by Joy Nash
Hot breath bathed his rod. She looked up at him, eyes glittering, the tips of her breasts just cresting the water. “Would you like this?” she murmured.
“Very much.”
Her mouth closed on him and all sense of time stopped. The bathing room faded. There was only Rhiannon, until he could bear it no more.
He grasped her shoulders and hauled her into his arms. Shining rivulets cascaded over her skin to fall like raindrops on the water’s surface. He pressed a kiss on her neck and eased her into the center of the pool where the water deepened. Her hair fanned out over the surface; her legs caged his hips. They were both slick with oil—one small movement and their bodies were joined. They moved slowly, in unison, seeking their deepest pleasure in the buoyant warmth. Flesh and bone, skin and water melded into one.
Then all thought fled. Somehow Lucius found the edge of the pool and anchored Rhiannon against it. He plunged faster, deeper, his chest sliding over her oiled breasts, his tongue ravaging her mouth. She made a soft mewling sound and he lifted his head to watch her passion. With her head flung back and her face a reflection of bliss, she seemed more than a mere woman. She was the nymph he’d once thought her to be. A goddess of the wild forest.
He worshiped her with his body, in the end offering his essence with each shudder of his heart until she broke in his arms like the fall of a thousand stars.
“I love you.”
Lucius’s whispered words fell on Rhiannon’s ears like a curse. She squeezed her eyes closed and endured the stroke of his hand on her bare shoulder and back. She lay sprawled on the narrow bed in her chamber, her cheek pillowed on her lover’s chest. Sunlight filtered through the closed shutters. It fell on the bed, warming her skin, but the brittle ice in her heart was beyond its touch. I love you. She’d never dared to hope to hear those words on his lips. If only she could give them back to him.
Lucius’s wandering hand had moved from her back to the long fall of her hair. He lifted the tresses, weighing them in his palm. Rhiannon imagined raising her head and looking into his dark eyes. The corners of his mouth would lift—first one side, then the other, in the crooked smile that she loved. The dimple that made him look like a lad would show in his cheek. He would kiss her gently at first, and then …
She burrowed her face further into his chest. If those things happened, her heart would overflow and she would return his words of love. She couldn’t allow that to happen. If it did, she would never find the courage to leave him.
“I love you,” he said again.
His voice wrapped around her and for a moment she felt dazed, as if caught in a dream. Then, with the care one would use to ease away from a mad dog, she raised herself from his chest.
She wouldn’t, couldn’t, look at him. “You cannot love me.”
“I can and I do. I want you as my wife.”
Dear Briga. Her gaze darted to his despite her resolve. He looked as surprised as she to hear his words. “You would take me to wife?”
His tone gentled. “Yes. If you’ll have me.”
“Oh, Lucius.”
He must have felt her withdrawal, for his arms tightened about her waist. “You returned to me when you might have fled. I thought …”
She disentangled herself from his arms and hugged her knees to her chest. “You would wed a slave?”
“You are no slave.”
“You named me so.”
“I was a fool to believe I could own you. I could more easily grasp the forest mist.” His expression grew serious. “It matters not how we first came together. No one in Rome need know you were once my captive.”
Rome.
“I’ll return there before winter.”
“To fill your father’s seat in the Senate.”
“Yes.” The prospect didn’t seem to please him.
“Do you wish to?”
He rose from the bed and paced to the window. “In truth? No. I spent a year as a magistrate after my first tour of military duty and found I preferred to face my enemies with a sword in my hand rather than words of flattery on my lips. When my term was finished, I left Rome to take command of my Legion.”
“Then why do this thing now?”
“Family honor demands I serve the people of Rome. I’ve prepared for that duty all my life.”
She tugged the blanket over herself. “Do many senators take barbarian wives?”
He laid one palm on the window frame. “It is not forbidden. I would ensure your welcome.”
She hesitated, then asked, “Is it me that you want, Lucius, or a respite from your brother’s ghost?”
He glanced at her, then away. “You claimed the words that would put Aulus’s soul to rest had to be spoken in the forest. You were there, yet you didn’t speak them.”
Her gaze faltered. “There wasn’t time.”
He contemplated the scene in the street below and weighed his words carefully. “If you can truly send him to the underworld, then do it.”
She rose, wrapping the blanket about her body. His hand dropped from the window as she took a step toward him. “I will send Aulus’s soul to its rest if you and Marcus travel south. You must leave on the morrow.” Before Madog lights the summer fires.
His voice hardened. “Without you?”
“Yes. You are in danger here.”
His gaze narrowed. “What do you know?”
“Trust me, Lucius. Please. For your son’s sake. More than that I cannot say.”
“You expect me to abandon my post at a woman’s word? No. I will stay until my replacement arrives. As will you.”
Anger sparked. “Then it matters little whether you call me slave or free.”
“Every woman must have a man for her master.”
She drew a sharp breath. “I do not. I have a home. A clan. A brother.”
He closed the distance between them with one swift stride. “A lover?”
If it would persuade Lucius to set her free … “Yes,” she said. “A lover. We will soon join hands as equals.”
“Equals.” He shook his head. “How can a man and a woman be equals?” Lucius lifted his hand and cupped her breast through the blanket. “Does a woman wield a sword?” He squeezed gently and smiled at the gasp she could not suppress. “Does a woman strike down her enemies, watch their blood spill over the earth?”
He crowded her with the fierce strength of his body, dipping his head to bring his lips within a breath of hers. She smelled her scent on him, as if she’d marked him as her own.
“Equal,” Lucius said, and laughed. “Does a woman face a brutal void when she looks into her heart? Does she yearn to fill it with her lover’s touch, knowing her strength will fail when she does?” He anchored her head between his hands and took her mouth with the kiss of a conqueror, plunging deep, allowing only the breath he deigned to give. Rhiannon’s traitorous body responded with a tremor of lust.
No. If he claimed her body again she would follow him to the corners of the earth. She clawed at his shoulders, desperate to break his hold.
“By Pollux! Perhaps you enjoyed our savage rut in the forest more than I thought. Was I too gentle last night? I can remedy that, I assure you.” He caught the soft slope between her neck and shoulder between his teeth. She gasped as he bit the tender skin.
“Lucius, no, I—”
He tore the blanket from her body and shoved her against the wall. His body covered her, skin against slick skin, his arousal questing. He claimed her mouth, invading it with his tongue.
Dear Briga, how to stop him before she surrendered? Rhiannon drove her knee up into his groin.
He jerked back and snarled a curse.
“Take your hands from me, Roman dog.” She saw her hateful words strike him as surely as if she’d dealt him a blow with a sword.
A flash of pain lit his eyes. It vanished almost immediately, leaving his expression devoid of emotion. He stepped away and gave a slight, ironic bow.
“Forgive me. My actions were inexcusabl
e. Barbaric, one might say.” He strode across the room and retrieved her tunic from the floor.
Her hand trembled as she took it. He turned away as she slipped the garment over her head. He located his own clothes and shrugged into them.
“Why did you return?” he asked.
“Marcus …”
“You should have let my son die. A Roman pup will become a dog in time.”
She said nothing.
When he spoke again it was but a single word. “Go.”
Her head snapped up. “What?”
“Take whatever provisions you need and leave the fort. I’ll not stop you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“No need,” he said, already turning away.
Chapter Nineteen
The forest had shifted.
Rhiannon felt the subtle transformation with every step that took her away from Vindolanda, though she couldn’t guess why or how the changes had come to pass. Surely the sunlight that peeked through the leafy canopy was no different. Oaks and elms still stretched their arms to the sky. Birds called; hares hopped. Yet in her heart she knew nothing would ever look the same.
A shiver tingled a path up her spine. She stopped. Some presence seemed to lurk nearby, just out of reach. She peered into the trees, circling slowly as she fought to keep her breathing steady. A wildcat or boar? Or was she being followed?
She slowed her steps, merging with the forest until her soul blended completely with Briga’s spirit. Making a wide arc through the brush, she circled until she came up behind her pursuer. A scout from the fort.
Her anger flared. Lucius had set the man on her trail, no doubt intending to wreak his vengeance on her village in payment for the death of his brother. If he thought the heavy-footed Gaul was a match for her forest skills, he was sorely mistaken. Slipping silently into the brush, she blazed a false trail, then backtracked to a shallow burn. Stepping into the water, she waded north a short distance before resuming her trek.
She forded the burn at a shallow crossing in the shadow of the crags. When she bent to drink, she murmured a prayer to Briga. Not thanks for her freedom. An entreaty for Lucius.
Great Mother, keep him safe.
He loved her. She knew it was true, for he had said it and no matter his faults, deceit was not one of them. The only lies that lay between them were her own. What price had the proud Roman paid to put his heart in her hands? Did he curse her now? She’d fled the fort quickly. She hadn’t even stopped to bid Marcus farewell.
She might have told Lucius outright that his men were poised to mutiny. If she had, he might not have brushed off her warnings as womanly hysterics. Yet if she’d told him the whole truth, he would have demanded to know whence her information had come. She wouldn’t have been able to give him an answer without bringing his wrath down upon Cormac and the rest of her clan.
Would the decision to protect her kin cause Lucius’s death? She hoped fervently she could yet prevent it. There was time to avert the siege. The uproar caused by her rejection of Edmyg would send the chieftains into debates that would last a full season at the least.
She would choose Kynan as consort immediately, or the clan might fall to warring among themselves. Kynan would be a strong leader but not a violent one. He was older and more cautious than Edmyg, and commanded great respect among the Brigantes. He had sons already, of an age with Owein, so he would not care too much about Rhiannon’s barren womb. Most importantly, he valued the life of his people more than glory on the battlefield.
Aye, Kynan would make a fine king. There was only one fault with the plan.
Rhiannon would have to couple with him.
Bile rose in her throat at the thought of lying under the old warrior’s unwashed body and watching his scarred face strain with lust. It would be no different from what she’d endured with Niall, but now that she knew the delight true lovemaking brought, the thought of opening her thighs to Kynan’s cock sickened her. Yet the choice would protect Lucius and Marcus, and Owein would benefit as well. Even if Kynan had heard lies about her brother’s visions, she would make Owein’s welcome a condition of Kynan’s kingship.
She resumed the trail at a quickened pace. The summer moon would rise on the morrow’s eve. Kynan must become king before Madog kindled the fires of Beltane.
“I want Rhiannon. Where is she?”
Lucius squeezed his son’s hand. “Gone, Marcus.”
Marcus frowned and sat straight up in his bed. Rhiannon’s mistletoe potion, which Demetrius continued to administer, had not only broken the boy’s fever but had also improved his strength considerably. “When will she be back?”
“She’ll not return. She’s gone back to her people.”
“The barbarians?”
Lucius nodded.
Marcus tugged his hand free of Lucius’s grip. “You scared her away,” he accused.
Lucius was silent for a moment, then heaved a sigh. “Most likely I did.”
Tears welled in Marcus’s eyes.
Without a word, Lucius opened his arms and pulled his son into his embrace.
By chance or fate, Rhiannon found Edmyg and Kynan together and nearly at blows.
They stood face-to-face in the grazing meadow, each backed by a phalanx of hard-faced warriors. Rhiannon watched the two chieftains from a vantage point on the high ridge south of the clearing. An assembly of clansmen, spears in hand, formed shifting half circles behind their leaders. Swords and spears were drawn but not yet raised.
Rhiannon searched the gathering in vain for Madog and Owein. Most likely the pair were in the Druid circle gathering the power of Kernunnos to the stones in anticipation of the summer fire. She’d considered seeking them out before she faced Edmyg, but had decided against it. Her resolve was set, and if they did not agree to her plan, she would waste precious time.
She inched closer to Edmyg and the other men, keeping to the cover of the trees and avoiding the tents and brush shelters erected by the warriors who had come to attack Vindolanda. They counted in the hundreds—about equal, she thought, to the number of men in the fort. Even if the garrison were to prove loyal, Lucius faced a hard fight if the clansmen attacked as one.
That didn’t seem likely. At present the formidable force faced off not against a common enemy but against each other. How did Edmyg imagine he could defeat Rome if he couldn’t keep order within his own ranks?
She crept closer, scanning the stony expressions of her kinsmen as she descended the rocky slope. So many lads, so many old men! They might take Vindolanda if the garrison soldiers mutinied, but how did they hope to remove the conquerors permanently? For every Roman that fell, another would march from the south to take his place. Legionary soldiers, not auxiliary troops. If they fought with even half Lucius’s skill, her people would be slaughtered.
“Ye are a coward.” Edmyg hoisted his sword into the air as punctuation to his declaration. Rhiannon reached the bottom of the hill. She paused in the shelter of a broad oak and pulled herself onto the rise of a fallen limb.
“Ye’d best be watching yer words, lad,” Kynan said.
Rhiannon reached for a higher branch, hoisting herself upward to get a better view of the old warrior. He was hard with muscle, but lean where Edmyg was bulky. His graying hair and beard were braided in dirty strands. In his youth he might have been handsome, but now, with his nose cut away, most would call him no less than hideous. Despite his appearance—or perhaps because of it—Kynan had the respect of the clans. His reputation was that of a coolheaded warrior and shrewd chieftain. She could choose no one more suited to serve the Brigantes as king.
“We’ll ne’er be having a better chance to take the fort,” Edmyg said. He lifted his sword and angled the tip toward Kynan’s heart.
Kynan crossed his arms over his chest rather than drawing his own weapon. Edmyg’s gaze narrowed at the insult. Muttering snaked through the onlookers.
“I’ll nay act again on the advice of the misshapen brute ye ca
ll brother,” Kynan said.
“Cormac willna fail us.”
“As he didna fail us on the day of that ill-fated raid?” Kynan said. “I tell ye, Edmyg, I’ll not be risking what kin I have yet living on the word of such a creature. By rights, he should have been exposed at birth.”
Edmyg rose on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight subtly forward. The point of his sword darted upward and nicked the flesh at the base of Kynan’s throat. The warrior standing at Kynan’s right elbow unsheathed his sword. The older man waved him back.
“Will ye kill me, Edmyg, before our kin, for the sake of a plan destined to fail?”
“It willna fail. And even were the odds against us, we are honor-bound to see the attack to its end. Have ye forgotten that Rhiannon is held within the fort? Would ye be leaving her in Roman hands? She’ll be lost to us if ye turn coward now.”
Rhiannon stifled a gasp. Edmyg refused to aid her escape from Vindolanda—while he used her plight to rally the reluctant factions among the clans! An effective bit of strategy—no matter if Rhiannon delivered Lucius or not, Edmyg stood to gain from her capture. The subtlety of his thinking surprised her. Rhiannon never would have guessed Edmyg capable of it—his mind was as blunt and brutal as his manner. The scenario had the hallmarks of one of Cormac’s plots …
Dear Briga! Was Cormac the author of the scheme to use her as a whore? Did Edmyg even know of it?
“Tell me, Kynan,” Edmyg said. “Will we suffer our queen to be taken as a bed-slave?”
For the first time, the old warrior hesitated.
Edmyg stepped back and lowered his sword. “Rhiannon seeks the courage of her warriors! Who among ye will aid her?”
His warriors sent up an answering shout. Kynan’s men soon joined them. The old chieftain dropped his gaze, the slump of his shoulders signaling his defeat.
“We attack at the moon’s rise,” Edmyg shouted.
“Nay!” Rhiannon’s cry couldn’t pierce the ensuing uproar. She scrambled from the tree and into the throng, darting between the warriors until she stood panting at Edmyg’s side. He stared at her as if she were an apparition. Kynan’s expression was no less astonished.