The Patrician

by Joan Kayse

  All too soon he released her and glanced out into the crowded street. Bryna ran her tongue over her swollen lips already missing the heat of his touch. A few young warriors, barely into their adolescence had stolen kisses from her before, but they had been tentative and filled with naiveté.

  Jared’s kiss was searing.

  “It’s safe now,” he said, pushing away from the wall.

  Bryna blinked. “What?”

  “The Roman soldiers, they’re gone.” He adjusted the veil back into place. “We were attracting a little too much attention. When they started over here, all they saw were two lovers making up after a quarrel.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or to just satisfy both feelings and slap him. Of course he wouldn’t kiss her of his own accord. She was nothing more than a barbarian, a slave—a foolish, stupid slave.

  Well, she’d not make that mistake again. Oblivious to her dark mood, Jared picked up the discarded provisions sack. He swayed and stumbled reaching out to steady himself against the wall.

  She crossed her arms and stared out into the street setting her jaw against her anger. It was nothing less than what he deserved. He would just have to walk on his injured leg unassisted, there’d be no more help from her. Behind her, Jared groaned. Bryna rolled her eyes, prepared to meet his next directive with a curt refusal.

  Silence.

  She turned in time to see him slump to the ground. Bryna crouched beside him and touched his arm. It was like touching an ember. How had she not noticed his fever when they’d kissed? A fine sheen of perspiration coated his upper lip and his color had gone ashen. She wiped his face with the edge of her veil. “Jared, can you hear me?”

  He mumbled incoherent words, his eyes fluttered open, glazed and bright with fever. He didn’t seem to recognize her.

  Gods, the infection had festered and was coursing through his blood. She had to find help. But from where? They were strangers. No worse, they were fugitives. Did this town have healers? She studied Jared’s drawn features. One thing was certain, if he did not receive attention soon, the poison spreading through his body would kill him. Her heart stuttered.

  “Is your friend drunk?”

  Bryna jumped. A stooped, balding man stood across the alley at the entrance to the marketplace. He studied them through small, black eyes that were nearly lost in a sea of wrinkles.

  “No, he is ill,” she answered. She turned away praying he would leave. Instead he walked up beside them.

  The old man raised one bushy gray brow. “That’s what my daughter used to say about her no-good husband.” He spit into the dirt. “Denied it up till the day the sot ran off with a dancing girl—and all their coin. Told her from the minute she brought him home he was scum. Worked myself near to death giving her a dowry like I was a rich patrician or something.”

  Bryna did not care to hear about his daughter and her problems. She had plenty of her own. “My—f” She cringed inwardly. “—husband is ill. He has a wound that has festered and I fear poison is spreading in his blood.”

  She shifted protectively over Jared as the old man shuffled closer, squinted at the angry gash on Jared’s thigh. “Yea, I’d say it was festered. You need a physician.”

  Bryna dabbed at Jared’s brow with her veil. “We have no coin for a healer.”

  The old man scratched his head. “You’re not from this town?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “Not from Italia?”

  Again she shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. It would only be a matter of moments before the elder raised the cry and brought the authorities down on their heads.

  “Well, there is only one thing to do.”

  Bryna inched her hand around Jared’s waist until she felt the hilt of his knife. Keeping her gaze trained on the man, she slid the blade free of the sheath. Oh gods, she didn’t know if she could kill another human being. But she would not be returned to slavery, she would not let Jared be sent back.

  “You’ll have to come home with me, where he can be tended.”

  She scooted out of the way, rising to her feet while hiding the knife in the folds of her skirt. Astonished, she watched the old man take Jared by the arm and hoist him to his feet.

  “Come along, young fellow, my back’s not as strong as it used to be but your pretty little wife here can’t be dragging your carcass around.”

  Jared groaned again, the sound full of pain. She slipped the knife into one of the sacks and shouldering both, took Jared’s other arm, pushing away the thought of how angry he would be when he awakened. Bryna swallowed. If he awakened.

  ***

  Someone was using a mallet on his skull, he was convinced of it. Jared opened his eyes by fractions, adjusted to the increased pounding in his head with each effort. Every muscle in his body throbbed with the exception of his left thigh, which felt as though someone were laying a hot iron to it.

  “Well, I’ll be Jupiter. You are alive.”

  He forced his eyes open, searched for the source of the scratchy voice. He found a shriveled little man, surely the reincarnation of Methuselah himself, sitting on a low stool near the foot of the bed watching him.

  Jared licked his lips. His tongue was coated, felt like something had died inside his mouth. “What. . . happened?” he croaked. “Where am I?”

  The old man graced him with a toothless grin. “One answer at a time. First, you very nearly died thanks to that cut on your leg. It poisoned your body.” He waggled a finger at Jared. “If I were you, I’d think twice from now on before challenging a donkey to a contest of wits. It’s easy to see who was the smarter of the two.”

  Jared lifted a brow, winced at the pain it sent streaking across his face.

  “As to where you are, you are a guest in my home.” The old man inclined his head. “Cicero, the baker—not the scholar.”

  He rubbed his hand over his aching eyes. A fever? That explained why he felt as though he’d been tossed off a cliff. He glanced down at his thigh. The gash was still red but free of pus and nearly healed. The last he recalled he had been kissing Bryna. No, not kissing, savoring the taste of her. Gods, where was the fiery barbarian? Cicero prattled on about the benefits of having a famous name, frowning when Jared interrupted, “The girl I was with, where is she?”

  Cicero’s expression softened. “Ah yes, Bryna. Wonderful girl, lovely girl, if not a bit odd for being from Alexandria. She is well.” He sighed. “Stayed by your side the better part of three days. Refused to let anyone else tend you. You are a most fortunate man to have a wife such as she.”

  Had he heard right? Had Cicero called Bryna his wife? Before he could wrap his thoughts around the ludicrousness of such a thing, his spouse walked through the door.

  Jared watched, incredulous, as her eyes filled with relief when she saw he was awake. She set down the shallow basket she carried and crossed over to the bed. She acted as though she would touch him then hesitated, glancing nervously at Cicero who was oblivious to her uncertainty.

  “You’re awake. I’m glad.” she said softly.

  He took a mental inventory of her from head to toe. She looked well enough. She had filled out a bit in the way one does when eating with regularity. It suited her, accentuated natural curves that he found very appealing. He reached out his hand and took hers. “As am I—wife.”

  She paled at that but kept her gaze on his as she clasped his hand. Jared hid his amusement at the fire that lit her emerald eyes when he refused to let go, instead watched it brighten as he stroked his thumb along the tender area of her delicate wrist. The contrast of his callused hand against her soft skin delighted him, caused him to imagine what the rest of her might feel like.

  Cicero chuckled and stood up. “Time to leave you two alone. So many days apart is not good for a marriage.”

  Jared allowed Bryna to pull free from his hold, watched the sway of her hips as she walked the old man to the door. The simple, white linen dress she wore fit her in all the right
ways men enjoyed, but that wasn’t all that held Jared’s attention. There was a difference in the little barbarian. Instead of defiant pride, she moved with a confidence he’d not noted before, shoulders squared, head held high as if she were well in control of her life. He found the sense of strength very attractive. “Was I so completely devoid of my wits that I missed my own wedding?”

  The slanted look she sent him was one of pure annoyance. “Oh, you’ve been lacking your proper wits ever since I met you.”

  It was a relief to know that her spirit had not been crushed.

  Bryna returned to his bedside, efficient and trying to keep herself distant as she probed the tender flesh around his wound easing her touch when he grimaced. “It was the only explanation that seemed believable at the time.” She shrugged. “At least Cicero and his daughter believed it.” She gave him a solemn look. “I had to risk it. You would have died without their help.”

  Did she really know how much of a risk? A reward offered by Gaius for the return of his property would go a long way to easing the life of these simple folk. A single word to one of the soldiers in the town’s forum would have them back in chains in the beat of a heart.

  Still, she could have left him for dead and struck out on her own.

  “It was a risk, but. . .” Jared shifted his aching body into a more comfortable position. “. . .no more so than challenging a donkey to a match of wits.”

  An odd sensation stirred in his chest at the sound of Bryna’s laugh. Her whole demeanor changed. For the briefest of moments her features relaxed, enhanced an already beautiful face into one fit for a goddess. She sobered under the stern glare he tried to maintain, though the edges of her mouth still twitched.

  He rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “Now that I am recovered, we can continue our journey.”

  She pulled a thin covering over him, her fingers brushing lightly across the crisp hair of his chest, causing his breath to hitch. The gentle gesture stirred him almost as much as one of lust.

  “You are far from well. It will be several more days before you gain the strength to be out of bed, much less traipsing around the countryside.”

  Jared pushed himself up on his elbows. If she touched him like that again, she’d see how well he was. “Nonsense, I’m fully capable. I—” The words died in his throat as the room began to spin around, throwing him back onto the pallet. He gripped his head with both hands, breathed a sigh of relief that it was still attached. Making a tsking sound, Bryna pressed a cup to his lips and he drank deeply of the cool water. She did a very poor job of concealing her self-satisfaction.

  “Damn rock,” he grumbled.

  She smiled again, set the cup aside. “Cicero and his daughter Aea have said we may stay until you are recovered.”

  A noise somewhere between a groan and a growl rose out of his throat. The longer they delayed, the greater the danger. The old man had said they’d been there seven days, plenty of time for Baal to catch up with them. “We have no way to pay for the lodgings.”

  She sent him a look of pure frustration. “There are people, even in this Roman world, who offer their hospitality without cost. But, if it eases your mind, I am repaying their kindness by helping Aea in her bake shop.”

  Well that settled it in his mind—the witch was mad, completely insane. He managed to raise up again without losing consciousness and looked her in the eye. “It would only take one customer wondering where this Aea found a red haired girl that fits the description of a runaway slave to bring a quick end to our freedom.”

  Anger sparked her eyes to green fire. “I am not ignorant. I work in the back, out of sight grinding the flour for her breads and sweets.” She stood and moved away from him, self- consciously rubbing her reddened hands. Fatigue laced her voice. “I am quite good at it, you know. Our master was very fond of bread.”

  Regret quickly replaced Jared’s agitation. While he had lain abed, she had been working so that they might have shelter and food. Before he could figure out how to apologize without admitting guilt, she placed the cup of water within his reach and headed for the entry. “I’ll return with food when Aea closes for the day.”

  “Bryna, I...” But it was too late. She disappeared through the doorway before she’d realized he’d called her by name. He slammed his head back against the pallet, barely noticing the reverberating pain in his head, wondering if the donkey had not indeed been the winner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jared propped his head on his hand watching Bryna as she washed away the grime of the workday. Like a graceful Persian dancer, she dipped a cloth into a basin, sluiced water down her arms. It was a very tempting sight, worsened when a good measure of the water soaked the front of her dress causing the material to mold to her breasts. He gritted his teeth as he felt his shaft tighten. Again.

  Stifling a groan he rolled onto his back, laced his hands behind his head and stared—for the hundredth time that day—at the crumbling plaster of the ceiling.

  In five days’ time he had gained considerable strength, though the illness had left him much weaker than he wanted to admit. Bryna had brought his meals, even feeding him those first days when holding a bowl had proven a task beyond his capability. He had grumbled and complained and even threatened her, but she had blithely ignored all of it, patiently spooning the nourishing broth between his lips. That her tender ministrations stirred other feelings within him only worsened his temper.

  It was only after she had extracted a promise from him to stay abed, that Bryna had returned to the bake shop—and he promptly tried to get up. It was Cicero who found him on his knees clinging to the pallet. Muttering under his breath something about donkeys, Cicero helped him to stand—and then to take a few steps. After that, the old man came every day providing a sturdy support until he could make the circuit of the tiny room on his own power.

  Being confined to the room was driving him mad. Jared glanced at Bryna, recalling the time she had spent locked in Coeus’ dank, dark room. How in the world had she endured it? How had she come out of it with her spirit intact?

  Evidence of just how intact had come from Cicero. The old baker told him during one of their afternoon sessions that the physician his daughter Aea had insisted on calling for, had offered only one solution for his infected leg—amputation. Bryna, Cicero related with a touch of pride, had stood between the affronted practitioner and Jared, refusing such an option and insisting the wound be drained and cleansed. When the physician balked, she invited him to leave and to take all his Roman notions with him. Then Cicero related she’d spent two solid days bathing his fevered body, applying poultices to draw out the poison.

  Jared took a deep breath. He had vague impressions of a soft, cool hand caressing his heated skin. He flexed his healing leg. For once he was thankful for the little barbarian’s stubbornness.

  Shifting his gaze back in her direction, he watched her rub the wet cloth along her neck, leaving damp tendrils of hair clinging to the flushed skin at her nape. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip and the memory of her sweet taste washed over him.

  “Are you not feeling well?”

  He blinked once as his sense snapped back into place. Damn, she was doing it again.

  “Perhaps the fever is returning,” she said, walking over to stand next to him.

  He brushed her hand away before she could touch his forehead. “I’m fine,” he said gruffly.

  A look of hurt flashed behind her eyes before turning cool. “Aye, I can see that. Your sun filled disposition has returned in full force.” She spun away from him.

  Jared shrugged off her retort, watched her gather her bath items. He’d had a lot of time to think during his confinement. Of all the pieces of the puzzle his life had become, the barbarian girl was proving the most difficult to understand. “Bryna, I have a question.”

  She gave him a wary glance over her shoulder, drained the water from the basin. “What would you know?”

  “How were you enslaved?”<
br />
  Her hands stilled from the drying of the bowl. “In much the same way you were. Through treachery.”

  Treachery, he reminded himself, in which she had been involved. “What happened?” he prodded.

  She stacked the bowls beside the doorway, seemed to consider. “My brother and his trading party were deceived by men from the place you Romans call Britannia. Instead of trading fairly for the bronze and gold jewelry my brother offered, they attacked his party, stole the jewelry then made more profit by selling everyone in Bran’s party to the Romans.”

  “And you were a member of this party?”

  “No,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “I was the cause of them being captured.”

  She turned and met his gaze. The retort that she seemed to have a knack for leading people into slavery died in his throat at the anguish that filled her eyes. “How were you responsible?”

  Bryna wiped the inner corner of her eye and cleared her throat. “I experienced a vision about one of my brother’s friends. When I tried to warn the man about the injury I foresaw, he and the rest of Bran’s friends mocked me.” She shrugged. “That was not so unusual. I was used to their ridicule and Bran always defended me. But this time he pulled me aside, admonished me, saying I should give up such foolishness.”

  Siblings, Jared supposed, could be very fractious. At least Damon had always complained of such. “He did not believe you?”

  She replied in a firm voice. “Bran believed me. Our mother has the sight as did her mother before her.”

  At the mention of her mother, she squeezed her eyes shut and drew a deep breath. When she opened them, they were dry. “There were those among my own clan who did not believe in ways as old as our people and would jump at any opportunity to cause trouble. Especially for the heir of the chieftain. What better way than to label his sister a witch?”