Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  The noise of the tavern surrounded Libya. Loud men, too much wine, loose women, gambling, and raucous jests — much like the taverns she worked at in Moesia. No Victor.

  Marcellus moved to the far side of the room and took a seat at a table of loose-lipped gamblers.

  She glanced toward Wryn. His linen tunic hung off his broad shoulders, giving him a more approachable look than when he wore armor. He called her keen-witted.

  A song soared through her as her gaze ran across his hard jaw and strong features. No one had ever admired her wits, let alone a man.

  He stood in conversation with the tavern keeper, his deep voice clipped, his handsome frame so stiff, as if he were more statue than human. If that meant that, unlike other men, he took no notice of her body but looked at her soul, she’d not complain. She’d show his praise justified tonight by discovering this Ides of Junio plan for him.

  She looked over the tavern guests, drunk men same as the ones who had ogled her in Moesia. Her breathing quickened.

  Marcellus had told her to take care and that Wryn would look out for her if anything unpleasant started to happen with the men she interrogated.

  A heady rush of excitement flushed through her veins. Tonight, she worked this tavern not as a prostitute, but as an elite spy. A spy playacting a free woman. For a few hours at least, she’d take orders from no one, but instead ferret out dark secrets.

  That man with the tattoo of an anchor looked like a ship captain.

  She sidled up to him. “Salve.”

  He smiled at her, parting his thick cheeks in a leer. “Salve.”

  “What do you do?” She rested one hand on the table, her other on her hip.

  “Ship supplies for the Ostia garrison. Took a shipload of wine to them this morn and they paid well. Care for a drink?” He pushed a tankard toward her.

  Too forthright for a smuggler. She moved one table down. A little way apart from the rest, a spare man downed tankard after tankard. His gaze focused on a table of men across the room. His crew perhaps?

  Squeezing through sweating men, Libya glided to within a pace of him.

  His gaze turned to her. His unsavory smile looked criminal. “A little too comely to frequent haunts like this, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps I get paid to.” Men’s tongues loosened around prostitutes.

  Reaching out, he touched the tips of her hair, a nothing of a touch. “How much does a woman of your beauty cost?”

  If he touched her body, then this conversation would end. “More than you can afford. Do you even own your own ship?”

  “I own two ships. I’m a wealthy man.” He brushed his fingers against her hair again.

  She moved closer to him. One of those first times at the brothel flashed through her mind. She shoved the thought away. Here she operated as a spy, not a harlot, and Marcellus had promised Wryn would protect her.

  Resting one hand on her hip, she raised her bare shoulder. “Even owning your own ships, you don’t make much. Men tell me the Emperor raised tariffs again.”

  “Oh, there are ways around that, delicia.” His gaze roved over her.

  A Viri smuggler, excellent. “You must be a brave man then. I wish I could see you manifest your prowess.”

  The flattery lit his red-tinged eyes. “Tomorrow night, ten miles up the Tiber from here at the second watch of the night, I’ll unload my biggest haul yet. Come away with me, and you can see it.” His hand wrapped around her waist, his sweaty palms touching all over her.

  “I couldn’t.” Grabbing his fingers, she tore them off her and glanced behind her. No sign of Wryn.

  The drunk man grabbed her below the waist and yanked her back. “You can’t tease a man then not even give him a kiss. The Eagle’s Nest tavern’s women would never treat a man like this.”

  Still no Wryn. Her gaze touched the seaman’s crooked teeth. Bile churned her stomach as a sick feeling rose in her veins. The rough feel of hundreds of men’s mouths shoving against hers at those Moesian taverns consumed her. “One kiss and you’ll let me go?”

  “Oh, I want a lot more than a kiss, delicia.” He groped her chest as he yanked her toward the darkness outside.

  She hit him. With a grunt, he grabbed both her wrists and dragged her through the door to the darkness.

  She screamed. None of the dirty sailors even glanced up from their gambling.

  “Don’t yell at me, wench.” The tavern light faded into the dirt of the yard as the drunk man yanked her farther away from the building.

  Screaming was a bad choice. Things always went easier if you didn’t resist. She summoned a smile even as the urge to retch rose in her. So much for working as an elite spy.

  A fist struck the drunken man’s shoulder. “Hands off.”

  She turned. Marcellus stood in the courtyard. The white patrician linen he wore reflected the moonlight, intimidating all by his very status.

  Marcellus’ hand touched her back, the lightest of brushes, just enough to effortlessly maneuver her away from the drunken man.

  At Marcellus’ movement, the drunken man took a step back. “Mea culpa.”

  Marcellus followed her as she passed back into the tavern. “Where is Wryn?” he hissed.

  Libya shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I told him to look after you.” Marcellus glared at the wall separating this room from the next as if his anger would make the wood vanish, revealing Wryn. Pushing through the crowd and jabbing drunks, Marcellus made a path for her to the back room.

  In the center of the smoky area, Wryn stood making conversation with a ship captain.

  Marcellus grabbed Wryn by the shoulder, violent enough to start a fist fight.

  Wryn twisted, elbow aimed at Marcellus’ gut until he recognized the man. “What are you doing?”

  Marcellus touched the small of her back and thrust her into Wryn. “I told you to take care of her.”

  Wryn stepped back from her. “I’m here. If any trouble arises, she can get me.” Spoken like a master of the world who never experienced the powerlessness of a slave.

  “There’s already been trouble, you fool.” Rage flamed Marcellus’ face.

  Libya cocked her head. What did he have to rage about? Did Marcellus worry the drunken man would have killed her thus losing them a spy?

  Wryn glanced at Marcellus’ angry face, confusion in his eyes.

  “You don’t let her leave your side.” Marcellus’ fists clenched. “I shouldn’t have agreed to allow a woman in this cesspool.”

  Wryn leaned closer to Marcellus, lowering his voice to a breath. “That was your plan, to have a female spy.”

  “I don’t care.” Marcellus’ voice rose. “You fail one more time, and she’s never coming back.”

  Around them, the drunks stared. Several started to gather around the two patricians.

  In the flash of a moment, a mask dropped over Marcellus’ face. “Quidquid. Have your woman then.” He touched her wrist for the briefest second and made it look like he shoved her back against Wryn.

  Astonishment covered Wryn’s face.

  She slid closer to Wryn, her back pressing against his front, and directed a frightened look up into his eyes. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear.”

  Still, Wryn didn’t take his cue.

  She stretched up to Wryn’s ear. “Act angry.”

  He glanced down at her. “Why?”

  Perhaps his sister had overestimated his acting abilities. She opened her mouth and dared to order her master, but the other patrician would back her up. “Do it.”

  Wryn’s show of anger left something wanting, but the crowd dispersed. He turned to her. “What happened? Why did Marcellus look ready to knife me between the ribs?”

  She shrugged. “A drunk man. I screamed. He wanted a prostitute.”

  Horror spread across Wryn’s face. “Mea culpa. I had no idea, or else I wouldn’t have left you alone.”

  She refrained from rolling her eyes. A raucous tavern full of d
runken men, her wearing her hair loose as a woman of infamia, what exactly did he expect?

  “Are you all right?” He brushed her hand, kindness in his touch. “Would you rather leave now?”

  “I’m not done yet.” She straightened her tunica, so much less sticky than the suffocating wool of her Moesian dress. “Any Viri captains in this room?”

  “I think he’s one.” Wryn nodded toward the foremost table near the kitchen. “He won’t talk to me, though.”

  Libya crossed to the captain. “Salve.” She smiled at him.

  His heavy eyebrows rose as his gaze ran down her. “Salve.” He flicked the end of her belt.

  Wryn pushed past her. “Don’t lay your filthy hands on her.”

  “These hands will touch what they wish, patrician.” The ship captain reached out and brushed his hand over her hair. Only a thoroughly drunk man would speak so insolently to a man of Wryn’s rank, which made him the perfect man to press for information.

  Libya stepped closer. “So, sir, tell me about —”

  Wryn plowed forward with his fist. Blood spurted from the ship captain’s nose. Grasping the appendage, the ship captain hurtled back.

  With a sigh, Libya swiveled. She touched Wryn’s shoulder as she stretched up to his ear. “I can’t spy if you don’t give me a chance.”

  Wryn’s fists stayed balled even as his voice fell to a whisper. “Oh, to have these men in my interrogation room. Then I’d get some useful information about the Viri.”

  He was completely hopeless. Why did she even try to gain information? She didn’t want Victor taken down anyway. She glanced at the stew bubbling by the kitchen fire. Her stomach churned.

  Wryn followed her gaze. “Are you hungry?”

  She nodded.

  A roar rose from the table. The ship captain, who now had a bloody nose, charged along with half a dozen of his mates. “I’ll teach you to strike me, patrician.” The ship captain swung hammerlike fists.

  Libya leaped back. Her gaze darted across the room to Marcellus, yet even two against half a dozen didn’t make good odds.

  Rather than ducking out of the tavern, Wryn rolled his eyes.

  The ship captain’s fist barreled toward Wryn’s face.

  Grabbing the man’s wrist, Wryn threw him to the ground. Two more sailors charged Wryn. Though a knife hung at Wryn’s belt, he used his fists. Uppercut, jab, soon blood stained the drunken men’s faces and Wryn’s knuckles.

  Libya’s eyes widened. She hadn’t lied to Horus when she warned him this master was strong. Much too strong. She shivered, yet he hadn’t used that strength to hurt Horus.

  Another sailor lunged. Wryn kicked him in the gut. He fell against the foremost table. It crashed into the chairs behind it. Pewter broke as serving dishes crashed onto the brick kitchen floor.

  A red-faced tavern keeper charged out of the kitchen. “How dare you destroy my tavern! I’ll throw you out of the place, patrician or no.”

  Flour, sugar, and expensive oils slopped across the brick.

  Marcellus’ sandal struck the tile behind Wryn. A good friend would have interfered about five charging sailors ago. “My friend didn’t mean it. He’s drunk.”

  Wryn swiveled. “I am not drunk.”

  “He’s drunk. Let me pay for the damages.” Marcellus glared at Wryn. “You’re paying me back.”

  With a dismissive wave, Wryn pushed past Marcellus and laid coins in the tavern keeper’s hand. Their muffled conversation continued as Libya looked out to the darkness. A lovely breeze blew through the open door.

  “Here.” A hand touched her shoulder. Wryn handed her a bowl of steaming stew and bread.

  Her eyes widened. “Gratias.”

  He motioned her out the open door.

  She bit into the bread as she followed him. He moved to the stables. As he approached his horse, he looked to her. “Don’t suppose you discovered anything tonight?”

  “One ship captain said he’s smuggling two boatloads tomorrow night ten miles upriver of here at the second watch of the night. Nothing on the Ides of Junio plot, though.” She dipped up a bite of stew.

  “You found out about a smuggling shipment in just the half hour we spent there? You’re astute.”

  Her cheeks heated hotter than the stew. “I just talked. It was nothing.”

  “Nothing? I talked to a dozen ship captains, and no one told me that.” His voice held esteem.

  Esteem for her, a prostitute? As a patrician, he’d learned about politics, philosophy, a whole world of ideas she only longed to know.

  Wryn grabbed the horse’s reins. “Do you think we should try the taverns nearest the docks next or one close to here?”

  He asked her as if he, a man who commanded armies, valued her intelligence. She knit her brow. “The first man I spoke to mentioned the Eagle’s Nest tavern.”

  “We’ll go there then.” Wryn extended his hand.

  She touched it. His hands dropped to her waist as he lifted her to the saddle. His fingers clasped over her belt with the movement, his arms so powerful. Rather than the constraining grip of fear such as when other men touched her, wanting more, peace flowed from his grip.

  Marcellus strode into the stable. He looked to Wryn. “You’re pitiful.”

  Bending, Wryn cinched the girth strap on his horse. “Libya told me about a Viri shipment happening tomorrow night. I’m sending soldiers to intercept it. I don’t call that pitiful.”

  “I had to save you from getting thrown out of a tavern and protect your woman.”

  Standing beneath her, Wryn stiffened. “Libya’s not my woman.”

  “She is when we’re in these taverns. Did it not occur to you what the ship captains would take her for?” Marcellus nodded to the star that seared her cheek and her unbound hair.

  Skin heating, Libya averted her gaze. Marcellus only spoke the truth, and he had rescued her, yet how painful to remember that with one glance any person who roamed this earth would see her as a prostitute.

  Wryn shifted his feet on the dirty straw. “I hadn’t exactly thought about that.”

  He hadn’t? How could he not? Perhaps because army-issue iron flowed through his veins instead of blood. A laugh rose in her heart. Statue or no, she liked this Wryn Paterculi.

  “You’re a fool.” Marcellus yanked his horse’s reins free. “Next time, take care of her.”

  Wryn chafed his thumb against the saddle leather. “I tried to, then you complained about the getting thrown out of the tavern part.”

  Libya ran her hand over the horse’s silky neck. Unlike Marcellus, she’d readily forgive the master for reneging on his promise of protection in return for the words he spoke to her. Astute. Many men had called her beautiful, lovely, seductive. No one had ever called her astute.

  “Next time try subtlety. Flirt with her,” Marcellus ordered.

  Wryn’s gaze swiveled up to her, consternation in his eyes.

  The man had mown down a dozen sailors with his bare fists and commanded soldiers as if born to rule, yet flirting horrified him? She thought she had struggles relating to the other sex.

  Chapter 9

  Libya chopped the never-ending pile of leeks. Celery, radishes, and asparagus overflowed in the basket the cook had shoved at her. If she could finish these, she could spend the evening with Horus. She’d found a lyre, and she had a hundred songs to teach him. He loved the Nubian songs of her mother’s people best.

  “What’s this boulder?” The cook seized a chunk of leek. “I said dice them.”

  Three hours passed since she started dicing vegetables. Libya massaged her aching wrist. She’d dice ten times as many if only she could do it as a free woman for pay. “I can go to the market in the morn to get you more vegetables.”

  She looked longingly out the kitchen window where shadows fell over the stone walls that penned her in night and day. She needed just one chance to escape them, then she’d go to the Ocelli villa. Dare she hope Victor would pay to free her along with Horus?
/>   The cook threw a radish bunch at her. “Why? Want to prostitute yourself with some man?”

  Catching her knife back up, Libya struck it against the leeks. She glared through a mist of salt water as she yanked a celery stalk onto the cutting board.

  “Libya.” Wryn’s voice blew through the gardens outside.

  A smile turned up her lips. Libya dropped the knife.

  “I’m brining these tonight. Work.” The cook shoved a basket of vegetables at her, and the coarse wicker scratched her arm.

  Libya swiped soaked hands against the linen of her lovely tunica, her bare feet spreading on the warm kitchen bricks. “Are you telling me I shouldn’t go when the master calls?”

  The cook harrumphed.

  Unlike her wool dress, the light fabric of this tunica swished in the wind as she ran out of the stifling kitchen. The failing sunrise warmed her face, the evening breeze blowing her hair and playing through the fabric of her tunica as it chased away the stickiness of the kitchen’s heat.

  Wryn stood under the peristyle awning separating the main house from the gardens, a mosaic of Odysseus spreading behind his back. Sweat covered his forehead. His scale armor and cloak lay on the bench beside him as if he’d just returned from the garrison. He looked unduly discomforted for the master of the house.

  “What did you wish?” She smiled at him.

  “How,” his ears turned red, “does one flirt?”

  She tilted her chin, sending her hair cascading down her shoulders. He had failed spectacularly at that.

  “Or can’t it be taught? Am I hopeless?”

  Her gaze ran over his candid brown eyes, strong shoulders, and angled nose, all as flawless as if carved from marble. For certain, he was handsome enough to flirt. “They teach women.”

  “Like prostitutes?” He looked at her.

  Her fingers went numb as her shoulders stiffened. Shrinking into her tunica, Libya examined the polished marble under her feet.

  “Were you a prostitute?” He shifted his stance, his sandals moving awkwardly on the cobblestones. “I mean, it doesn’t matter if you were.”

  She took a step back, her sandal sliding onto the grass below. Of course, it mattered.