Forbidden to the Gladiator

by Greta Gilbert

  ‘This is how we will join. Do you understand?’

  She nodded. Oh, she understood. She had been dreaming of this moment for days, months, all her adult life. She could feel the heat emanating from the cleft between her legs, could sense her own wetness as he pressed himself gently against the folds of her flesh. He held himself there and the seconds stretched out.

  ‘Do you want me?’ he said.

  ‘I want you,’ she whispered.

  ‘It may hurt a little at first,’ he warned. ‘But soon you will begin to feel pleasure.’

  She nodded and gripped his shoulders as he thrust into her. He was staring down at her, his face obscured in shadow. But she could see the glint of his green eyes and the certainty reflected in them.

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘No,’ she lied, digging her fingernails so tightly into his shoulders that she feared she might draw blood.

  But he only moaned with pleasure, pushing deeper. He must have sensed her discomfort, for he bent and whispered into her ear. ‘Rwy’n dy garu di, Arria.’

  They were beautiful words, magical words, and in her heart she knew exactly what they meant: I love you. Her body relaxed as he thrust deeper. There was pain, yet she did not wish to be anywhere else.

  He made a final thrust and she realised that they were as close as two people could be. ‘The difficult part is over,’ he said. ‘The rest is only pleasure.’

  He began to move inside her, his desire sliding in and out of her in a slow, enchanting rhythm. He was watching her closely, adjusting his movements as she sighed and gasped with each new sensation.

  ‘You feel so good, Arria,’ he moaned. He pinned her with a kiss so achingly gentle that she had to lift her chin to deepen it. ‘That is it, my love,’ he whispered into her mouth. His kiss became harder, greedier. With each thrust of his hips, his tongue plunged deeper into her mouth.

  Her pleasure seemed to be building. His powerful limbs braced over her. His desire throbbed within her, plunging and thrusting and seeking something that it seemed she alone could give.

  The heat. There was so much heat. And wetness. And sensation. It was as if he was chasing her up a steep cliff, tickling and daring and goading her as she stepped closer and closer towards the peak.

  And then she was not walking, but running. And he was there beside her, straining with his limbs to run faster and faster until suddenly the ground disappeared from beneath their feet and they were running together in the air.

  And then they were falling. The world around them blurred as they plummeted through space. They were convulsing with pleasure, moaning and gasping as the divine release hit them in slow, exquisite waves.

  Gods, the sweetness of it. The pure joy. She was shocked, exhilarated, undone. She had wanted this for so long, not knowing exactly what it was. Now that she knew, she did not want it to end. This was pleasure, this was love, this was life.

  This was theirs.

  Cal lifted his head and let out a long, howling moan, then collapsed atop her. His voice echoed in the cavernous space, mixing with the warm spring breeze, and a collection of last season’s leaves burst out from beneath the eaves of the ancient temple as if in celebration of their love. Arria watched in wonder as the leaves fluttered through the sunlight above them in a rainbow of whites and browns and greys.

  Looking closer, Arria realised they were not leaves at all, but wings.

  She gasped.

  ‘What is it my love?’ asked Cal, his face buried in her hair. ‘Tell me, what do you see?’

  ‘I can hardly believe it, Cal,’ said Arria, her heart near bursting. ‘Pigeons!’

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story,

  check out these other great reads

  by Greta Gilbert.

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  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Marshal’s Wyoming Bride by Tatiana March.

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  The Marshal’s Wyoming Bride

  by Tatiana March

  Chapter One

  Chicago, early spring, 1886

  Dale Hunter sat in the office of US Marshal William J. Arnold and met the older man’s scrutiny without a flinch.

  “Sure I can’t change your mind, Hunter?”

  “No.”

  “I could transfer you back to the Eastern Louisiana District.”

  Dale shook his head. He didn’t belong anywhere anymore. Not in the South of his mother’s birth. Not in the North of his father’s. The only place he belonged was some remote piece of land where he could live alone, bothered by no one.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” His tone was calm but implacable. “I’m tired of chasing moonshiners for the whiskey tax they haven’t paid, and I’m tired of arguing with local officials who resent federal intervention. In my three years as a deputy US Marshal I’ve saved most of the fees I’ve been paid. By now, I have enough for a down payment on a ranch where I can retire and live out my days in peace.”

  Marshal Arnold’s broad face clouded. “Don’t give me that garbage. It sticks in my craw to hear a rich man talk about scraping together a few dollars.”

  Dale spoke sharply. “My mother’s money is not mine.” He gritted his teeth, controlling the flare of guilt. He knew his mother had suffered more than any woman should. The War Between the States had destroyed her family—husband dead, daughter murdered, son’s quest for vengeance turning him into an outlaw at eighteen.

  After eleven years outside the law, Dale had gained a pardon. His mother had expected him to take over the family business and find a suitable young woman to marry. Only he couldn’t do it. The nightmares stamped on his scarred face, the horrors that kept him awake at night made it impossible for him to fit into such a genteel lifestyle, and his refusal to follow his mother’s wishes had come between them.

  “My mother’s money is not mine,” Dale said again, quietly this time.

  Marshal Arnold cleared his throat. “Perhaps so. And I am grateful for the contribution you have made to the Marshals Service. Before I accept your resignation, I have one more assignment for you.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I’m done.” Dale got to his feet, unpinned the tin star within a circle from the lapel of his suit coat and placed it on the desk between them.

  Marshal Arnold gestured for him to sit down again. “Hold on a mite, Hunter. Whe
re is this ranch you plan to buy?”

  Dale shuffled on his feet. “California.”

  At his reply, Marshal Arnold gave a satisfied smirk. “California? That is very convenient. The assignment is in the Arizona Territory, only a stone’s throw away. You could travel at the government’s expense and continue to your ranch after you have finished the job.”

  Dale considered the suggestion. Train fares were expensive, and his savings were barely enough to cover the down payment on the property he wished to buy.

  “What is the assignment?” he asked.

  “It’s about a woman called Rowena McKenzie.” Marshal Arnold leaned forward in his seat. “A lady, I’m told. She’s been indicted for murder and refuses to speak up in her own defense. The local sheriff is reluctant to hang a woman, and the federal marshal for the territory is newly appointed, not yet confirmed by the senate. He is wary of stringing up a lady and making a mistake. I’d like you to go over and figure it out.”

  “That’s it?” Dale frowned. “I’ll review the evidence, make sure they haven’t overlooked anything, and if the judge decides she’s guilty, the local law will take care of the hanging?”

  Marshal Arnold nodded.

  Dale reached down, picked up the badge from the desk and pinned it on again. “I’ll wire my report to you.”

  When he was halfway toward the door, Marshal Arnold called out after him. “The appointment of the United States Marshal for the Arizona Territory is pending confirmation and it wouldn’t be the first time the senate has rejected a candidate. If a promotion would persuade you to remain with the Marshals Service, the position could be yours.”

  Dale pretended not to hear. In the three years since his pardon, he had avoided going back to the western territories. He’d lived in the steamy South, in the cold and damp North, but he had never had the courage to face the dusty desert landscape where coyotes barked at night and buzzards feasted on carcasses. And he doubted the wisdom of doing so now.

  * * *

  There was no mistaking the look of relief on the face of Sheriff Macklin in Pinares when Dale walked into the ramshackle office and introduced himself. A big, burly man in his fifties, with graying hair in a military cut, the sheriff barely glanced at the official papers Dale held out to him.

  “You’ve come to take the prisoner away?”

  “No,” Dale replied. “I’m here to help you decide if she should hang or not.”

  He took off his long canvas duster and shook away the droplets from the drizzle outside. To his relief, Pinares was on high ground, surrounded by pine-covered hills instead of the red, dusty desert of his nightmares.

  He’d taken the train as far as Holbrook, a lawless Arizona ranching town, where he’d bought a horse from the livery stable and ridden the remaining thirty miles south. Preferring to arrive in the morning, he’d camped overnight outside town.

  Like always, his legs ached after a day on horseback. He didn’t walk with a limp, for after he’d been injured in the gunfight to break away from the outlaw gang, the best surgeons in the country had pieced together the broken bones. Even more important, his arms had healed well enough for him to draw a gun or throw a punch with the same skill and accuracy as before. When fully clothed, the only visible legacy of his lawless past was the crescent-shaped scar on his left cheek and the slightly uneven sound of his footsteps.

  Sheriff Macklin scrambled to his feet behind his battered desk. “No time like the present.”

  Dale hesitated. Although he no longer wore his jet-black hair down to his shoulders, it could do with a cut. He ran the palm of one hand along his jaw and felt the roughness of stubble. A lady, Marshal Arnold had told him. He brushed aside his scruples. A disreputable look might be helpful in persuading a gently bred female to provide answers.

  “Is there a medical report on the victim?” Dale asked.

  The sheriff extracted a bunch of iron keys from his desk, shut the drawer with a bang and halted, eyebrows raised, keys dangling in his hand. “You don’t know the details?”

  “Only that you have a female prisoner who goes by the name Rowena McKenzie indicted for murder.”

  The burly sheriff nodded. “That’s the gist of it. There is no medical report on the victim, for the body can’t be retrieved. Miss Rowena shot a conman who was trying to flee after being caught selling shares in a phony mining claim. The conman, Elroy Revery, was whipping his wagon horse into speed when Miss Rowena fired a pistol at him. The horse bolted and the wagon took off with the body.”

  “Didn’t anyone give chase?”

  “Not right away. One of the men who’d lost money in the swindle suffered a mental fit, screaming and yelling, scaring the women. By the time we’d dealt with him and rode after Revery, we found his wagon tracks leading to the edge of Dead Man’s Gully. It’s a ravine a mile outside town, too steep to climb down. With a pair of field glasses you can see the smashed-up wagon and the dead horse at the bottom.”

  “And the body?”

  “Can’t pinpoint the location. Must be beneath the wagon, or thrown off and fallen between the boulders at the bottom of the gully. But there’s no doubt Miss Rowena killed him. She snatched Kurt Lonergan’s pistol from the holster and fired. Elroy Revery clutched his chest and toppled into the wagon. Before he fell, a dozen people saw blood spurting out between his fingers, staining the front of his shirt.”

  With each word, Dale’s skepticism grew. He’d seen it before, a staged killing to facilitate a getaway after a swindle. He expected the ladylike qualities of the prisoner to be as phony as the mining claim her partners had been peddling.

  “Is this Miss Rowena new in town?” he asked.

  Sheriff Macklin shook his head, looking troubled. “I know what you’re thinking, but it can’t be. Miss Rowena came into Pinares two years ago and she’s been working in Alice Meek’s café ever since. Whatever her reasons, she shot Revery. I had to arrest her.” The sheriff jangled the bunch of keys in his hand and jerked his head toward the jail. “I’m counting on you to straighten this out. No one wants to see Miss Rowena hang.”

  * * *

  Dale’s first glimpse of the prisoner was her back. She was seated on the narrow cot in the nearest of the three jail cells, gazing up at the patch of overcast sky visible between the iron bars that covered the small window high up on the far wall. Dale halted midstep, nearly stumbled. Memories of his sister, Laurel, flooded his mind.

  It wasn’t so much the slender body, or the glossy dark brown hair, the color of polished mahogany, although they were the same. It was the elegant line of her neck, exposed by the simple upsweep. It was the way she wore the faded blue cotton dress, as if it had been made for a queen. Instantly, Dale recognized the stamp of an expensive academy for young ladies, the kind that put emphasis on deportment and etiquette instead of practical skills.

  Sheriff Macklin unlocked the iron grille and rattled it aside. “Miss Rowena, you have a visitor.”

  The girl—she looked barely over twenty—rose to her feet and whirled around, every motion graceful. Dale felt his breath catch. He had to clench his hands into fists to hide the impact she had on him. He wanted to ignore her beauty, wanted to treat her just like any other prisoner, but he couldn’t help the way his eyes swept over her features, taking in every detail.

  Her face was not dainty, like Laurel’s had been. Her features were fuller, with a square chin and a bold line of dark, almost straight eyebrows. From this distance, Dale guessed her eyes were a deep blue, an unusual combination with the dark hair.

  As he stared at the girl, he could see a blush fan across her cheeks. If possible, her posture grew even straighter. He wondered if she could feel the pull of attraction, the way he did, and was reacting to him as a man, or if her discomfort was due to a guilty conscience and the fear of consequences of her criminal acts, or if she was merely embarrassed by the boldness of his inspection.r />
  Dale stepped into the cell, oddly reluctant to get anywhere near her, to expose himself to the power of that beauty. “How are you, Miss McKenzie?”

  She inclined her head to acknowledge his greeting.

  Dale turned to the sheriff. “I’ll take it from here.”

  He waited for the man to lumber down the corridor. When Dale was alone with the lady, he turned toward her and sought refuge in his experience, relying on a hundred similar situations. And yet no other situation of stepping into a prisoner’s cell had ever been the same as this.

  “My name is Dale Hunter, and I’m a deputy US Marshal. I’ve been tasked with...helping you to prepare for your defense.” He’d been planning to say tasked with finding out if you’re guilty or not, but somehow the words came out different.

  Again, she gave him that regal nod. Dale felt irritation join the mix of his confused emotions. As foolish as it might sound, he wanted Rowena McKenzie to seek help from him. But it was clear that instead of seeing him as a white knight, she regarded him as the enemy.

  “Why did you shoot Elroy Revery?” he asked.

  “I have nothing to say.”

  Dale nodded, as if to accept the challenge. “Why don’t we sit down?”

  Miss McKenzie’s eyes flickered to the cot covered with a rumpled blanket.

  “Well?” Dale gestured. “Please, be seated.”

  Her mouth flattened into a line before easing back to its plump fullness again. “If you want both of us to sit down, you’ll have to get a chair.”

  A lady. No doubt about it. Even while locked up in a jail cell, she clung to the constraints of her upbringing and she would refuse to sit on a bed beside a man, for it had been drilled into her that such behavior might taint her reputation beyond repair.

  Dale retreated into the corridor. When out of sight, he closed his eyes for a few seconds. The past, Laurel, and all the guilt and shame that went with her memory washed over him. He knew it wasn’t just Rowena McKenzie’s beauty that had affected him so. It was the echoes of the past, of how he had failed to save Laurel, and those echoes made him want to save Rowena McKenzie, as if preserving one woman’s life might balance out the loss of another.