ye know how long it’s been since I had a woman? Since I’ve even seen one?”
Mutely, she shook her head.
“Two winters. Two winters since Sempronius Gracchus’s men killed my wife with no mercy even for the babe in her womb.”
His voice was flat, but Clara sensed his barely controlled violence. He’d lost a wife and child! Aiden hadn’t told her that.
“I’m … sorry.”
“Eirwen was killed fighting for our home. I wasna there to die at her side.” He looked away. “That, lass, is how I treated Aiden’s granddaughter.”
Clara’s breath left her. “Aiden’s granddaughter was your wife? But he never …” She shuddered. How could Aiden have sent her to this man? Clearly, Owein despised her, and everything Roman. “I … didn’t know,” she finished lamely.
“There’s much ye don’t know. Go back to Isca, lass. Ye dinna belong here.”
He stood. The sheer bulk of him overwhelmed her; she was forced to tilt her head to look up at his face. She fought her instinct to recoil, until a sudden movement of his body sent her stumbling backward. But he hadn’t moved in her direction. On the contrary, he was the one in retreat. He strode to the door, nearly wrenching it from its pegged hinges. And then he was gone, absorbed by the snow-shrouded night.
Ill-mannered lout, she thought. But she trembled for the pain she’d seen in his eyes. She sank down on the chair he’d vacated. With a wife and child dead, he had a right to be bitter.
She was sick to her bones, thinking of the Second Legion’s mountain purge. She knew Father had been disgusted when the reports of the botched village raids reached the fortress. Father hadn’t wanted to resettle the free Celts in the first place—in his view, the scattered mountain villages posed little threat to Roman civilians. But after the governor’s niece had fallen prey to Celt brigands on the road near Isca, the order had come from Londinium to clear the hills of all natives. Had Father not complied, he’d have been stripped of his command. Slaughter hadn’t been his intent; he’d wanted a peaceful resettlement. But the Celts were a proud people. They hadn’t surrendered.
Sighing, Clara rose and retrieved her tunic from the bench. It was still damp, but it hardly mattered. She couldn’t remain dressed in Owein’s shirt. She grasped the hem, battling a sudden reluctance to remove the garment. The linen imparted a measure of comfort. Had Owein’s wife woven it? Had he worn it while he kissed her? She shook off the thought. With an efficient motion, she pulled the shirt over her head and laid it on the pallet.
Donning her own tunic was a challenge because of the damage Owein had done to her girdle and sleeve pins. She fastened them the best she could, then retrieved her boots, staring at them sadly. Ruined. Half the pearls were gone, and the leather was stained beyond repair. With a sigh, she slipped on her ugly wool stockings and slid her feet into the ruined boots. She took a step. Her soles were still tender; it was like walking on broken glass.
She’d no sooner dressed than the door scraped open. Owein appeared once more, his arms laden with deadwood. He glanced at her briefly, taking in the change in her attire, but said nothing. Depositing the wood near the hearth, he went down on one knee and set to the task of stacking it.
She hobbled past him and peered out the door. The sky was a startling blue. “The storm has lifted.”
Owein grunted a reply. Clara limped across the room to the pallet. Bending, she scooped up his shirt and held it out to him, feeling for all the world as if she were taming a wild beast to her hand. “I thank you again for your kindness.”
He rose and accepted the worn linen. “No kindness. I had little choice.”
“You might have left me to die.”
“Aye,” he said. “I might have.” He frowned at his shirt. Then he folded it carefully and stowed it in his oaken chest.
Clara forced herself to go to him, her hand hovering above his shoulder. “Owein. I need your help.”
“I’ve given ye my answer.”
“I won’t accept it.”
“Ye must. Your father will most likely die. ’Tis a hard thing to bear, but the sooner ye accept it, the better ’twill be. Marry the man he chose for ye, lass. Once ye have a passel of brats to care for, ye’ll stop looking to the past.”