“Nothing. There’s nothing about me. And this is over.” He used guilt to crush his regret as he dragged his hands from her full hips up to her waist and lifted her off him.
“What?” Surprise was clear in her voice as he set her on the ground next to him and surged to his feet.
“I doona want you.” His heart tore at the sight of her looking up at him, shock in her eyes, but he forced himself to spin on his heel and walk out of the gym.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lightning struck for Diana again three days later. She’d come to the gym a bit early today because she just had to get out of the library. The books had revealed no clues, and worse, she was almost certain that some of them were missing from the shelves. The only person who could have moved them was Cadan.
The idea that he might be hiding things from her stressed her to the point that physical activity seemed like a really good idea. So she’d come here to practice with the small sword he’d loaned her a couple of days ago. She was a natural. Not like someone with unusual skill. Like someone who’d had otherworldly powers handed down from a past life.
She was certain now that her body remembered things that her mind didn’t. As she stared up at the wall of weapons that had distracted her from her practice, she was having the same feeling she’d had when she’d looked upon the image of Verulamium.
“What are you doing here so early?” Cadan asked from behind her.
She jumped, startled out of her trance. She hadn’t seen him since this morning in the library. They’d circled each other the last three days. He, probably wary that she’d jump him again, and she, scared of falling for him when she knew there was more that he wasn’t telling her. He’d kissed her twice now. He wanted her, yet he kept pushing her away. Maybe it was because of university rules, as he’d said. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something.
“I’m looking at that sword,” she said.
She pointed up at a blade high on the wall. It was in a cluster of the oldest weapons in the room. Its dented and scratched iron blade spoke of the lives it must have taken, though the hilt, with its swirling scrollwork, was still in fairly good condition. More than that, the decoration could be used to date the weapon.
“I recognize that sword,” she said. “I know I do. Where is it from?”
Dare he tell her the truth? It was a distinctive blade; it wouldn’t take her long to catch him if he lied. And after the lie about Verulamium, Cadan couldn’t risk another. Yet, the idea of telling another lie made his stomach turn. He told himself he was doing it to protect her, that she wasn’t ready to face Boudica’s challenges. But it still made him ill to lie to her repeatedly.
“It’s a sword from southern Britain.” He settled on truth and hoped she wouldn’t make the connection.
“Can I hold it?” Her voice was quiet, thoughtful.
Nay. “Aye.”
He strode over and reached up, carefully drawing the old sword away from the wall. It was a typical Celtic sword from Boudica’s homeland, one that she would have seen her men use on the battlefield. Her blade had been different, suited to her size and status, but this simple implement told tales of her past life as well.
He placed it gently in her palm, and she gasped slightly when it touched her skin. Her fingers closed tightly around the hilt.
“It’s familiar,” she said, awe in her voice as she slowly twirled a figure eight in the air. “I recognize this type of sword.”
“This type of blade was used for a long stretch of time.”
“Yes, but not as long as the stretch of time I’ve been researching. A few hundred years, no more.”
“More or less.”
“What’s the date on it?” Her gaze was clear and penetrating as she looked at him.
Gods, what should he say? Telling her could lead her closer to her identity, but the sword was so distinctive that twenty minutes with a weapons book and she’d know. If she ferreted out the truth, she’d never trust him again. Hell, she barely trusted him as it was.
“No’ sure, exactly.” It slipped off his tongue. Coward.
She arched an eyebrow. “Really? I have a hard time believing that. Everything in here is organized by type, and from the looks of the styles and conditions of the weapons, by date as well.”
Damn it. He glanced hastily up at the wall as if to check for a date. If he lied now, she’d know he was up to something. “Ah, around one hundred AD, give or take a century.”
She looked up at him sharply. “One hundred AD?”
He jerked his head in assent.
She flipped the sword and turned it around on him until the blade pressed into his stomach. He froze. If she wanted to pierce him, fine. It wouldn’t kill him, and maybe he deserved it. For lying—or hell, for telling the truth and putting her that much closer.