“Keep working on that heart, brother. It’s there, but it needs to grow some.”
Wryn rolled his eyes. Gwen acted as if he didn’t understand Libya. They’d spent hours talking these past months.
Though Libya and he hadn’t officially stated anything last night, they both clearly communicated this is what they wanted. She even threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. More chaste a kiss than that one at the stables, but oh, so glorious. One more day until they held their wedding and those hours could not pass swiftly enough.
Gwen coughed. “I assume I’m still invited to your illegal marriage ceremony, despite yelling at you? I truly am happy for you. Libya suits you much better than Aulia.”
“Yes, you’re invited.” Wryn glanced out the window. While Gwen’s baby had driven away all sleep with tortured screaming, he’d come up with an ingenious romantic gesture.
Now to execute it.
Libya pushed the curtain aside. Roses filled her room, the scent of them wafting up. Red roses in a crystal vase sat on her plain shelf with lavender rose petals covering the floor. A single yellow rose lay on her bed.
Wryn leaned up on the doorframe. He looked so pure standing there, his gladius still at his belt, his hand that martialled armies pressed against her wall. She didn’t deserve him.
“Did you?” Her gaze brushed the lovely flowers.
“I did.”
She ran her finger over the velvety petals of the roses. The petals bruised beneath her bare feet, perfuming her skin.
“The first time I met you, Libya, you took my breath away. As I came to know you, I learned about your —”
To hear him talk, she sounded like a woman who had something to offer, not an emptied prostitute. She felt the petals as his deep voice carried on. She’d never fit all these petals in a pouch.
He caught her hand. His fingers tangled in her hair. “I want you for the rest of my life. The church will recognize the marriage, even though Rome will see it as mere concubinage.”
She closed her fingers tight around the rose petals, and their bruised scent wafted around her. He looked so handsome standing in her doorway, the afternoon light making shadows all around him. If only she didn’t bear the scars of infamia.
Also, she hadn’t seen Horus since morning.
“What do you say?”
She placed both hands in his. “I love you.”
The Paterculi garden spread around them as they sat between flower beds. Wryn tangled his fingers into the ends of Libya’s loose hair. Only moments before, she told him that she loved him. “You could pin your hair up now.”
“What’s the point? Binding my hair, covering myself with a palla won’t hide the scars of infamia.” She stared at the grass beneath them.
He caressed the tattoo on her cheek. “You mean the star? Celts tattoo themselves to show the honor of their accomplishments, not disgrace. My mother used to threaten to get one in Britannia. You should have seen the look of horror on my father’s face.”
Instead of laughing, Libya shrank back. Something glimmered in her eyes.
“Did I offend you? The star’s lovely like the heavens.” He wrapped his arm around her waist.
“I wish it wasn’t there.” A single tear rolled down her cheek.
He kissed it away and drew her between his legs into the circle of his arms. They talked about things, despite Gwen’s opinions to the contrary. He’d even ask Libya some questions too, prove he didn’t conduct relationships like martial strategy, despite Gwen’s accusation. He covered Libya’s hand with his. “Were you born a slave?”
She nodded.
“At that tavern I met you at?”
“No, I grew up with my mother until I was twelve.” Libya dug her fingers into the grass.
“What then?”
“Sold at a slave auction.” She ripped a blade of grass.
“To that tavern?”
“No, a worse one.” She tore at the grass.
“Is that when you became infamia?”
She trembled in his arms.
“Mea culpa. If it bothers you to speak of, we needn’t again. It’s in the past now.” He traced his finger over her lips, which he fully intended to kiss sooner than later.
“You can’t just remove infamia like a wax tablet you hold to the fire to blank.”
“I don’t see you as infamia.” He brushed his other hand against her cheek, tangling in her glorious hair as he held her tight with his other.
“Sometimes I wish you would.”
“What do you mean?” He furrowed his brow.
“Nothing.” She tugged away from him. Reaching up, she scrubbed at her cheek.
“Did I get dirt on you?” He glanced at his hands. They were clean.
“What? No.” She dropped her hand and smiled. “I loved your roses and the poetry. You’re the most wonderful man I ever met.”
Her eyes possessed the look of sincerity. He touched Libya’s hand. “I want a wedding ceremony with you and me, even though the state doesn’t care.”
She moved to touch him, but her fingers trembled.
“Do you dislike the idea of, as Gwen called it, an illegal marriage ceremony?” He stroked his thumb across the back of her hand. “We needn’t if you don’t want things so public.”
“I would love a wedding.” Libya turned her big eyes up to him. A single teardrop glistened in one of them.
“Then why did your hand tremble?” He cocked his head.
“It didn’t tremble.”
Gwen had once said that Libya didn’t like the touch of any man because of the abuse she received as infamia. Gwen had been right about Consul Julius, Marcellus’ betrayal, the ill-conceived idea of trying an arranged marriage. Gwen couldn’t be right about this.
If Gwen spoke the truth about this, the last months of agonizing self-restraint would start looking pleasant compared to what he had coming.
No, Gwen had miscalculated. Libya had initiated a kiss with him last night.
He circled his arms around her. Was it possible Libya didn’t like his touch? Surely not. She’d kissed him before, passionately kissed him. Then again, in her past life, she surely learned to act a part.
“Libya.” He traced her ear. Her hair invited him to run his fingers through it. Every curve of her body beckoned. Tomorrow, they’d join their lives together, removing all moral obstacles. But if she didn’t like it....
Her chest rose in a breath.
“Do you like when I do this?” He kissed her and lost himself in the loveliness of starlit skies.
“Of course.” She touched his arm, but something glimmered in her eyes.
Yesterday afternoon, Gwen had said girls lie. No, Libya spoke the truth. Or did she lie?
The bushes rustled. The porter coughed. “Your neighbor Aedile Servilii, here to see you, dominus.”
Aedile Servilii’s round face flamed a sweaty red as he puffed. He clenched the collar of Horus’ tunic with one hand, his other fisted. “Is this your slave, Tribune Paterculi?”
Smoke tinged Horus’ ruffled hair, soot on his hands. Wryn groaned and stood. “No, he’s my son.”
“He set my stable afire. Five hundred denarii worth of damage done.” The Aedile puckered puffy eyes as his hand dropped from Horus. “I didn’t know you had a son.”
“Now you know.” Wryn glared at Horus. Aedile Servilii wouldn’t need compensation. Horus would build that stable from the grounds up.
Horus skipped forward and grabbed Libya’s hand. “I always told you Wryn was my father.”
Wryn fixed a severe stare on him. “You burnt down a stable.”
“I wasn’t trying to burn it. I just put flax on the fire, and it all flamed up. I tried to stop it.”
“Why were you building a fire in the Aedile’s yard?” Wryn raised one skeptical eyebrow.
Horus pursed his lips. “My ball went over the wall. I climbed after it.”
Aedile Servilli coughed. “In all fairness to your s
on, a servant was tending a burn of leaves outside my stables and stepped away. It may have been an accident.”
Wryn narrowed his gaze as he looked at Horus. “I don’t care if it was an accident. You’re still rebuilding that entire stable.”
Horus’ brow puckered. “Some of the boards are enormous. And I don’t know how to hammer. You’ll help me?”
“Yes.” There went a month of garrison leave. Who needed peaceful weeks touring Alexandria and relishing the Grecian coast anyway?
“Oh, good.” Horus grinned.
“I’d not smile if I were you.” Wryn stared down at him. “It’ll be dreadfully unpleasant for you.”
With a hop, Horus grabbed his hand. He tilted his little eyes up, that smile tugging at his lips yet. “Yes, father.”
Pride surged through Wryn’s veins. In not too many years, he’d bring Horus to the Senate floor, show his son the lay of towns, introduce him to magistrates. This month, he’d take Horus on a tour of the garrison.
“Can we start tomorrow?” Horus yanked on his arm hard enough to dislocate joints. “I found a hammer in the tool shed. I hit the cook with it, but I promise I won’t do that again. Please.”
“No, son. Tomorrow, I’m marrying your mother.” He slid his arm around Libya’s molded waist.
A stricken look flashed across her face, then vanished into the most devastating smile.
Why?
Victor strode into the bedchamber. “Here, your certificate of divorce.”
Iulia looked up from the child in her arms.
“I’ll return your full dowry by the end of the month.” Victor gestured over the room. “Pack your things and leave.”
“No. You don’t want to do this!” Iulia leaped up, the child clenched to her chest.
“Obviously, my seed can sire sons. Now I just need a wife capable of bearing one.”
Iulia burst into tears. “When will I see the children? My father’s villa is a week’s journey. The babe suckles yet.”
“Is your distress to be separated from me or my children?” He ran his gaze over her. Her brown hair tugged free of its pins as desperation swept across her face.
“The children, you dolt. Any love I had for you died many mistresses ago. Please at least let me visit them often!”
He looked over at the girls playing with dolls across the room.
“I’ll never have another child. Please!” Iulia grabbed his hand.
The children were his. The divorce gave him full power to keep them from her.
The woman bawled, sobs wracking her body.
“You can take them with you. They’re just girls anyway.”
Chapter 36
Libya paced her room another time. The sound of festive First Day members rose loud in the courtyard outside. Today, she’d gain Wryn and all that entailed — his thoughts, his laugh, his soul, his touch.
A knock sounded on the doorframe. Gwen burst through. She held up a flame-colored veil. “It was my father’s mother’s. I didn’t get to wear it myself, more’s the pity. It’s yours if you wish it.”
Libya slid her fingers over the lovely cloth. So costly, so exquisite, like Wryn and all he offered her.
“Here, let me help you.” Moving behind Libya, Gwen took up her hair. “I even brought the traditional point of the spear to make the seven braids of a bride.”
A bride. Libya’s breath caught. She was a bride. Not a slave, but a bride. Better than that, Wryn’s bride.
Gwen, a patrician, raised the wooden comb.
Libya fell back, drawing her arms in. “You needn’t.”
“Foolish talk.” Gwen smiled and started plaiting the first braid on the top of her head. “I’m foisting my impossible brother on you. It’s the least I can do.”
Under Gwen’s deft fingers, the braids formed quickly. Gwen pinned up one after another, circling them around her head. Libya felt even her heart smile. Her hair bound up for the first time in ten years? Her, a woman of infamia, a bride? Her, not Aulia, to share Wryn’s life with him?
It passed belief. Yet, it was true. Her heart skipped beats as laughter rose within her.
“I don’t suppose Wryn provided you with the white tunica recta or the woolen belt with which to tie the knot of Hercules?”
“Is that what those are?” Libya pointed to the bed. Wryn had handed them to her last night. His eyes always had a light in them. Now she could talk to him anytime she wished, build fires by the Tiber any time they desired, marvel at the beauty of the stars together.
“Impressive.” Gwen clicked her tongue. “One would almost think he’s developing a sense that not all life is martial politics. I can help you tie it.”
“Tie what?” Libya slipped the spotless cloth over her head, and the white fabric fell around her, so light against her skin.
Taking up the sash, Gwen handed it to her. “The knot of Hercules. Only the bridegroom is allowed to untie it.”
So many times before men had unfastened her belt. The sensations swirled around her, men’s hands, men’s bodies slick against every part of her as their coarse hair dug into her skin. Numbness spread through Libya’s fingers, up her arm, across her chest.
“It’s supposed to symbolize fertility as legend holds that Hercules sired seventy children. As if any woman would even desire to be with child seventy times. Here, wrap it around.”
Libya tried to banish the sensations as she pulled the fabric around her, but they still crawled across her skin. Gwen looped the knot and yanked it tight. Libya fingered the knot, which all too soon would loosen under Wryn’s fingers bringing back each of those memories she never wished to remember again.
She loved him, but that wouldn’t make the memories stop when he did what a thousand men had done before him.
She forced her pounding heart to slow. The act itself would end swiftly, then the memories would cease, and she could speak of poetry and laugh by moonlight as she lingered in his arms.
Until he wished to bare her nakedness again.
Not thinking about this!
Libya settled the flame-colored veil around her hair. The sound of lyres rose outside the window, mixing with tambourines and voices in the Paterculi courtyard.
Libya slowly parted the curtain. An array of festive-clothed people from First Day service scattered across the closed courtyard.
No betrothal papers lay on the courtyard bench. No Roman authority would recognize this “marriage.” The sun streamed down on her from above, bathing her with light from heaven. She was fairly certain Christus recognized it.
Horus bounded up. “Mama, look, I shot a dormouse with my bow.” He held up a creature’s limp body. Libya wrinkled her nose.
Gwen grabbed him. “How would you like to spend the night at my house? Alena and I are making honey cakes this afternoon.”
“Yes. Please, Mama!” Horus dropped his bloody arrow.
Libya nodded. Gathering up her white tunica, she stepped into the sea of people. They parted, smiles on every face, whispered congratulations and words of praise half-covered by the sound of music. Never, in all her life, had this many people accepted her.
The people parted further. In front of them, his gaze on her, stood the man who adopted her son, gave her all this, and looked into her soul without finding it wanting. The flute notes rose high as she walked to him. Placing her hands in his, she smiled at him.
Wryn closed his hands over her. “I’m sorry there’s no betrothal ceremony.”
She looked up at him. His dark hair cut across his strong forehead, his eyebrows arching over his slightly crooked nose. He was hers, no sharing, no leaving, no infamia. She clasped her hands tighter around his. “You needn’t be.” Her veil swished over her bound hair as she glanced out to the lovely music and the smiling people who hailed her as a bride. “This is more than I ever could have imagined.”
“No, I mean, I’m sorry. Because there’s a kiss in the betrothal ceremony and absolutely none in this wretched wedding ceremony.” He grinn
ed at her.
A kiss? She dropped her hand to the knot of Hercules. She scraped her fingernail against the soft wool. When would he unfasten it? Within the hour most likely, since that’s what men always wanted from her.
She loved him. Surely, he should know that one didn’t do this with the person one loved? One didn’t use a person one loved for passion and lust. No, one spoke of poetry on moonlit nights.
A glance into his eyes showed he didn’t see it that way in the slightest. If only she could enjoy what was to come like other women, see in it the mystery of “a man with a maiden”, not the dirtiness of a soiled harlot.
Ah well, she was getting the man she desperately wanted.
“Here’s the wedding bread, baked to symbolize your union.” A church elder extended a loaf of bread to Wryn.
The soft crust crumbled between Wryn’s hands.
“I see no ring on the lady’s hand. Do you have a betrothal band?” The elder smiled.
Wryn pulled something out of the pouch on his belt. Unlike the traditional betrothal band made of iron, the glint of gold shimmered in the sunlight. “Since Rome chose not to recognize our betrothal, I thought we could spurn some of its traditions too.” He smiled at her as he slipped it on her left-hand finger.
Her breath caught. Gold. On her finger.
A paternal smile stretched the elder’s weathered lips. “Since we’re confusing the ceremonies anyway, what about a kiss that seals a betrothal?”
“Oh, praise heaven.” Wryn reached for her.
Gaze on him, she waited for his kiss. What kind would it be? The discreet but firm brush of lip on lip, asserting possession, such as he’d given her at Ostia taverns? The passionate press of his mouth over hers, like in that stable, where he took what she had to give? Either way, the kiss would take her back ten years to memories that she longed to sink into oblivion.
Wryn wrapped his arm around her, his hand just touching her shoulder blades, so light. He caressed his other hand above her chin, brushing over the star-shaped mark on her cheek.
Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4 Page 36