 
"I need some answers. The truth, this time. Your brother doesn't know you are here, does he?"
Gwen's brows rose. The half smile was back, playing on her lips. "Whatever sort of man ye are, Marcus Aquila, ye are not an unintelligent one."
Marcus did not acknowledge her compliment, if indeed it was one. He was too arrested by the clear gray of her eyes, made even more compelling by the tilt of her chin and the regal set of her shoulders. Her clothes were at odds with her bearing. Her tunic was old, almost threadbare. The slight swell of her small breasts barely filled the thin wool. She was tall and slender--most men would say too slender. But Marcus had never understood the Roman obsession with small, curvaceous women. He much preferred Gwen's sleek, willowy form.
Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from her body and returned it to her face, flushing when he read the frank knowledge of his appraisal in her eyes. But she didn't mention his rudeness. Instead, she answered his question.
"Ye have the right of it. Rhys does not know where I am."
"No doubt he's worried about you."
"And angry at me besides. Neither emotion, I fear, is anything new."
He filed that information away. "I suppose that means he also doesn't know about this sword you wish me to make."
"Nay. He does not."
He paced to his anvil. "A magical sword. Tell me, exactly how am I to provide you with that? And why?"
She turned away, studying his rack of tools. Half of them were missing, scattered about the smithy. She hefted a wooden mallet that he seldom used, testing its weight. "How else might a small band of Druids face the threat of a Dark sorcerer, except with magic?"
"You speak of Legate Strabo. I've met the man. He is not at all magical."
"Forgive me for speaking plainly, but ye are hardly an expert in matters of magic. Rhys hid his power from ye for years."
Marcus felt his face heat as his old anger flared. He did not like remembering what a fool he'd been. "Let's not mince words, then. Tell me everything. Describe this sword you wish me to forge, what magic you mean to bind to it, and, most importantly, why Rhys disapproves."
"'Tis not so much a matter of disapproval," Gwen said quickly. "'Tis only that if I'd told Rhys of my plans, he would insist I bring the matter before Avalon's Elders. They would never support any plan I put forth."
"Why not?"
Gwen grimaced. "They do not trust me."
"And why is that?"
She weighed the mallet first in one hand, then in the other, as if weighing the possible answers she could give. He wondered how much of what she told him was the truth.
 "My grandfather has chosen me to be Guardian of Avalon after his passing," she said finally. "But the other Elders do not believe I have the constancy for the role. They say the role of Guardian should pass to Rhys. Indeed..." Her voice faltered. "Even I believe it."
The self-doubt that flitted across her face made something in Marcus's chest catch. "Rhys doesn't believe that, I'm sure. He's told me your magic is stronger than his."
"That may be true," she said, "or not. Rhys does not embrace his full power."
"How can you say that? The man can change into a bird! If there's a power beyond that, I don't want to know about it."
The mallet slipped through Gwen's fingers and fell to the floor with a thud. She gripped the upper bar of the tool rack. "What did ye say?"
He regarded her with some amazement. "You didn't know?"
"Did he...did he tell ye he could shift?"
"Hardly. Breena and I saw him change quite by accident. It was in the wood behind the barley fields, last year, when you were...in danger. Rhys flew from Avalon to Isca as a merlin, searching for Clara."
"After I begged him to try to shift," Gwen whispered. "He did it. But he never told me. He only warned me..." Her expression hardened.
"Warned you about what?"
She shook her head, her brow creasing. Her upper teeth caught her bottom lip and she bit down on the tender skin, hard.
Marcus's groin tightened. Hastily, he looked away.
Bending, Gwen retrieved the dropped mallet and replaced it on the rack. She let out a slow, tightly controlled breath as she exchanged it for a smaller iron hammer.
"Were ye disgusted? When ye saw...the change?"
Gwen's tone was carefully bland. Marcus did not miss the raw pain beneath. They were no longer, he thought, speaking of Rhys.
"No," he said, because it was the truth. He'd been shocked when Gwen had shifted in his arms. And yes, terrified. At least for an instant, before he'd become unbearably aroused. But disgusted? He almost laughed. No, not disgusted. But he could hardly tell Gwen that just the memory of watching her shift from wolf to woman left him hard and aching.
She bit her lip again. Lust struck like hammer against anvil. His body vibrated with the sheer force of it.
She met his gaze. His throat tightened as her pupils went dark, the gray circle of her iris thinning to a slender ring. The gray was lightest near her pupils, and deepened to charcoal at the outer ring.
The hot thread of emotions drew taut between them. Her fingers twisted together. She felt the attraction between them, as he did. He was sure of it. Gods help him.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. His brain had gone blank. He didn't dare touch her, but he didn't--couldn't--hide his desire for her. Her eyes flicked downward, then widened. He could tell she thought she should look away. But she didn't.
A sense of unreality settled around him. He wanted her. What was he thinking? This was no tavern girl, no marriageable neighbor. She was Rhys's sister. She was promised to another man. She was a Druidess. A shapeshifter. A wolf.
None of it mattered. He wanted her, with a lust so fierce it sucked the air from his lungs.
She finally snatched her gaze from his body, her breathing rapid and shallow. Taking a step backward, she looked about--most likely for anything other than his...regard for her, he thought wryly. And so it was with a sense of burgeoning inevitability that he watched her become aware of the high shelf above his work table. Her gaze touched on each animal figurine in turn, until it came to rest on the wolf.
"What--" She swallowed visibly. As if in a trance, she took the few steps needed to bring her within reach of the display. She surprised him by touching not the wolf, but a fat sheep.
"What charming figures. Did ye make them?"
"Yes."
"They seem so...frivolous. So unlike ye."
He grimaced. "Am I so deadly dull, then?"
"Nay! I did not mean it that way. I only meant it seems odd that a man who forges weapons also crafts such whimsical ornaments."
"I started when Breena was small, when the old smith was still alive. I made most of these figures for her."
Gwen's gaze darted to the wolf.
"But not all." Deliberately, he reached past her and picked it up. "This one, I made for myself."
She bit her lip again. He nearly groaned out loud. "Is...is it...me?" she asked.
"It might be. Then again, it could be my ancestors' lare."
"I do not know that word."
"The lares are Roman guardian spirits. My full name is Marcus Ulpius Aquila. In Rome, the second of a man's three names comes to him from his ancestors. Mine is especially ancient. Ulpius. In the oldest language of Latium, it means wolf."
"The wolf is the guardian of your clan?" Her shock was palpable.
"Yes." Marcus ran his thumb over the curve of the silver creature's back, then set the figure on the work table between a sheet of papyrus and an open wax tablet. "But you're right--I would by lying if I said I was thinking of my forefathers when I fashioned this figurine. I thought only of you. As I have every night since I carried you out of that cave."
Distress flashed in her eyes. Distress, and something more. His body tightened. He felt a predator's energy gather inside him, as if the spirit of the wolf his forefathers had worshipped had come to life in his belly.
"I have thought of ye as well," she said in a rush. "I've long wanted to thank ye for saving me. When I woke from Blodwen's spell, ye seemed like a dream scattered by the dawn."
"No. No dream."
"I also wondered...what was it like for ye, watching me change? Ye are the only one who has ever seen it. I cannot help but think it was horrible."
"I won't insult you by pretending it wasn't a shock. But horrible? No. That's not the word I would use."
Her laugh was bitter. "What, then? Repulsive? Perverted? An abomination?"
He caught her arm and waited until she looked at him. "It was none of those things." His voice sounded raw to his own ears. "Startling, yes, even though Rhys had told me you were trapped in the form of a wolf."
His gaze drifted to her lower lip, red and a little swollen where she'd bitten it. Gods. Her
eyes were so innocent, so uncertain. And he was so hard. How
could she not know how her nearness affected him?
His fingers pressed more deeply into her
upper arm. He had to be hurting her, but she didn't try to
pull away. "The experience was far from repulsive, I assure you."
The doubt and shame didn't leave her eyes. He was gripped by a visceral need to banish it. And so he lowered his head, to kiss her.
Just to prove his words were true.
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» Travel
to Scotland with Joy. Joy shares her experience
traveling while to Scotland,
where many of her books take
place. See photos and more on
her blog... The
following include research that
ties into Deep Magic.
Day 6: Doune
Castle
Day 9: Caerleon
aka Isca Silurnam
Day 11: Glastonbury
and Cheddar Gorge
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