Curse of the Celts by Clara O'Connor (most romantic novels .TXT) 📕

were slumped, as if the energy to stand tall was beyond him, though underneath this they appeared to be broad and his long body hinted at former power. His face was lined, pale and unshaven but his clothes, unlike the hall, were clean; small hints of mending suggested that someone here at least took better care of him than he did of his home.

Gideon walked forwards until we stood within range of the warmth of the crackling fire, my entire body absorbing the heat as it hit the skin on my face and started to warm my clothes.

“No one has arrived before us?” Gideon asked in his turn.

The man in the chair cocked an eyebrow at Gideon’s failure to answer the question asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at the tall warrior. He had to be Devyn’s father, or at least some relative, because I recognised the guileless look that masked the detailed threat assessment that was taking place. But while Devyn was always coiled in preparation for a fight, I could see the muscles of the man before me start to gather as he took in Gideon before surveying Marcus and me rather more slowly.

“Who are you?” His question was directed at me as he finally met my eyes fully.

“We are weary travellers seeking hospitality at your door,” Gideon responded, taking an almost imperceptible step to place himself slightly in front of me.

“I thought you were messengers,” the man reminded him.

“That too.”

A rather wide woman appeared from a door at the side of the room and bustled forwards with the tray she was bearing, unloading the goods she carried onto the top table a few steps away from us and lighting some more candles to eat by.

“Well, my weary travellers,” the man said, indicating the food and drink with his hand as the woman, having laid everything out to her apparent satisfaction, disappeared back to wherever she had come from.

We ate and drank in silence; the food was functional but good and simply being indoors added flavour to the meal, as far as I was concerned. Our host sat back, indicating that any further discussion of our business here could wait until we had received the hospitality of his hall – something I was infinitely grateful for as I enjoyed sitting on the hard bench and eating real food for the first time since Oxford. I finished an extra slice of the delicious, nutmeggy cakes, flat, round and golden in colour, before our host invited us to join him back at the hearthside.

“Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what brings you to my home?” he prompted.

“We’re looking for your son.”

If Gideon was aiming to get a reaction then he was disappointed, as the older man didn’t so much as flicker an eyelid in response.

“I’m afraid you have travelled in vain then,” he finally offered in an even tone. “For I have no son.”

I gasped at the denial, surer than ever that this man was Lord Rhodri. How dare he.While he was far from being a copy of his son, he had a certain steady way of looking at you that was all Devyn.

“That’s a shame, for we parted company three days since from a man who bid us meet him here at his father’s house – or at least his cousin did, as he was not much in the way of conversation at the time.”

The man threw a dark look at Gideon.

“You speak in riddles. I ask again, who are you?” The old man stood looming over an unconcerned Gideon.

“My companions are –” he hesitated “– Catriona and Marc of Oxford and I am Gideon, trusted man of the King of Mercia.”

I froze as Gideon used my true name as my alias. Ass.

But the introduction told our host nothing, and his lids lowered to cover his own reaction to Gideon’s dodging the true nature of his question.

“How come you here, speaking of my son?” His accent thickened as he glowered down at the smiling Gideon.

“I thought you had no son,” Gideon taunted.

“Enough.” I didn’t know or care what game Gideon was playing. I understood that Rhodri was not a respected man in Britannia, but playing with him like this was poorly done. “We were travelling with Devyn and we had to split up. We were hoping he might have made it here before us?”

The man looked at me with a lack of comprehension that made me wonder if he couldn’t understand my words; maybe my accent was too odd.

“Devyn?” He faltered on the name. “Coming here? How?”

“We were attacked, Devyn was injured, and because we were being pursued by the hounds of Samhain, we drew them off while he and Bronwyn were to come directly here. There is no sign of them?”

The man drew a shaking hand across his face.

“Devyn is on his way here?” he asked again.

“Yes.”

“No, no, he hasn’t arrived.” He started for the door and then stopped again. “Truly?”

“Yes,” I repeated and Gideon, in turn, nodded as Devyn’s father looked to him too for confirmation.

He made his way rapidly towards the door and there were sounds of shouting from the yard before he returned.

“If you are lying, I will end you; I care not who you serve,” he opened grimly.

“We are not lying,” I assured him.

“Then tell me how this comes to be,” he ordered.

“Devyn was hurt on our way here.” I didn’t want to reveal all, but his reaction had not included any surprise that his son was alive, despite the commonly held belief that he had died years ago.

“How?” For a man who, moments before, had been denying Devyn’s very existence, he seemed interested enough now.

“He was wounded by a knife,” I gritted out, not looking at my travelling companions, both of whom shared the blame for what had happened.

“The cut is deep?”

“No,” I shook my head. “But we think there was something on the blade and it’s made him very ill. We weren’t able to help