Caledonia Destiny Read online

  “Do not wait too long. You do not want to be seen as uncertain.”

  “A wise man does not jump afore looking. I came not by my reputation by acting rashly.” With that said, Ewen left the hall without a backward glance.

  His worries about court politics and his happiness over Bear’s help made him forget his apprehension over spending the night next to Roi. All had been forgotten until he ducked into the tent. The night was not too late, and coals still glowed, allowing Ewen to see Roi spread out upon the pallet. The state of the interior of the tent told him Roi had taken his duties as Ewen’s manservant seriously. Undressing, Ewen climbed in betwixt the hides.

  Being outside the walls of the castle allowed both Bear and Ewen to relax. Those like Ewen, who shared their bodies with the spirit of a mathan, could barely stand the press of a city or densely inhabited lands, and so oft paid a farmer to allow them to pitch tents upon his land outside Glaschu when they went to trade. Sleeping in the great hall harmed Ewen not, but Bear became restless, and he yearned for the forest all the more when Ewen stayed indoors. Ewen oft made a point of being outside as much as possible, but even that had been a type of torture the last couple of days, with his feet leading him to seek out Roi. His kinsmen mayn’t have seen Ewen, but if the wind was aright, they oft caught his scent as he watched Roi at his duties from afar. More than once Donn had scowled deeply, surely a light reprimand for Ewen’s stubbornness.

  The many layers of furs trapped body heat and protected Ewen and Roi from the cold ground, yet lying next to Roi, he could not stop the tremble as their bare skin touched. He had not been this close to anyone since Caitriona passed. Bear desired to rub against the man, wrap about him and hold him close. Mayhap Ewen be not the only one to miss having someone rest in his arms at night.

  Roi moaned in his sleep, rolled over, and moved into Ewen’s side, his long hair pale against the dark furs. With gentle fingers, Ewen pushed back the strands and gazed at the scar upon the right side of Roi’s face.

  The burn went from the hairline of his temple all the way down to his neck. The thick, wrinkled scar, paler than the rest of Roi’s skin, told Ewen the injury was old, and deep. Thankfully, the skin about the eye pulled only a bit. The burn sat far enough from the outer crook that the skin had not healed gathered in the corner, thereby saving the eye and not affecting Roi’s sight. If he could kill Gillie Ainndreis again, Ewen would take his leisure in leading Gillie Ainndreis to his second death.

  Tracing the line of the tattoo with his fingertips, he started at the base of Roi’s ear, arcing up over the cheek to a point afore coming back down and connecting to the top of the ear. The design resembled an upturned, curved blade with three dots along the centre. From the hairline of his forehead to betwixt his brows were two deep Vs. Dots filled the space betwixt, a fine scrolling of woad along the outer edge. Starting at the corner of his eye were swirls of lines and dots that brought to mind the wakening bud of a flower, new and watchful. The scarring also kept Roi from growing a full beard. It appeared he kept his cheeks and upper lip shaved, allowing the hair to grow only upon his chin. Ewen was not used to the look but found he was not opposed to the style.

  Touching him, Bear and Ewen sensed they could— no, they were supposed to sink into Roi. Hence Roi would call Bear his own. Always afore, the mathan chose and claimed a person as a marrae. Ewen sensed Bear wanted to with a desperation that bordered upon frantic. But once Roi claimed Bear, he could claim Ewen as well if Ewen only submitted to Roi. Ewen did not, could not submit. Granda spent years teaching him the hard lessons of consequences. If he gave up control, even for a mere moment, Bear would break free and Ewen would cease to exist.

  Despite knowing this, the more time Ewen spent in Roi’s presence, the more he desired to bestow all of himself unto Roi. The need made no sense, for Ewen barely knew him. To temper this irrational need, Ewen had spent the last several days watching Roi in secret in an attempt to discover why, and how, Roi came by this power over him and Bear. It only made things worse.

  Roi helped the camp women when their burdens were too heavy. He had a gift for healing, and even with Ewen’s kinsmen glowering at any who approached, the sick ignored them simply to have Roi minister to them. He was fastidious about his cleanliness, which set him apart from the Christians who viewed cleanliness as ungodly. Roi never raised a hand in anger, and ever had a kind word for those with whom he spoke. He encouraged the downcast. He diverted the attentions of those who would abuse the weak onto himself. Ewen came to know all of this simply by watching. And what he learned was merely a drop in the bucket. Yet he still was no closer to discovering what caused the hold Roi had over him. Surely what he felt, what Bear felt, was not natural to all marrae. The man terrified Ewen.

  Lying on the pallet, Ewen started when Roi’s muscular arm wrapped about his chest and a thick thigh wedged betwixt his. As he moved, the enticing noises Roi made caused Ewen’s groin to tighten. Even as his gut clenched with the fear of what would come next, he natheless drew Roi closer. Bear demanded he check Roi’s scent. Sniffing, he found only his smell upon Roi, which calmed Bear. Vexingly, Roi’s nose nudged Ewen’s ear afore he finally settled down.

  Held fast in such an intimate clinch, Ewen believed he would not sleep. Yet no sooner did he close his eyes than he fell into a light doze.

  VIII

  ROI WOKE IN THE early hours of the morn trapped under a large, snoring body. Panic flickered as he tried to place his surroundings. The events of the day afore pushed past the terror, though not helping him to bring to mind the bald male who sprawled atop him. Did he mistakenly climb into a tent not belonging to Lord Ewen? Curse Lord Donn for insisting he imbibe in a cup of mead—or three.

  Striving to extract himself without rousing the man, Roi shifted to move out from under him. A few of the men-at-arms had celebrated heavily last eve. He hoped this one did not wake to find he had not tumbled into bed with one of the camp’s wenches. Honest blunder or not, violence would ensue.

  A low grumbling growl caused Roi to halt and tense, his body shamefully responding to the noise. As it was, Roi laboured to hide his arousal in Lord Ewen’s presence. Now he thought back to the many times he had denied himself the tender touch of another. He ought to have taken himself in hand last eve, yet Roi’s worries he would be caught had caused all desire to have fled.

  The man sniffed at the crook of his neck, and Roi went from partially aroused to aching with need. There would be no way he could get out of this without a fight. The large, strong arms clasped about his torso constricted, holding him tighter as the man rolled his hips, digging his steely manhood into the flesh of Roi’s hip.

  “Roi.” The voice was rough with sleep but he recognized Lord Ewen in that one spoken word. The matter had changed not. If he woke he would look not kindly upon a man in his bed, regardless that his liege had climbed in himself. Why was he not staying at the castle? Natheless, Roi was well and truly trapped.

  Lord Ewen continued to sniff at his skin. Any other time, the soft puffs of air ghosting across his neck and chest would not stir his blood. But this was Lord Ewen, and Roi had dreamed of Ewen putting his hands on him. A warm tongue licked where his collar would lie, raising the skin to goose-flesh. Roi fisted the hides underneath him to keep from pushing back as Lord Ewen rolled his hips again. Roi’s heart sped like a runaway horse and he itched to touch, to taste Lord Ewen in return.

  “Roi.” This time his liege’s voice sounded harsh and full of agony.

  His gut churned as he awaited for Lord Ewen to awaken, for the brash words he would unleash upon Roi. Yet when Lord Ewen raised his head and stared down at Roi with clear, hazel eyes, the strain left him. The dread leaked away and Roi became pliant under his liege’s firm body.

  “Tell me, do you… shall you… accept me?” Looking into his gaze, Lord Ewen’s uncertainty was clear. He had taken pains to avoid Roi since the day Gillie Ainndreis had been discovered impaled, although at times Roi’s senses told him Lord Ewen
was about, though his eyes saw naught of him.

  Now his liege lord lay with his skin pressing against Roi’s, his manhood probing Roi’s hip, his eyes pleading. Roi should argue for time. There were things he needed to say, to explain… but Roi had ever only wanted him. Would Lord Ewen understand what Roi was, who he was? Would it even matter? The way his liege’s hazel gaze begged for Roi’s touch, though no words came from his mouth, caused Roi’s skin to tingle in hope. Just this once would not hurt, would it?

  In the end, Roi declined to deny Lord Ewen. With a boldness he oft lacked, Roi grasped Lord Ewen’s hips and ground his aching manhood into him. The “Aye, please” he intended came out a wordless groan. Lord Ewen nipped his chin, pulling lightly upon the short hairs afore burying his nose back into the crook of Roi’s neck.

  What was he doing? Roi barely knew this Lord Ewen who hovered over him, though dreaming about Lord Ewen every night had bestowed unto him a little insight to the man. The suspicious side of Roi wondered if his boundaries, his loyalties, were being tested by the gods. Yet the part of him that was drifting and scared, that had foreseen his own death, wanted the pleasure Lord Ewen offered. He wanted to confirm he lived because he no longer beheld a clear future.

  Roi knew he ought to slip away in the dark of night, leave, because in all reality Roi belonged nowhere, especially not here with Lord Ewen. Instead of planning an escape, searching for a way to return to his island and what was left of his people, Roi waited for Lord Ewen to take him in any way he would. Because to be able to play out every dark desire, to taste every part of Lord Ewen, wrestle with him, submit to him, and ravage him—gods above—Roi would do much to stay.

  Loosing his hold upon common sense, Roi held Lord Ewen in the circle of his arms. He rode the wave of ecstasy Ewen built betwixt them with his open-mouthed kisses, carnal licking, and the grinding of his groin against Roi’s. He whispered pleading words as Ewen grasped his hard column and stroked Roi’s length in time to the mind-numbing swivel of Ewen’s hips until Roi spilled onto Ewen’s hand. He trembled when Lord Ewen bit his shoulder as he grunted, his warm seed coating Roi’s belly.

  As their heavy breathing sounded softly throughout the tent, Ewen’s broad palms stroked Roi’s side down to his hip. Roi sought to soothe the skin where he had gripped his liege roughly, at the same time learning the lines and strength of Ewen’s body. Would this be only the once? The release of stress after a victorious battle? Roi hoped not, but life, of late, had not been particularly kind. If this was the only time Roi could hold this man who had haunted his dreams, he would grasp the chance and deem himself rich, for in Ewen’s touch Roi had found peace.

  Ew— Lord Ewen grabbed a square of linen from beside the fur pallet and wiped them both clean. Not wanting to pull away or stop touching, Roi ran his fingertips through the dark mat of hair upon Lord Ewen’s chest. Over the left breast, atop his heart, lay the tattoo of a Celtic knot, the symbol of the beginning and the end, a call back to the timeless nature of the spirit. The image of a wyrm—a dragon—went from his left elbow up and over the edge of the shoulder. Upon the inside of his arm, below the elbow, a yellow star as large as Roi’s palm stood out starkly against Lord Ewen’s skin. When Roi ran his thumb over the symbol, Lord Ewen jerked away as if Roi had burnt him. He wanted to make an apology but knew not why. The quiet breaths of awkwardness changed when someone scratched at the tent flap.

  “Ewen, the Jews be on their way.”

  “Give us a bit to dress, Donn,” his liege lord called back.

  Lord Ewen pulled away the furs, releasing the warmth from their cocoon, and Roi shivered in the cool air.

  “Arailt found a family cloak for you. We leave this morn, and I would have you dressed as one of my kinsmen.” He handed Roi a modest stack of garments that had been sitting nigh to the foot of the pallet. “From this day, when you be about you are to wear the cloak belted as I show you. Those in the Highlands shall know by sight you be of my family, and shall bestow unto you the obeisance due your station. Once home, I shall have one of my kin set a weave for you.”

  A lump formed in Roi’s throat. He had lived such a long time without a family. In truth, the temple and the ever-present priests were never such a haven. Though he was to be a servant in Lord Ewen’s house, it would be the closest he had come to having a home since his mother had deserted him upon the threshold of the temple.

  The spark of flint and steel startled Roi into action. Someone had business with Lord Ewen. Roi had heard of the bankers, the Jews the Norse brought over the seas to be money handlers. It would be most unseemly for them to catch Roi in Lord Ewen’s bed. He pulled on the linen tunic that fell to mid-thigh, then the trouse. If he could not wear his robes then he preferred the leggings to the trouse. Roi was not familiar with the woollen cloak, and groped the folds searching for the pin. The garment became cumbersome, then confounding when he could not fold the cloth lest it drag upon the ground behind him.

  “Have you not worn a cloak afore, man?” A hint of humour touched Lord Ewen’s voice, his strong hand gently moving Roi’s to the side as he patiently taught Roi how to wrap the garment in the fashion of his people, then belt it at the waist.

  “I be a priest of Cerridwen of the Temple of the Moon. I have worn only her robes,” he confessed.

  Lord Ewen’s hands stilled after he buckled the belt. Roi glanced up to catch Lord Ewen staring at him with an odd countenance. “You be a warrior priest of old? Then Cerridwen must be proud of you, at least until you wore red robes into battle, making yourself a beacon for those who wished to kill you.” A hint of anger tinged Lord Ewen’s voice, his hands fisted, wrinkling the woollen material.

  Roi’s checks grew warm. “The colour be so I would catch yer eye.”

  “Why?” Lord Ewen finally asked. “Why would you wish to draw my sight?” A cold veil, the beginnings of distrust moved over Lord Ewen’s visage until he looked down at Roi with flinty eyes.

  “Because it be yer destiny to deliver the killing blow to Gillie Ainndreis.” Any hope that Lord Ewen would be accepting of his gift crumbled to ashes even as his liege continued to gaze at him with cool regard.

  “How would you know what my destiny entailed?”

  “I told ye, I be a priest of Cerridwen,” Roi scrambled to explain. “She be the Goddess of the moon, of wisdom and understanding. She be the keeper of the cauldron of the Otherworld, and Goddess of dark prophecy.”

  “What else do you know about my destiny?” Lord Ewen demanded, the growl creeping back into his voice. Roi refused to answer, knowing nothing he said would cause his liege to trust him again. But Lord Ewen was not finished. “What about you? Am I to die by your hand?”

  His gut twisted at the thinly veiled accusation. “Nay. I shall never lift a hand against ye. I know naught else of yer life to come.” Roi finally glanced away from those hard eyes, his hope for a new life, a place to belong, dying a hard death. Looking back at his liege, he found it was as he suspected: Lord Ewen now regarded him with ugly suspicion.

  “Why be that?” Lord Ewen spat angrily. He wanted answers, some of which Roi could not bestow unto him.

  “Because other than Gillie Ainndreis, I, too, was supposed to perish by yer hand. You have changed yer fate utterly as sure as ye have changed mine.”

  Lord Ewen did not believe him, and Roi wished he could take his confession back, though his liege would have found out at some time. Roi had wanted it to be at his telling, but he had been foolhardy to believe Lord Ewen would accept him so readily.

  Giving a low grunt, Lord Ewen withdrew. Regret filled Roi, yet what had he expected? His liege lord had reacted much as those others who had uncovered Roi’s secret. But he had allowed himself to believe that this—living with Lord Ewen—would be unlike the days afore. Of a sudden he ached for the familiarity of his life upon the island and the sameness of routine amongst those who knew of his gift and yet treated him no differently.

  A scratching at the tent entrance put a halt to the co
nversation and any reply Lord Ewen would have made. Lord Donn stepped through the flap and sniffed, the playful grin slipping only when he noticed the strain betwixt Lord Ewen and Roi.

  Behind him entered another, shorter man wearing a small red cap upon the crown of his head, his dress that of a person of modest means. His thick, curly midnight hair did not quite reach his shoulders and was matched by a full beard and moustache. “Good morn, Lord Ewen Frisealach of Clan Meinnear. I be Hiram Resnikov, and I have brought what you requested for your children and your estate.”

  Lord Ewen turned his back and drew the banker into the corner farthest from Roi, no doubt for privacy. Lord Donn stepped into Roi’s line of sight, further separating them, and Roi sighed. Why did he bother with hope anymore?

  “What happened?” Lord Donn demanded in a low whisper.

  “What always happens when those like ye discover what I be.”

  Lord Donn looked confounded. “What be that?”

  “I be naught, simply a servant of Lord Ewen’s house.” He turned, dismissing Lord Donn, and knelt next to the pallet to begin breaking down the bedding. Lord Ewen wanted to leave at first light. Roi needed to make sure the tent and his liege’s belongings were packed.

  Lord Donn knelt next to him. “Explain yerself.”

  He ignored the demand, continuing to roll and tie the furs. Movement was the key. If he stopped, he would crumble under the weight of the wretched sadness for allowing himself to hope for more than he had right to. So he worked studiously and kept his countenance blank. After an instant of odd sniffing, Lord Donn bent to assist him. The kind gesture was almost overmuch. Resolute, Roi swallowed down the choking emotions he had no use for and continued his work.

  Belonging. He belonged nowhere. It was time he accepted that simple truth. Natheless, Roi hated himself for wanting what he could never have.