They broke their fast with more strips of dried venison. Clara tore off a piece with her front teeth and chewed until her jaw ached. She would have had less trouble gnawing her satchel’s leather strap.
Owein, apparently, had teeth made of stone, for he devoured his portion easily. To her relief, the shadow that had passed over him at the mention of Lucius Aquila had lifted. He watched her eat, the amusement returning to his eyes.
“ ’Tis not the soft fare ye are accustomed to, I am guessing.”
Clara swallowed a mouthful of what tasted like burnt wood shavings. “It’s fine.” She took a swig from the water skin, wishing it held wine. She grimaced, then scowled when Owein’s amusement deepened.
“I suppose a merchant’s daughter spends her life within easy reach of every luxury,” he said.
Clara studied her clasped hands. “I suppose that’s true.”
“No wonder ye have such little sense.”
Her head jerked up. “I have sense!”
“Oh, aye. Sensible Roman lasses often wander the hills in winter seeking outlawed Druids.”
“I had no choice about that,” Clara said quietly. “Not with my father lying ill.”
“The danger was too great.”
“I had to find you. I’m sorry I disturbed your home, but—”
“ ’Twas nay much of a home, lass, in case ye hadn’t noticed.” He sighed. “But I was content there, for a time.”
She hesitated. “Until the Second Legion came?”
“Aye.” Bitter hatred crept into his voice. “Until Gracchus’s men arrived.”
“I … I’ve heard Commander Gracchus is respected by Romans and Celts alike in Isca. He’s known as a hard man, but a fair one. I … I also heard that the raid on the hills was ordered by the governor in Londinium. Perhaps … perhaps Commander Gracchus regretted what he had to do.”
“A fine notion, lass, but one I canna credit. Ye may not have noticed, safe in your merchant father’s house, but to the Legions Celts are no more than beasts. Best killed, or at the least herded to the city and fenced.”
“Many Celts in Isca are free. In the city, they have comforts they could only have dreamed of in the mountains.”
“Glass cups and deep cushions. Aye, a fine trade for the home of one’s fathers.” He shook his head in disgust. “Comfort. It leads only to weakness.”
“Romans are not weak.”
“Are ye so sure? Aye, ye have armies and fortresses. Fine weapons. Standing together, surrounded by walls, ye are strong enough. But alone? One Roman alone is as weak as a babe.” He stood and started assembling his pack. “Especially a woman.”
Clara pushed to her feet. “That isn’t true!”
“Nay? Could you defend yourself if the need came upon you? Could ye use a knife on a man in a fight?”
She blinked. “Me? You jest. No woman could best a man.”
“Ah, but I say ye could, if that merchant father of yours had looked up from his money long enough to teach ye how to wield a knife. No Celt father would do less than give his daughter the means by which to defend herself.”
“A Celt father teaches his daughter to handle a blade?” Clara couldn’t believe it.
“Aye.” He unsheathed the dagger at his waist and pressed it into Clara’s hand. Her fingers closed on the hilt. Bemused, she looked down at it.
“Not like that.” His hand covered hers, adjusting her grip. “You’re a slight lass. Nay tall enough to hack into a man’s chest.”
Hack into a man’s chest?
If Owein noted Clara’s revulsion, he ignored it. “Even if ye had strength enough in your arm …” He lifted her hand and brought it down in an arc. “See? Ye couldn’t stab down at such a high target. But that doesn’t mean ye canna hit your mark.” He reversed her grip on the knife, so the blade pointed upward.
“But—”
“What ye must learn to do is to use your size to your advantage. Attack from below.” He made a fist and demonstrated with an imaginary knife. “Slice upward into the stomach. Or better yet, stab between the legs.”
The dry venison Clara had swallowed threatened to make a reappearance. “I couldn’t.” She tried to loosen her grip on the dagger. His hand covered hers, preventing it.
“This is ludicrous,” she said. “I could never kill a man. Or even wound one.”
“Do ye know how many men wouldn’t hesitate to use your body and slit your throat after?”
“Hundreds, I’m sure,” Clara said dryly.
“ ’Tis nay a jest I’m making, lass.”
“But I’m traveling with you,” Clara protested. “That’s protection enough from any brigand.”
“I canna be at your side always,” he said, his voice tight.
Clara met his gaze, still holding the knife between them. “Is this … because of what happened to your wife?”
His jaw clenched. “Eirwen was a tall, strong woman.”
“But she was heavy with your child.”
“Aye.” He released her hand and stepped away, grief and sorrow warring in his eyes. With an effort, he mastered both emotions, turning brusque. “The first thing ye must remember is that surprise is the greatest advantage a woman brings to a fight. Ye must be quick—wound your attacker, then make your escape.” He illustrated an attack with an imaginary dagger. “Try it.”
Clara sighed. She didn’t see the point in the exercise, but there seemed to be no recourse but to humor him. “All right.” She mimicked the thrust, jabbing upward into empty air.
“Put some passion into it, lass.”
“My name is Clara,” she muttered. “If you can’t remember that, I’ve a mind to sink this blade into
your
gut.” She thrust upward again, venting her frustration. Would he perish if he pronounced her name just once?
“Aye, that’s better,” Owein said, intent on her form. “But put your whole weight behind the thrust.”
Clara tightened her grip and gave another sharp jab.
Owein nodded his approval. “Twist the blade at the end of the motion, when it’s buried in your enemy’s flesh.”
Ugh.
Clara considered dropping the weapon right then and there. But one look at Owein’s expression told her that wasn’t an option. Bending, he produced a second dagger from a sheath hidden beneath the leg of his
braccas.
She blinked. She hadn’t known he carried another blade.
“Fall into a crouch and dip one shoulder, like this …” He executed the move. “ ’Twill give ye better leverage.”
She imitated the best she could.
“Ye can do better.” He resheathed his blade and spread his arms wide. “Take me for a target.”
Clara was aghast. “Attack you? I couldn’t!”
“Afraid?”
“No.”
“Weak, then.”
“No! I … just don’t wish to hurt you.”
His blue eyes glinted. “Abandon your denials, lass. Your weak Roman blood tells.”
“Oh! You—” She swung.
He jumped aside, laughing.
“Are”—she slashed again, her blade meeting nothing but air. Abandoning all restraint, she flung herself at him. “—a”—
slash
—“barbarian”—
slash
—“brute!”
His arm shot out, snagging her wrist and lifting her blade over her head. Caught by her forward momentum, Clara stumbled into his chest. With an efficient motion, he divested her of her weapon. Laughter reigned in his eyes. Clara inhaled a sharp breath. Had he staged this futile lesson just to humiliate her?
If so, he’d not had his fill of amusement. He gave a mock bow and extended the dagger, hilt first. “Another try, lass.”
She looked from the blade to his face. “What?”
“Again,” he said, exasperation plain in his voice. “Perhaps this time, ye’ll trouble yourself to remember my instruction. Dip and come up. Use your weight to your advantage. Ye’ll never best a man trying to overpower him from above.”
“You mean … you truly want me to learn how to fight?”
“Of course. What do ye think?” He extended the blade.
Clara took it. “But … why?”
“The road can be a dangerous place. I don’t know where my vision at the stones will lead us, but wherever it is, I canna watch ye every second of the way. I’ll rest easier knowing ye can at least defend yourself until I come to your aid.”
“No. I meant … why do you care?”
He stared at her, the blue of his eyes as intense as the sky above. Two spots of color showed on the high ridge of cheekbone above his beard.
“Again,” he said gruffly.
“No. My arm aches.”
“I dinna care. Again.”
Clara sighed as she adjusted her grip. Owein spread his stance. “Have at me, lass.”
“Clara,” she said through gritted teeth. She slashed upward, but he danced away. How was it a man so large could be so light on his feet?
With a blur of movement, he grabbed for her. She ducked under his arm and jumped aside, using her lack of height to her advantage. What other advantage might she draw upon? A sudden thought sparked. She eyed him, noting the position of his feet and the shift of his weight. When he lunged for her a second time, she was ready. Her shoulder dipped, drawing him forward. Then, with a sudden movement, she shifted the blade from her right hand to her left, reversing the pivot of her torso. She thrust her left arm upward, the entire weight of her body behind it.
He deflected the move with a grunt and a curse. She’d done him no damage—he was far too swift for that, and he’d been expecting her attack, after all. But the flash of respect in his eyes told her that she’d succeeded in taking him by surprise.
The small victory left her flushed with pride. She met his raised brows with a sweet smile.
“Ye favor your left hand?” he asked curiously. “I hadna noticed.” He gave his head a small shake, as if not able to believe he’d been so unobservant.
“I favor the left, but my tutor insisted I hold my pen with the right. Now I can do most tasks as well with either.”
Owein nodded approvingly. “ ’Tis a fine advantage in a fight.” Reaching for her shoulders, he pivoted her and pulled her into his body, pressing her against his chest. Heat skittered down her spine and snaked into her belly.
His lips whispered close to her ear. “Try it like this, lass …” Taking her left hand in his, he drew her into a low crouch, then guided her arm in a sharp upward thrust.
“In a fight ye may only have the opportunity for one good blow. Ye must make the most of it.”
He released her. Deprived of his support, she swayed, trying to regain her equilibrium. It was a difficult task.
Owein hefted a short, stout branch in both hands and held it before him like a shield. “Again.”
“Again? But what of the element of surprise?”
“ ’Tis the motion you’re practicing. When danger comes, ye must fight without thinking.” He revealed a flash of white, even teeth. “Or is your Roman blood too weak?”
Clara’s grip tightened on the dagger’s hilt.
Owein’s smile broadened. “That’s it.”
He egged her on, urging her to sink the blade. He watched each movement with a critical eye, directing her to spin right or left as circumstances warranted. Each blow sent a jolt up her arm.
Her shoulders burned with fire, but she gritted her teeth and said nothing. She spun and slashed again and again. Finally, when the sun had succeeded in hoisting itself over the upper edge of the mountain, Owein lowered the branch and called an end to the lesson. Clara blinked into the sunlight.
Owein inspected the gouges she’d inflicted on the wood like a sculptor appraising the work of an apprentice.
“ ’Twill do,” he pronounced at last, tossing the branch aside. Facing her, he grinned. “Until the next lesson, at least.”
The stone stood on a rise of snow beneath a cerulean sky. It was not so large as Clara had imagined, nor so broad. It was but a single weathered lump of rock, a far cry from the massive ring of smooth-hewn pillars and lintels Clara had once seen on the southern plains near the old Celt fortress of Sarum.
“Are you sure this is the place?” She wasn’t inclined to be generous, not when Owein had left the shelter of the valleys to trek over treeless, ice-covered mountaintops. The wind bit through her cloak. Her thighs ached with climbing and she could no longer feel her toes inside her boots.
“I thought we were looking for a circle,” she complained. “That’s but one stone.”
“The smaller stones lie hidden in the snow.”
“Wonderful.” Clara let out a long sigh as she trudged in the white furrow left by Owein’s long legs.
Owein glanced back. “Wishing for a fire? Or a hot bath?”
“You know that I am.” She caught a glimpse of his grin before he turned.
“Ye should have stayed—”
“Don’t say it,” Clara warned, drawing her hood tightly about her ears to block both the wind and Owein’s taunting. She’d wished a thousand times over that she’d stayed behind. But the earth would shake to pieces before she’d admit it.
Owein’s mood sobered with each step toward the stone. It took longer than Clara had hoped to traverse the downward sweep of snow-covered hillside. Distances in the high mountains were deceiving—more than once she’d thought a landmark near only to watch it recede as they approached. The rock did the same. By the time they reached the stone—which Clara was surprised to realize stood taller than Owein—the sun had sunk behind the hills.
Clara swallowed her dismay. The wind was frigid on the exposed slope. With a sigh, she resigned herself to a night spent huddled in her cloak. Owein lowered his pack to the ground. Clara rubbed her hands, trying to work the life back into them.
His gaze swung toward her. In two great strides, he closed the distance between them. Large, warm hands enveloped hers and took over the task of making her blood flow.
“I’ve pushed ye too hard.”
“I’m fine.”
He gave a half snort and continued rubbing. Gradually, her fingers warmed. Other parts of her body heated as well. The places he’d stroked before—while he dreamed of his wife—came to life. Her stomach, her shoulder. The sensitive place just below her earlobe. The tips of her breasts …
She stepped away, pulling her hands free. He let her go, but his eyes remained watchful.
“How long will this take?” she asked, unnerved.
“The Horned God keeps his own time, lass.”
He turned and paced a few steps from the great stone, then bent to clear away an armful of snow. A smaller stone appeared, lumpy and gray like its sire. Wholly unremarkable, and yet … when Clara closed her eyes she imagined she felt a faraway tingling.