The Patrician

by Joan Kayse

  He stared at him. “Yes, wife.”

  Bran studied him for a long time. Then with a curt word to the servant, turned and walked into the house.

  The servant bade Jared to follow. He stepped through the open doorway into a small atrium. It was plainly built. The only adornments were cracked bowls filled with plants, the scent of their flowering blooms a sharp contrast to the sour stench of the outer street. From the corner of his eye, he saw three young children peeping at him from behind a column.

  Bran barked at the one armed man and received a reproving look before the servant turned and bowed to Jared. “I am Menw, steward to Bran the son of a great chieftain—”

  “I care not for titles. I want Bryna.”

  Menw continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “—and renowned warrior of Eire. My master offers you his hospitality.”

  Hospitality? A moment ago, the man had been ready to gut him on the doorstep. He glanced at Bran who stood behind Menw, his expression completely impassive. He was having trouble reconciling the brother Bryna adored with the fierce gladiator Albion. “Just bring Bryna here...”

  Menw held up his one hand, cutting him off. “In the land of Eire, to refuse hospitality is to offend. I strongly advise that you accept what my master offers.”

  He crossed his own arms in a show of defiance. He didn’t have time to play such games. He wanted his wife—now—and neither this goliath or his skinny servant would put him off.

  Menw leaned toward him and spoke from the side of his mouth. “Sir, Bryna and her brother have only been reunited a short time.”

  The man had a point. Bryna must have been ecstatic to find her brother. If he fought the man now, injured him, she would never forgive him. His acquiesce came out in a low growl. Jared swore he heard Menw chuckle.

  There could not be more than four rooms to the tiny duplex. A stairway of chipped stone gave access to the upper floor. He scanned the small corridor. Bryna was up there somewhere and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to bolt up the steps to find her.

  Menw led the way through another doorway into a small dining area. There were no couches to recline upon, only a roughhewn table and benches. Bran straddled one, indicating that Jared should do the same. Menw stood behind Bran.

  From the shadows, a young girl no older than twelve appeared. She looked anxiously between the two men. Bran’s hard gaze softened briefly when she set a platter with cheese and fruit on the table. The girl sent the gladiator a pleased smile, which turned to a grimace as a boy several years younger scurried up with two bronze goblets. The vessels clattered nosily as he reached up to set them on the table.

  The barest hint of a smile played across Bran’s lips. He nodded his approval as a third youngster, another boy well into his adolescence, brought out a jar of wine. Eyeing Jared with a look of pure mistrust, the boy all but snarled as he filled the cups. Bran bit out a single word. The boy straightened, schooled his features free of belligerence. Menw waved the three children away. How could Bryna’s brother have three children when he’d only been a slave in Alexandria little more than a year?

  “Bryna never told me her brother had children.”

  Menw offered him the cheese, saying curtly, “They are under his care.”

  Bran took a sip of his wine. “My sister. She did not tell me she has husband,” he said in fragmented Greek. “Why?”

  Jared took a sip of the wine, appreciated the sweet, mellow taste and considered his answer. “We met under unusual circumstances.”

  A dark cloud fell over Bran’s face. “Were you...” He spoke to Menw who whispered in his ear. “...master?”

  A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I don’t think there is a man alive who could master Bryna,” answered Jared.

  Bran looked to Menw who chuckled behind his hand. The servant quickly translated. Bran’s stern features lightened for a moment then he nodded in agreement.

  “It has always been so. My sister knows not how to hold her tongue. I worried much about her when we were captured.” His brow furrowed. “Are you the slave who helped her to escape?”

  Bran was nothing if not persistent and, Jared imagined, as volatile in temperament as his sibling. He could fabricate some tale and try to convince him Bryna had married him willingly.

  Bran’s harsh countenance convinced him that it would be useless.

  “Bryna was used for her clairvoyant talents in a plot to ruin me. As a result I was kidnapped and sold into slavery. We were sold to the same rural estate to the same master. When I found the chance to flee the one who called me slave, I took Bryna with me.” He omitted the fact that they had been fettered and she had had no choice in the matter. “In an effort to disguise our circumstances, we. . . were married,” he explained.

  Bran seemed to be sorting through that information. He pinned Jared with jade hard eyes. “So your joining was not legitimate? It was a ploy?”

  Jared tightened his lips. “Our marriage is binding under the laws of my faith. Bryna is my wife.”

  Bran rolled his empty cup around in his hand. Jared waited impatiently. Being a barbarian—every inch the barbarian—he would agree that a wife belongs with her husband. It was the way of things in all societies.

  That thought soured in Jared’s mind. Once, he too, had thought along those lines, the lines of ownership rather than relationship. But Bryna had changed that in him. A wife did belong with her husband but of her own free will.

  His eyes widened imperceptibly as that realization settled into his soul. There was no doubt he could force Bryna back to his side. The laws of Rome, the laws of Alexandrian society, probably even the laws of her barbarian world would be on his side. But at what cost? To spend the rest of his life seeing his own perfidy reflected in her eyes?

  Life for Bryna would be unbearable. And that was something that Jared could not bear.

  Jared leaned back in his chair, his shoulders squared. Bran matched his posture, a wary light in his verdant gaze. Bryna’s brother was preparing for battle.

  “I am a man of some means. A merchant by trade,” he told Bran. “I can give her rich clothes, a fine house. She will hunger no more, nor raise a hand to labor for that which is not her own.” Bran remained unmoved. Jared rubbed his palms on his thighs. The words were so difficult to speak aloud. He shifted his gaze first to Menw then locked with Bran’s. “By law, Bryna is my wife but she is also my heart.”

  Bran arched a black brow. After a long moment he spoke. “Menw, bring my sister here.”

  The servant nodded, glancing curiously at Jared as he left the room. Jared couldn’t be sure, but he thought he’d seen approval in the old servant’s eye.Jared slid his gaze back to Bran.

  “Understand one thing, Roman,” Bran said, ominously, “I will not force my sister into any arrangement, sanctioned by your gods or not. In my land, a woman has equal say in continuing a marriage.” He leaned forward, his green eyes glittering. “I have killed so that I would see my sister free. I will do no less to see her happy.”

  Jared inclined his head in understanding. “Then we want the same thing.” From outside the room, Jared heard Bryna approaching. She spoke with the servant in their native language.

  When she came into view, Jared’s heart swelled. Her hair fell in waves down her back. The sweet dulcet sound of her voice sent waves of longing over him so that he felt as though he might drown. Then she saw him and all color fled from her cheeks.

  Somehow, he managed to keep his seat. He itched to hold her, although the line between the urge to throttle her or clasp her close was thin indeed.

  “Menw...” The words died on Bryna’s lips at the sight of her brother and husband sitting opposite each other at the table, both wearing thunderous looks. The combined energy of their emotions jabbed at her causing her to feel as though she were being pierced through.

  She felt as though her heart had stopped and had to will herself to take another breath. She drank in the sight of him— the thick length of bl
ack hair tied at his nape, the hard line of his jaw, his full, sensual lips drawn tightly together. He had come for her, and in his eyes she saw anger and worry. His hurt came to her intuitively, causing the vise around her heart to tighten.

  “Jared.” The word came out in a choked whisper.

  “This man says he is your husband,” Bran said without preamble. “Does he speak the truth?”

  Bryna felt Bran’s eyes on her, but could not drag her gaze from Jared. “No.” Jared’s eyes darkened. “I mean yes...” she stammered. The urge to run overwhelmed her but Menw had positioned himself behind her, blocking the exit.

  Bran’s hand fisted around the goblet, anger evident in the controlled tempo of his words. “And you did not think it important to tell me you have hand-fasted with one of them?”She managed to drag her gaze away from Jared to meet her brother’s stern expression. “It is not as simple as that, Bran.”

  “Did you marry this man? Did you speak words to bind you?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, “but there was no choice in the matter.” Her gaze softened as she looked at Jared. “For either of us.”

  “I would speak to Bryna,” Jared interjected. “Alone.”

  Bryna opened her mouth to refuse, but Bran stopped her with an upheld hand. “The garden is private, yet open enough that I may hear if Bryna has need of me. After you have spoken, then will I give you my decision.”

  Bryna bit back a retort and stalked out ahead of Jared. She would make her own decisions, had already made this one.

  In the courtyard, she turned around, intent on giving Jared a tongue lashing and instead bumped into his hard, muscled chest. He circled his arms around her. Bryna closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar musk and spice scent of him. She would remember it in the lonely years to come. She would. Hot tears stung her eyes and she averted her gaze from the wounded hurt in his. “Why did you come here, Jared?”

  “I came to bring you home,” he said simply, though there was that edge to his voice indicating he would accept no other alternative.

  “I am home,” she replied, crossing her arms, more to calm her trembling than to intimidate Jared. “Or will be. I have found my brother and soon we will return to Eire, where we belong.”

  “We are bound by vows. Vows taken before witnesses.”

  “Witnesses who were either drunk or eager to collect the reward for the capture of two runaway slaves,” she countered.

  “Vows before God,” he bit back.

  “A god that I do not know and you hold no faith in,” she retorted.

  His constraint was evident in the whitening of the crescent shaped scar on his temple. “I have always believed in a God. I just never believed He cared about the life and happiness of a societal mistake.” He gripped the soft flesh of her arms, the heat from his hands spreading through her whole body. Touch was the only weapon she could not fight. She thought to wrench herself free, but then he would learn just how weak she was.

  “My whole life has been one of lost faith, of unbelief in anything or anyone. No one cared for me. My mother died, leaving me alone to deal with the turmoil of my heritage. My father turned his back to me, no matter that it was grief that did the turning. The Romans looked down on me, the Hebrews pitied me. My own mind called me victim at every turn. The only person I could rely on was myself and even that proved a poor choice when I fell into the trap of betrayal.”

  “A trap I sent you to,” she reminded him.

  His grip gentled, his eyes filled with regret. “I blamed you, yes, but it was a false blame. How quickly I learned the lack of choices given a slave.”

  Bryna couldn’t stand it another minute. She pushed herself away, walked to the opposite side of the small pool to put distance between them. “You speak of choices. I lost any choice, any say in my life the day Bran and my kinsmen were captured because of my carelessness.” She took a deep breath, forced herself to meet his gaze. “I had no choice in using my gift for Coeus’ profit, none in being sold to Gaius’ villa, and certainly no alternative except to risk escape when you ran.” She paced the small area, her agitation growing. “I surely had no choice when we wed.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him with a raised hand. “I know. I understand that it was my foolish decision to leave Cicero’s that put us in that taverna. I accept that responsibility. But again, I had no choice.” Just as she’d had no choice in losing her heart to him. She grabbed onto her temper and all the injustices of the past to keep from saying so now. “But in this, Jared, I have a choice.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked tersely.

  Bryna steeled herself against the pain in his voice. “When we left Rome you promised that if I found my brother, you would not stop me from leaving. My brother is found. And he needs me.”

  The very air in the courtyard seemed to come to a standstill. Bryna’s heartbeat thrummed in her ears, beating so hard that she knew the sound of it bursting with sorrow would bring Bran running.

  Jared stared at her in disbelief. “I need you, Bryna.” he said, his voice so low, so full of pain that she thought she would shatter where she stood.

  Elizabeth’s words echoed in her mind. He will be ruined with you by his side. She shook her head, ignored the blurring of tears that stung her eyes. She would not be the cause of this ruin. “Your family, your business all that is familiar to you is here, in this Roman world. I do not belong here.” She put a hand to her stomach, trying without success to ease the ache in her gut. “I will always remember you.”

  Jared seemed to have turned to stone, the expression on his face as cold and hard as the first time she had seen him. “If you can toss aside all that we have been through, turn your back on the things we have shared then go. I’ll not stop you.”

  He had to walk past her to leave. Bryna kept her eyes down, willed herself not to run after him. He paused beside her, saying without looking at her, “For once I had come to believe that there were good things in this world. I should have known better.”

  She listened as he walked down the short corridor, the creaking as the door slammed shut echoed in her soul. She slid to her knees, grief doubling her over.

  What had she done?

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Bran sat on the bottom step of the crumbling staircase, his elbows propped on his knees and watched his sister. She sat next to the small atrium pool, swirling the water with her finger, over and over in a listless pattern that never changed. Seneschals and poets often lamented the loss of sanity caused by a broken heart. Looking at Bryna, her features pinched and drawn, her color wan, he believed it.

  She had been withdrawn ever since the Roman had left his house two weeks past. She refused to speak about what had happened between them. Bran knew only what he had observed: the man Jared striding out of the courtyard leaving Bryna collapsed in wracking sobs. He had wanted to go after the bastard, give him a taste of his gladiator’s blade for causing her such pain, but Bryna had stopped him, telling him to let it be.

  And so he had. Even when he had seen the stricken look on her face when a handful of her husband’s servants had delivered three large chests filled with costly clothing, exquisite jewelry and a sack of gold coins. Tears clinging to her cheeks, she had rummaged through the costly silks and fine woolens, tossing them aside like they were sackcloth. Her tears had started anew when she found, wrapped in a piece of purple cloth, a silver pendant, etched with an odd looking star. She slipped it around her neck and there it remained still.

  In years past, Bran would have been able to reach her, lift her spirits with a well-placed jest, coax a smile, then a laugh, until her green eyes sparkled.

  Before slavery had robbed him of his life. He had survived, aye, he had, but at the cost of his spirit, his joy in living. Time and again he had killed so that he would live. Live so that he could rescue Bryna and take her home.

  Why did he feel she no longer needed to be saved?

  “She still does not speak?”

  Bran
brushed white dust off his hands, shifted his gaze to Menw. “Nay, only asks when we leave for home.”

  Menw shook his head sadly. “I hope tis soon. I fear her only hope of healing will come from the sweet feel of Eire beneath her feet. It will do us all well to be home.”

  Bran nodded absently, though he doubted even the beauty of Eire’s hills could cure the black rot of violence that streaked his soul. He took a deep breath. If Bryna had any chance of recovering from her grief, then he had to use every shred of control he had to keep the darkness at bay.

  She barely glanced at him as he sat down on the cracked pavement beside her. “Tis nice to have a breeze blowing today, though it is not cool and refreshing like those back home.”

  Bryna wiped her wet fingers against her skirt. “Aye, it is that. Where are the children?”

  “Menw has them helping him feed the chickens, a task that Linus believes to be beneath his dignity.” Bran scooped up a handful of pebbles, pouring them from one hand to the other.

  She managed a sad smile. “As I recall, when you were his age, it took every bit of persuasion on Father’s part to get you to do chores. It is a good thing, your taking them in. How long ago did their mother die?”

  “A few months,” he answered quietly. “She was a gladiatrix. She died in a spectacle staged for a visiting dignitary from Rome.” Bran avoided his sister’s probing gaze. There were some things even her sight should not see. Changing the subject he said without preamble, “You miss the Roman.”

  The smile slipped away. “No, Bran. My time with Jared is done. We...we could never have made a marriage, not a true marriage. Our worlds are too different. It is better for him and better for me that things are as they are.”

  Bran cradled her cheek with a calloused hand, held her gaze. Misery and desolation filled their depths. He bit down hard on his jaw. The extent to which he could divine the unseen was not near as developed as his sister’s, but he could not deny his possession of the gift, and the truth his touching had brought. Bryna was lying and hurting so deeply that the intensity of the pain shook his tenuous control. There was something else—he smiled to himself at the familiar stubbornness—she was resolved to deny her feelings.