Drink? How could she, when her heart was lodged in her throat? Her body tingled and her cheeks burned. She was shameless. What would Father think if he knew she was entertaining lustful thoughts of a wild barbarian? She could picture the censure in his eyes all too easily.
She brought the mug to her lips and forced a sip of the bitter brew. She had to get hold of her emotions. Surely one kiss from a man shouldn’t reduce a woman’s brain to gruel. She hated this helpless feeling.
The events of the last few days had been so far out of her experience, she could scarcely believe they had happened to her. Had she truly ducked through the fortress gates and into the mountains on the strength of her faith in an old man? Had she conversed with a barbarian Celt, slept in his dwelling, even allowed his kiss?
But perhaps most disturbing was when she had slipped into Owein’s mind by magic. She didn’t have a clear idea how it had happened. Perhaps Aiden had been right in insisting Clara held power in her own right. If only Owein would reconsider his refusal to teach her.
Perhaps she would ask him again.
They departed for the stones at dawn.
Clara wore new boots. They were a crude construction of fur and leather, fashioned by Owein’s hand. She’d protested at first, reluctant to part with her own pearl-edged pair, damaged though they were. Owein had grunted and tossed them into the snow. She supposed he was right in deeming them unsuitable for a difficult mountain trek. But she couldn’t help feeling that another bit of her old self had been tossed aside with them.
Now that she was actively searching for her mother’s cup, she had difficulty taming her worry about her father. How did he fare? Did he even still live? Would she return in time to save him, buying herself time to convince him that Valgus wouldn’t make her a suitable husband? Or would she return to find her father dead and Valgus livid over her disappearance?
She shuddered. At Father’s death, Valgus would become her guardian, whether they were married yet or not. It was no secret that Father’s fortune had induced the tribune to accept a soldier’s daughter as wife—there were rumors that Valgus’s own father was deeply in debt. Clara was certain the tribune would demand they marry quickly. As her husband, he would have full control of Father’s vineyards in Gaul, his iron works in the south of Britannia, and the new villa and horse farm he was building near Isca. Not to mention the trunk of gold secured in the vault under the fortress temple.
Grim thoughts skittered through her mind as she followed Owein into terrain that grew increasingly more rugged. The wind was icy, but at least the sky was clear of clouds. A bright winter sun illuminated the bald tops of the mountains and cast shadows in the forested valleys between. Two days to reach the stones, Owein had said. When his vision came—if it came—they would decide their next move.
He’d spoken little since morning. He’d awakened slowly, as if rising from a dream he didn’t wish to lose. Once on the trail, he’d set a punishing pace. Or rather, his pace was punishing for Clara. For Owein, the trek was likely a leisurely stroll.
The descending trails were more treacherous than the ascending ones. Ice and snow slicked the ground. Clara suspected Owein kept to the forested trails because the footing was surer. Even so, she’d fallen thrice. The first time, she’d come down hard on her right hip, which ached still. After that, Owein stayed closer, to catch her before she hit the ground. Each time, his hands lingered as if reluctant to withdraw from her body.
His words, however, were anything but lusty.
“Can ye nay find your footing? I wish to reach the stones before summer.”
“You might walk a bit slower,” Clara muttered.
“A Celt woman would have little trouble keeping pace.”
“I’m not a Celt woman.”
“Aye, I ken that only too well, lass. ’Tis why I wished ye to remain in my roundhouse.”
“My name is Clara,” she ground out. She shook the wet snow from her hem. “Not lass. I’ll thank you to remember that.”
“I hadna forgotten, lass.”
She scowled. He snorted—the closest sound to humor she’d heard him make since morning. She couldn’t define his mood. She hefted her satchel, the only part of their provisions Owein had allowed her to carry. The rest—food, blankets, and