Slave Princess

by Juliet Landon

  It was an argument Quintus declined. ‘Too late to go into all that, lass,’ he said. ‘It’s enough that you’ve started to earn your keep.’ His eyes, however, followed the path of his hand as he leaned over her, watching the water swirl softly over her breasts, leaving a silvery sheen over the glowing skin.

  Her face moved sharply aside as he caressed the exotic peaks, smoothed and supported by the water, while her mind clung to the last vestiges of shame and battled against the incredible sensations under the hand that owned her. Like a slow consuming fire, halting her breath, suspending time, melting her aching limbs, his possessive hand made its own sensuous journey over the exposed parts of her body, stroking and tenderly kneading where a masseur would never have ventured, touching and teasing until she writhed and cried out, drawing up her knees.

  Turning to face him, she found that his dripping wet hair was near her lips and that it was his mouth she could feel over her nipple, licking and lapping between gently squeezing fingers. Her instinct told her she must forbid it, protest, fight for her virtue. But it was too late, for nothing could persuade her that it was not what she wanted, or that her body had not already begun its own urgent response, beyond her experience, beyond her permission. His hair made dagger-points upon his strong neck, and she could breathe his exertions, see the working of his smooth cheek, the spiked lashes and straight nose. The danger of her position flooded back to her as he raised his head and looked into her eyes, giving her the chance to take control. ‘Well, Princess?’ he said, huskily. ‘Still shamed? Was that on sufferance, or do I detect a different note in that cry?’

  Pulling at her captured wrist, she turned on him the full glare of her eyes that caught the nearest lamplight, green as the water. ‘You will detect whatever you wish, Roman, I don’t doubt it. Now you’ve had your pleasure at my expense, let me go. I was right—you are no better than them.’

  ‘I could curb that sharp tongue of yours, barbarian. That I could do. Perhaps another time.’ He placed his hands under her arms, levering her up, and it was then she saw the swelling on the inside of his knee and what looked like a wound less than a year old, but still inflamed and unhealthy. She was pulled to her feet, and there was more to be seen on one shoulder, a pink ribbon of scar tissue she’d not noticed before. So, that was why he needed to visit the healing spring at Aquae Sulis. He had been injured and had hidden it from her well, until now.

  Trembling, and shaken as much by what had just happened as by what had gone before, she stood with her back to him, wrestling with the wet linen that was all she had to cover herself. But with an arm over her shoulder, he took it from her, wrapping her in a cocoon of dry toga, deftly winding it round and round before lifting her into his arms, helpless as a swaddled babe, and carrying her out of the bath-house into the night.

  She kept her eyes closed, and although she heard voices, she chose not to see the outraged stare of the Lady Aurelia, or the way that her eyes, in one rapacious glance, took in the sight of the Tribune’s glistening nakedness. Nor did she see the envious expressions of the male guests who had gathered in the corridor more out of curiosity than for social reasons. No, too much was occupying Brighid’s mind for her to make any sense of the Tribune’s remark about earning her keep. Her brother had appeared, but what would be his plan for her? Would she be sold before they could make a run for home? Or would the Tribune keep her as his unusual woman, and was that decision already known to Florian, who had begun calling her domina? Mistress.

  Questions regarding her virtue hung in the balance, decisions that only a day or two ago she would have placed firmly at the Roman’s door, but were now also hers. Wrapped in his toga, carried close to him, her body still held the touch of his hands and lips, challenging all the long-held rules about the sanctity of a princess. He had already violated those rules with very little regard for her feelings, which he knew. How long would it be before her plan to find Helm became pointless? And how much would it cost her, if it did? Would her brother believe that she was still a virgin, after this? Would anyone?

  The change of air pressure made her aware of her surroundings, the lamplit room, her sewing on the day-bed, and no one except the Tribune’s slave to scurry in with her cast-off clothes and to scurry back out again with the wet linen. There was no sign of Florian or Math, so no one to witness the way her parcelled body was placed on the edge of the sleeping-couch to sit helplessly upright while Quintus sat behind her, enclosing her with his long legs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.

  ‘Your hair.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Yes, so can I.’

  Fuming, she suffered his fumbling fingers on her head and felt the fall of thick wet locks over her shoulders, the relief on her scalp as the loosening began. She was obliged to co-operate when he pulled her head round to look at him. ‘Stop your mewing, barbarian,’ he cried, ‘and think yourself fortunate to suffer no worse than this. I knew the Lady Aurelia might send for you, and I knew what your reaction would be when she did. Firebrand. I did not, however, expect you to hurl insults at her. Show off your learning, perhaps, but no slave insults a lady if she wants to keep the hide on her back. If you wish to get out of this house in one piece, lass, you’d better stay close and do as I bid you.’

  ‘She would not persecute another man’s slave, surely?’

  ‘Accidentally, she could maim you for life, my innocent. Believe me.’ His lips were only inches away, and she knew by his darkening eyes that he yearned for her mouth and that he was about to take advantage of her again. ‘And that would be a pity,’ he whispered.

  ‘Would it? Why?’

  ‘Because, Princess, we have several more stops ahead of us when your presence as my woman will serve its intended purpose. That’s why.’

  ‘What, to dress up like a mime artist and pretend.’

  ‘To warm my bed at night. That’s your purpose. Get used to it.’ His mouth closed over hers before she could complete her scathing reply, and the strong arm across her back made her aware that it was time for his needs to be met, instead of hers.

  Since that chastening kiss in the wagon, bestowed, she thought, with more annoyance than desire, the taste of his mouth was only a fleeting memory amongst all the other first-time experiences at which most women of her age would have been well versed. Even so, Brighid had begun to realise that more protests would count for nothing and that there was perhaps a limit to the fury she could maintain. Tribal rules were one thing, but her personal safety was another, and the latter was by no means a foregone conclusion. The Roman’s purpose for her could, she knew, easily be satisfied by another woman, if she herself proved to be too troublesome. Until she and Math could devise a plan, she would do best to keep up the same frosty acceptance of her predicament.

  But this was easier said than done when the Tribune’s kiss swept her much further than she could have imagined. Having witnessed only the rough-and-tumble—and, frankly, unappetizing—slobberings of village lovers and her father’s nightly coupling in the next partition to hers, she had never looked forward to this kind of intimacy. It took almost no time at all for her to revise this notion when the warm searching of his mouth over hers obliterated every other feeling, every qualm or protest, every discomfort of being imprisoned and unable to move. That she was being used was certain, but was there not something liberating about being helpless in this situation? Released from having to struggle, or from active participation, she could do no more than savour every sensation, drown in the warm scent of his skin, taste the sweetness of his breath while his lips drank from hers.

  She was tipped and moved in the sea of her hair, glimpsing through half-closed eyes fragments of light and dark that blurred into blissful nothing at each kiss. He lay over her, enclosing her body with his, kissing her throat above the collar, her eyelids, sparing her nothing after the exertions of their watery chase. At last, he pulled her into the bend of his body, her back to his front, sighing noisily into
the mass of her damp hair. She believed it was a sigh of exhaustion, but therein lay her innocence. Nevertheless, before she fell asleep, she gave a quick word of thanks to Brigantia for the presence of a very long toga that had kept her chaste for another night.

  As before, she woke at intervals, once to discover that she was being kissed again, very thoroughly. Still, she could do little about it except to take what he offered, saying nothing, knowing nothing except that she had begun to follow his lead, to learn his moves, to anticipate him and to offer herself time and again for more. She doubted he would notice. Or care.

  At one stage, he unwound her upper half in response to her plea for release. Her arms, she said, had pins and needles. He laughed, tussling with yards of the precious fabric in the dark, falling asleep while fondling her beautiful cool breasts. She heard the soft rhythm of his breathing and could easily have prised his hand away. But she did not, telling herself that if the Fates had decreed it, who was she to argue?

  Preparations for their departure began at dawn with a short fierce argument about whether or not Brighid would wear her Roman costume or revert to her own. ‘You have little choice, domina,’ Florian whispered. ‘Your other things are in the wagon. And you’d better let me sort your hair out. Rough night, was it?’ He ducked, avoiding his master’s badly aimed cuff at his head. He was not in the least abashed.

  ‘Hold your tongue, wretch!’ Quintus barked. ‘I don’t keep you to comment on the state of the Princess’s hair. Who left this tray of food here?’

  ‘It’s come from the kitchen, sir,’ Florian said. ‘For the Princess, the lad said.’

  ‘Take it back,’ she said. ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘You cannot wait,’ Quintus told her. ‘It may be hours before we stop. Eat some of it, at least.’

  ‘No, Tribune. I’d rather not. It’s poisoned. I can smell the belladonna from here.’

  Quintus and Florian stared. ‘Are you sure? I can’t smell anything.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, sir. But I’m used to dealing with herbs and, if you were to ask me, I’d say that there’s enough in there to kill a cow. She must have used up her entire supply.’

  ‘Princess?’ said Quintus. ‘Are you sure? What would she use it for?’

  ‘Women with dark eyes use it to make them sparkle,’ she said. ‘That’s why we call it belladonna.’

  ‘Leave it over there,’ he commanded, ‘and don’t let anyone touch it. They can collect it when we’ve gone. Florian, you’ll find something for the Princess to eat on the road. Buy some milk before we leave the town.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Will you sit, domina? Your hair …’

  ‘We have no time for that,’ said Quintus. ‘Do it later. Let’s get away from here. Women!’

  Brighid might have wondered whether that was aimed at her or at the legate’s jealous wife, but suspected the latter, especially when she was ordered to stay close to him until she reached the safety of her wagon. All the same, she wished her hair had been plaited, for the sidelong looks of the men, including the Tribune’s two friends and her own brother, were loaded with meaning that she was well able to decipher. ‘Men!’ she muttered.

  The titillating news soon circulated the Tribune’s retinue that his new slave, not being satisfied with insulting the hostess, had also made free with her heated pool and that the master had not punished her, but had actually carried her off to his bed. One of these alone would have caused a buzz; together, they were the cause of a new kind of respect for the woman they had previously thought of as no more than a distraction from the purpose of the journey. Except for Tullus and Lucan, that is, who knew more than the rest of them the reasons for her presence.

  ‘There you go,’ said Lucan, wheeling his mount round to follow the wagon. ‘I knew it wouldn’t be long. Got his hands full at last, our boss.’

  ‘Two swallows do not make a summer,’ said Tullus, amiably. ‘You know better than to jump to conclusions, my friend. And, personally, I have my doubts.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because he does not wear the expression of a satisfied man, and the lady doesn’t have the expression.’

  ‘Of a satisfied woman,’ Lucan finished for him. ‘But did you see the hair?’

  ‘I saw the Lady Aurelia’s,’ said Tullus.

  Their irreverent laughter eventually subsided, but when they heard later, via Florian, about the poisoned breakfast, the laughing stopped. ‘That’s serious,’ said Tullus. ‘I know the lady wanted him, but really.’

  This time, Lucan agreed. ‘Not exactly what we had in mind, is it, when we suggested the remedy?’

  ‘We ought to have done more to help him out.’

  ‘Stick closer.’

  ‘Get to know the Princess better.’

  ‘If he’ll allow it.’

  Their suggestion that Brighid might like to ride pillion behind one of them was not met with enthusiasm by Quintus, who unkindly suspected their motives. He also believed that Brighid would exploit any step towards laxity, given a fraction of a chance. He did agree, none the less, that if the two of them could not ensure a close watch on her, then no one could. ‘We’re happy to share the duties as well as the pleasures,’ Lucan told him. ‘You asked for our help. Now accept it.’

  ‘Thank you. You can safely leave the pleasures to me,’ said Quintus.

  Although Brighid was grateful for the change, it also delayed her from speaking in private with her brother, something that was a matter of urgency, with so much to ask him and so many miles passing by. Once out of Lindum and on to the well-made road to the south-west, they were able to make better progress, and after two hours of continuous riding, they halted to rest the horses at a small settlement where the inhabitants were used to travellers. Several of them stopped to gawp as Brighid was lifted down from behind Lucan and escorted to the wagon, one old man spitting on the ground in disgust at her curious half-Roman, half-British combination, as if it had been her own decision.

  ‘I hope you can see now, Tribune,’ Brighid said, ‘that it might have been more politic for me to wear my own clothes. It seems to please nobody but you.’

  Impatiently, Quintus swung her round, holding her hard against the tail-board of the wagon where both guards could hear what was being said. ‘Stop your nagging, woman. And stop deceiving yourself, too. When you start to care a damn about what people think of you, the moon will turn to green cheese. I know exactly why you’re so peeved.’

  ‘Tell me, Roman,’ she retorted.

  ‘Because you’ve lost their sympathy, dressed like that, and because it will make your attempt to escape that much more difficult. Deny it, if you can.’

  Her lids fell as her gaze slid away to the guard’s sandals. ‘So that was your intention,’ she said. ‘I see.’

  ‘No. It was not. Think again.’

  Inside the wagon, Brighid realised she had allowed him to upset her by his surliness after the tenderness of the night, so when her brother climbed in between the canvas flaps, her emotional sob was taken for delight as she fell into his arms and clung like a limpet.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, holding her at arm’s length, ‘it’s all right, little sister. You knew I’d find you.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said, gulping. ‘I didn’t know anything. It was dreadful.’

  ‘Nothing? Didn’t they tell you? About …?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Father. He didn’t … well … return home. He was killed that night. They took his body back home on a chariot.’

  Brighid’s eyes widened, her mouth forming a perfect O. ‘Dead?’ she whispered. ‘Is it true? Then we’re free of him at last? Oh, Math! I never dared hope.’

  Math nodded, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement and relief. ‘Free,’ he said. ‘Our brother is chief now. He agreed with me that we had to find you, and I have. He wants you back home, Bridie. There’s been another offer for you already.’

  Too much. Too soon. She would go into all that later. But now, ‘Where’s Florian
?’ she said, looking over his shoulder. ‘Are you allowed in here?’

  ‘Massaging his master’s beautiful body out there,’ he said, tipping his head. ‘I was told to take his place for the moment, assuming that I’m harmless.’

  ‘But it’s not just an assumption, Math, is it? It’s true.’ She took his hand to draw him further into the wagon, seating him on the chest. ‘Come and tell me. Are you really as relieved as me about Father? He was a tyrant, wasn’t he? No more beatings for you. We can go back home without his shadow hanging over us. Think of that.’

  Math’s reply came only after a thoughtful silence. ‘It’s like a weight lifted from my life,’ he said. ‘But you’re right. They’re not assuming, out there. They can tell. Florian and I could both tell as soon as we saw each other in the market. He was floundering about …’ he laughed ‘… trying to explain what he wanted. I helped him out.’

  ‘You followed us, then?’

  ‘Yes, I guessed where you’d be. I waited, then followed on foot. Ran across country some of the way, with my pack on my back. It was not difficult to make contact with Florian. We seemed to connect. He usually sleeps near the Tribune, so he’s glad to have me with him because he hates sleeping alone. I think he gets pestered. Now he has me to protect him. He’s such a girl, Bridie.’

  ‘He’s been very kind to me.’

  ‘Yes, but one thing I’ve discovered about being with this crowd is that they have a place for men like Florian and me. I’ve not been scorned or persecuted the way I am at home. Nobody cares about it. I’m allowed to be me. And you,’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘Whose idea was this? Not yours, I suppose? Is this what caused the trouble last night? Or was it your famous temper?’

  There was no time to tell him all that had happened—it was more important for him to know what had not happened. Math’s explanation of the phenomenon was short and to the point. ‘A knee injury,’ he said, ‘when he was commanding a cavalry regiment. A horse fell on him during a skirmish, and he was kicked and speared too. It still pains him, Florian says.’