Curse of the Celts Clara O'Connor (new reading txt) 📖

I frowned at him, seeking Devyn through the bond that stretched thin between us. I couldn’t feel anything, but I also couldn’t feel a dreadful nothingness either.

I shook my head.

“He’s not here; we are not expected.” I twisted my body to take in the silent warrior behind me. “We should go out to meet him.”

“Our horses are exhausted. We were to meet here. Bronwyn will bring him.”

“And you just don’t care,” I threw at him. After all, it was his fault Devyn was sick. Why would he do any more than he had to?

Voices came from the other side of the gate and the heavy wooden barrier in front of us opened slowly, the grand oak entrance yielding unwillingly. Gideon nudged our horse forward, and we made our way under the wall and into the courtyard in front of the tower, dark figures of armed men edging forwards from the shadows.

Gideon scanned the men appearing in our wake as the gate closed shut behind us, his body tensely poised at my back. I leaned forward, aware that my presence hindered him should the lack of welcome here become something more life-threatening. Though his odds against the ten or more guards that surrounded us couldn’t be good. I steadied myself, tensing in anticipation of the attack that felt imminent.

“An odd group of messengers,” came a dry voice from a slightly bent figure who I could now see was walking towards us across the courtyard.

Gideon turned and inclined his head.

“My lord.”

The grey-haired man stopped as he came alongside us, his eyes shifting from one to another of us in measurement. He grunted what I supposed amounted to acceptance and with a swing of his head indicated for us to follow him to the main entrance of the tower.

Marcus dismounted first and made his way to me to help me down as. With two of us astride, there was no easy way for me to get down without help and I was typically somewhat unsteady at the end of a long day of riding.

I hesitated before swinging a leg over in readiness to slide off the tall black stallion, bracing for the impact of his touch. Awareness flared as he put his hands on my waist, his green eyes a mixture of heat and denial as I slid to the ground. I looked down, fighting the chemistry ignited by his touch and the damned handfast cuff, shame at my involuntary response curdling in the pit of my stomach. I felt like my reaction was broadcast to everyone in our vicinity. Yet the guards continued to back away and go about their business. Gideon dismounted behind me and gave the reins to a stable boy who had run up to take care of our horses.

Marcus’s corresponding reticence was the only visible sign that the strength of our response to each other was not a figment of my imagination. Last night, in my exhaustion, I had felt only safe in his arms, but this morning, the burning in my blood had returned in full force. Worry for Devyn, fear of the hounds, and exhaustion from what had happened on the river had dulled the handfast-elicited desire but this morning I had felt it strongly enough that I had actually volunteered to ride with Gideon.

Each day that I was separated from Devyn, my defences against the handfast bond weakened. The urge to comply with the Code and return to the city thankfully remained absent. Given that we needed to convince people we were together, my desire to be close to Marcus wasn’t all bad… as long as it didn’t become overwhelming.

Marcus lowered his eyes, sucking in his cheeks in acknowledgement of my rejection. He turned to stride after the older man, not waiting for either Gideon or me. The pull to stay close to him was almost tangible. I forced myself to lag back, earning a dark glance from the ever-observant warrior, who stopped to wait for me.

“Stay close,” Gideon said quietly as I rejoined him. His warning brought me back to the broader present and the fact that we were neither welcome nor safe in our latest surroundings.

Part of me wanted to almost dismiss this knowledge in anticipation of the fact that for the first time in what felt like forever, we would not be sleeping on the ground. At least I hoped we wouldn’t, I amended, taking in the rather forlorn appearance of the inside of the tower as we made our way through the dark entrance hall with its tired tapestries and tatty furnishings; dust and dirt tracked in from outside remained undisturbed in this unkempt space. My experience of Briton buildings was limited, given we had avoided them as much as we could on our journey north. The odd barn was the only structure I had seen the inside of apart from the beautiful golden stone of Oxford’s great buildings of learning. Despite being relatively empty of students when we had been there, the halls had been well cared for, warm and welcoming. This building had a coldness to it that went beyond its grey granite stone; what once might have been a home felt hollow and abandoned, despite being occupied.

Exiting the darkness of the hall, we came into what I supposed was the great hall of the keep. At least, I supposed it had once been great, but the long, dusty tables and dirty floor added to the general feeling of neglect. Were it not for the fire crackling in the hearth at the top end, I would have easily believed no one had lived here in decades.

“Well, what is your message?” came that dry, raspy voice from a high-backed chair that faced the fire. Was this really Devyn’s father? His grey hair hung limp about his face, and his eyes, while dark, did not have the intensity of his son’s; they appeared, instead, endlessly tired. His shoulders