reached into the embrace of the oaks. The Horned God’s forest realm, thick with the scents of life and death, filled Owein’s senses.

  The wind gusted, sending a swirl of mist into his vision. The branches and the sky faded, leaving nothing but darkness, cold and eternal. The throbbing agony in his skull spread like a fire through his body, blending with the power of the stones. Light burst in his vision. He reached for it with his mind.

  He felt a wrenching sensation, like his soul being torn from his body. He floated free of his corporeal burden, rising over the treetops in a dizzying spiral. Pain vanished, swept away by the wind. The same gust bore him over the forest, past the crags, following the path of the burn as it snaked through the valley.

  He halted above the barren patch of land where the conquerors had ripped the forest from Briga’s embrace. The high, square walls of Vindolanda stood in the midst of the desolation. Tracking like a hawk, he circled above the fort, searching the shadows with his mind. A woman’s sorrow floated skyward.

  Rhiannon.

  He swooped down into darkness and found himself hovering above a pool of water surrounded by greenery. His sister was not there, but his sense of her had grown stronger. She was close. Very close.

  Higher. He floated to an upper passage lined with doors and surged toward the one that enclosed Rhiannon’s essence. He glided through it, barely noticing the breadth of the wood as his spirit-body passed through it.

  The room beyond lay in shadow, but Owein’s spirit-eyes needed no light. An unclothed man sprawled on a raised pallet, sleeping. Rhiannon huddled at his side, sobbing, her naked body wrapped with naught but a thin blanket. The scent of the Roman’s seed was upon her.

  Rage raced like lightning in Owein’s veins. He flung himself at his enemy’s throat, but the hands of his spirit passed harmlessly through the Roman’s body. Rhiannon sobbed harder.

  Owein watched, horrified, as Rhiannon’s defiler stirred. The brute lifted himself on one elbow and peered at her, then dared to raise his hand and smooth a lock of hair from her forehead.

  Owein’s fury exploded, flinging him upward through the timber and slate roof and into the night sky. Rage flashed through his soul with the light of a thousand suns.

  He screamed his curse in the tongue of the ancients. The Words darkened the sky and sent a tremor coursing through the sacred oaks.

  The Roman dog would die. Owein would give his last breath to make it so.

  Rhiannon was crying.

  The sound twisted in Lucius’s heart like the blade of a battle dagger. She’d given him pleasure beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Had he caused her pain? He smoothed a strand of hair from her face, but rather than comforting, his touch only seemed to make her tears fall faster.

  He climbed from the bed and found the hand lamp. Touching the wick to the coals in the brazier, he blew gently until the flame sprang to life. Shadows leaped to the corners of the chamber. He set the lamp on the table and eased back onto the bed.

  Rhiannon blinked up at him through wet lashes. He lifted her chin up with his knuckles. “Is my lovemaking so terrible then, little one?”

  Her tears welled anew.

  He leaned forward and kissed her eyelids, tasting salt. “Tell me why you cry. Did I hurt you?”

  She cupped the side of his face with her hand. He turned his face into her palm and kissed it.

  “No,” she said. “Your touch caused me only happiness. ’Tis only …” She bit her lip and fell silent. “What?”
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  “I never knew,” she said softly.

  “You’ve never taken pleasure in lovemaking before?”

  She picked at the edge of the coverlet, tearing loose a tuft of wool. The blanket lay in her lap, leaving her breasts and belly exposed. Lucius forced himself to focus on Rhiannon’s face as she spoke.

  “I was wed for five winters,” she said, “and the first months after my handclasping were not unpleasant. But I never—” She blushed, swallowed hard, then continued. “I welcomed Niall whenever he sought me. I longed for his seed to grow within me.”

  Lucius’s gaze fell to Rhiannon’s belly and for the first time he noticed the faint silvery lines on her skin. His finger traced the length of one from hip to navel.

  “You have a child,” he said, hating himself. He’d thought only of his own desire for Rhiannon and his need to keep Aulus away. He’d never considered she might have left a babe behind. Did the little one cry for her now?

  But she shook her head. “Four years ago a difficult birth came upon me. Two nights, the midwife told me later, though I hardly knew if the sun rose or set. At the end of it, the babe was born broken. Dead. Niall blamed me.”

  “He should have been glad he didn’t lose you as well.”

  “No. He was right to despise me. The lad was large and I too small to bear him. By rights, I should have died and given my son the chance to live.” Her fingers ripped another tuft of wool from the blanket. “I prayed that Briga—the Great Mother—would send me another child. I sought Niall again and for a time he obliged me. His seed took root twice more. But each time, the babe passed from my body before two moons had passed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “The last time Niall came to me—” She closed her eyes and shuddered.

  “He hurt you.”

  “No. Not truly.” But she didn’t meet his gaze.

  “Lead me to him and I will kill him.”

  “He is already dead.” Rhiannon lifted her head. “Killed by a soldier of Rome. As so many of my people have been.”

  Lucius could find no reply to that.

  “Leave the northlands, Lucius. Take Marcus and the healer and go back to Rome. It’s not safe for you here.”

  “I am not so easy to kill. The fort is secure.”

  She searched his gaze. “Can you be sure of that? Truly certain?”

  He took her hand and the chill of her touch caused the hairs on his nape to rise. “What do you mean?”

  “My people will never stop fighting.”

  He made a sound of dismissal. “Once the Celts of the north taste the riches of Rome, they will join their brethren to the south in welcoming a civilized life.”

  “Many believe death would be preferable.”

  “They are fools.”

  “Not fools. Men who fight for their lives and homes.”

  Lucius shook his head. “If Caesar hadn’t landed on this island, the tribes would be busy enough fighting among themselves like children in need of a nursemaid. Rome has brought an end to strife in the south of Britannia.”

  “So long as the people pay taxes and answer to a Roman governor.” Her voice betrayed her bitterness.

  “Yes.” He gave her a long, level look. “Is that so terrible a price to pay for peace?”

  “Must you Romans take all you see, Lucius? Will you never stop?”

  “Rome’s strength lies in expansion. The emperor seeks glory in all lands.”

  “ ’Tis glory purchased with the blood of his countrymen. And for what? A moment’s rest before the killing begins anew?” She extracted her hand from his and rose from the bed. She paced to the window, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders as she went.

  After a long moment, Lucius came up behind her and laid his palms on her shoulders. Dipping his head, he dropped hot kisses on the curve of her neck. “Let’s not argue, sweet. Come back to bed and I’ll make you forget any thought of discord.”

  “Go back to Rome, Lucius,” Rhiannon said without turning. “Let me return to my people. There’s nothing for you here.”

  “You would have me leave you? After what we shared last night?” He wouldn’t be able to do it, of that he was certain. What he’d felt in Rhiannon’s arms had been beyond compare.

  She said nothing.

  He turned her toward him with one swift motion, far more roughly than he’d intended. “Rhiannon. You are like no woman I’ve ever known. I … I died in your embrace last night.”

  “Oh, Lucius.”

  “The slowest and sweetest of deaths, not the quick agony I’ve longed to inflict upon myself with my sword.”

  Rhiannon gave a cry of dismay. “You cannot truly wish to put an end to your life.”

  “I have seriously considered it.” He looked at the door. Aulus, he had no doubt, crouched behind it. “Never more than yesterday.”

  He released her and stepped away. “Six months ago, when my brother’s ghost first appeared, it was a wisp of mist. With every northward step I took, Aulus grew clearer. Now—” Lucius’s hand clenched in a fist. “He appears to me as solid as a living man. He’s been beaten—tortured—but I cannot see his tormentors. His clothing is in shreds. He stumbles about and I wonder that his blood does not stain the tile. If I don’t find my brother’s killer, I’ll be forced to watch while he dies a second time.”

  Rhiannon looked ill. “Go back to Rome, Lucius. Perhaps then the vision will fade.”

  “I made a vow to avenge Aulus’s death.”

  “And if you cannot?”

  “I must, and soon. I’ve but a few short months before my successor arrives.”

  Her breath caught. “Truly?”

  He gazed into her eyes and felt comforted despite the turmoil he saw there. Though she spoke words to the contrary, he couldn’t believe she wished him to go. “This post will be my last. Come winter, I’ll return to Rome and take my father’s seat in the Senate.” For the first time, the thought held some appeal. He smiled. “You’ll come with me. I’ll show you a city beyond anything you can imagine.”

  Her eyes clouded before they dropped to his chest. “Surely there are women enough in Rome.”

  He lifted her chin with one fingertip. “None like you.”

  She regarded him steadily with her golden eyes, but try as he might he couldn’t read her thoughts. She traced his lips with the pad of her thumb.

  “You are so proud,” she said, almost to herself.

  His tongue darted forward and gave her thumb a playful lap. “I am. Let me prove it to you. Come to bed.”

  Amusement chased away the shadows on her face. “Lucius …”

  “On your lips, my name sounds like music.” Caught by a sudden urge, he laced her fingers in his and tugged her toward Aulus’s massive Egyptian wardrobe. “Come, I wish to show you something.”

  “What—”

  “You’ll see.” He opened the brightly colored doors and searched through Aulus’s collection of jewelry until he found the one piece he sought. A teardrop pendant of amber.

  He dropped the chain around her neck. She cradled the amber in her fingers and looked up at him in awe. “ ’Tis beautiful.”

  “When I first saw it among my brother’s things, the color of the stone reminded me of your eyes. I want you to have it.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot wear this.” But her fingers gripped the pendant tightly, as if she dared not let it go.

  “You can. I wish you to.” He tugged the blanket aside and placed a kiss just below the stone in the valley between her breasts. “Please.”

  A tremor passed through her. “As you wish.” When he raised his head she placed a kiss of her own upon his chest.

  “Be careful,” he muttered, “or you will find yourself impaled on my sword a second time.”

  “Such a threat will do little to deter me,” she said, her voice thick. She flicked her tongue over his nipple.

  He groaned. “You were forewarned.” His slipped his hand between her legs and she gasped as he tease
d her there. Her knees gave way. He steadied her with his hands on her waist and guided her to the bed.

  He stretched out on his back and lifted her atop him. She sprawled on his stomach, legs spread wide, hair cascading over her shoulders. Her skin was the finest alabaster, touched with rose, the dark flame of curls between her thighs held fire enough to sear any man. No goddess could be lovelier.

  His gaze drifted to the angry red scar on her thigh, bordered by bruises just beginning to fade. He traced it with his fingertip. “I’m sorry for this.”

  She gave a wry smile. “Don’t trouble yourself overmuch. I’m not sorry for the arrow I put in your arse.”

  His gaze narrowed, but her eyes held only laughter. He smiled, tension draining from his body. Rhiannon’s fingers found his shaft and stroked upward. He needed no more encouragement. He slid into her body and lost himself in her welcoming heat.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Vindolanda has no need for reinforcements. My scouts found no evidence of barbarian activity in the area. Sir.”

  “I’d be surprised if your men could find their way out of a latrine,” Lucius told Brennus. He pressed his seal into the soft wax covering his letter to the fortress commander at Eburacum. “And even if nothing was found, it hardly signifies. By your own admission, there was no advance warning of the attack on my party.”

  Brennus rocked back on his heels, his expression unreadable. Lucius’s attention drifted to Aulus, sprawled on the floor boards in the corner of the office. A loose knot was all that prevented the remnants of his shredded tunic from slipping over his hips.

  “You dealt your attackers a severe blow, sir. Twenty barbarians dead by our count. More certainly died of their injuries. The Celts will not soon attack again.”

  “Your opinion is noted,” Lucius replied. He closed the sealbox and set it with a second parcel addressed to the governor in Londinium. “Select three of your fastest riders for the journey.”

  “But sir …”

  “That will be all, quartermaster. You are dismissed.”