Because I wanted you for myself, he thought. His heart quivered, split in two. He couldn’t do this. Loss knifed through him like a physical pain.
‘Tell me, Lachlan.’ Her eyes flashed, limpid green fire, searing straight to the very core of him.
‘You’re making no sense, Cecily.’ He avoided answering her questions. ‘Why have you come after me? I thought you wanted me to fetch William. You asked for him, Cecily.’
‘I did not!’ she shouted up at him, dancing from one foot to another to keep the chill from claiming her body. ‘When in heaven’s name did I do that?’
He sighed. ‘You said his name when you were ill, Cecily. You thought I was William.’
Cecily slapped her forehead with her palm, mouth tightening as she stared off downstream for a moment. Her eyes shimmered with unspent tears. ‘Oh, my God, Lachlan, how could you be so stupid? I was delirious, I had a fever! I was probably saying all sorts of things.’ A great shiver seized her body and she swayed in the breeze.
‘You should not be out in this cold wind,’ Lachlan said. Something, deep inside him, shifted. He kicked his boot from the stirrup. ‘Come up before me.’ Hoisting her leg up with difficult, Cecily stuck her toes into the stirrup. With one arm, Lachlan reached right down from the saddle, grabbing Cecily around the waist and hoisting her up in front of him, bundling her skirts before her. Reaching his arms around her, he kicked his heels into the horse’s flank, heading back for the abbey.
‘I think we need to talk.’
* * *
Cecily waited outside the stables while Lachlan secured his horse. He strode out and her heart leapt at the sight of his tall, strong figure, the silky fall of his fiery hair across his forehead. He pushed the vigorous strands back with one hand.
He wound his arm into hers, tucked her close into his side. ‘Let’s walk in the gardens,’ he suggested. ‘Do you think you’ll be warm enough?’
I will be with you next to me. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘If you close up your cloak, you will be.’ He sought her gaze with twinkling eyes, reaching around to secure the loose ties on her cloak. His knuckles brushed her chin. A pang of longing seared through her chest; her eyelashes dipped, fluttering down.
They walked through the arched gateway in the wall and into the sheltered abbey gardens. The late afternoon sun skirted the top of the wall to the south, filling the space with a semblance of warmth. A solitary robin perched in the bare, gnarled branches of an apple tree; the bird’s trills of song filled the air.
‘What is all this about?’ Lachlan said softly, as they walked slowly, arm in arm, along the cobbled paths. ‘You risked your health coming after me like that, running about in the cold air.’
Cecily cleared her throat. ‘I know you want me to marry William...’ she said. Her voice cracked with hopelessness.
‘I don’t.’
‘What...?’ She rounded on him, her skirts swirling. ‘What do you mean, you don’t? You were the one who suggested it!’ Her bright, luminous features snared his.
‘Because I didn’t think you should marry me. I am not good enough for you.’ He snared her fingers.
‘Why on earth not?’ she rapped out.
The sun touched his skin, highlighting the lean angles of his face. ‘Because I was so set on avenging my family, so set on riding north.’ His fingers drifted up to her face, touched her chin. The coarse skin on his fingertips rasped against her soft skin. ‘My heart was hard, numb, devoid of feeling. I didn’t want to subject you to that. A marriage so bleak that it would destroy you.’
‘Was...’ she breathed. Her head spun with a wave of dizziness, heart teetering with uncertainty, as if she walked over a crust of thick mud, every step beset with danger. She clung to his fingers, as if they were a lifeline. ‘I... I’m not sure I understand what you are saying.’
‘You were right, Cecily. You have been so right all along. You asked me why I would go back to Scotland, when there was nothing there for me, only horrible memories. I had a lot of time to think while you were sick.’ His hand slid around to cup her jawline. ‘I am not going back there, Cecily. You have made me realise how worthless such an action would be. I have so much to live for down here.’
The resonant pitch of his voice sank slowly down into the tumultuous chaos of her brain. Hope flared in her chest. ‘You’re...not going back?’ She wanted him to repeat the words, to make sure.
His blue eyes flared over her, irises ringed with black. ‘Aye, that’s right, Cecily. And I don’t want you to marry William, either.’
She turned her face into his palm, sighing. ‘I know, Lachlan. But the King has said I have to marry as payment for my crime, so if I am not going to marry William, who should it be?’
‘Me, Cecily. You should marry me.’ He stepped back from her slightly, holding her hands lightly. ‘That is, if you’ll have me.’ His powerful words shimmered in the hush of air. ‘I would not blame you if you did not. I have treated you so badly.’
‘You have done nothing to me, Lachlan, that I did not want you to do.’ Cecily lifted her hand to his face, caressing the raw, angled slant of his jaw. She lifted her fingers to his hair. ‘I wanted it all. I didn’t want to marry anyone else.’
He laughed, easing the tension between them. ‘Nay, you didn’t want to marry at all! But the choice was taken from you with the King’s pronouncement.’
She paused. Should she risk the truth? ‘But, Lachlan, don’t you see? I was in love with you before you offered to marry me.’
‘God in Heaven, did I just hear you right?’
‘Aye, Lachlan, you did. I love you, you silly man.’
His arms swept around her and he pulled her close, up, into him. ‘My God! I’ve been such a blockhead, a stupid, ignorant fool!’
‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t...’
‘Don’t you dare tell me anything different, Cecily. I know what I have done and I am not proud of it! From the moment I first saw you, trying to navigate that flooded river, I have fought my feelings for you. I thought that after my family were killed, and my courage failed me on that fateful day, that I could never love again. But you have shown me how wrong I was.’
‘You mean...?’
‘Aye, Cecily, you have it right. I love you, my sweet, darling Cecily. I love you with all my heart and no one can take that away.’ Lachlan wound his great arms around her slender frame and pulled her close, lowering his mouth to cover hers in a kiss that would seal them together, for ever.
Epilogue
Outside the great hall at Okeforde snow was falling. Great fat flakes brushed down past the high-arched open windows, huge whispering feathers, blowing in occasionally on a breath of icy breeze. A row of torches were slung into brackets along the stone walls; the flames wavering, flickering, casting great shadows up to the dark-raftered ceiling. The glorious scent of winter sweet filled the air: long ropes of shiny green leaves twisted around the steps leading up to the high dais, the tiny white flowers sending out their powerful scent. A magnificent fire crackled in the hearth, warming the crowds of people on this cold winter night. Musicians, perspiring heavily, fuelled with a vat of local cider, played merry dance tunes from the corner of the hall. The tables in the main area of the hall had been pushed back; couples danced and laughed, joining hands to form great weaving chains across the stone floor.
‘I never thought I would ever see this place again.’ Cecily turned to Lachlan, her heart brimming with love for the tall, flame-haired man sitting next to her. Her wedding gown, fashioned from a lustrous cream silk, glimmered in the candlelight. Hundreds of tiny pearls decorated the neckline, swirled around the wide hem. Beneath her wedding veil, gossamer silk, her hair had been plaited and coiled into intricate loops, secured with diamond-tipped hairpins. ‘Thank you for talking to Lord Simon.’ Her eyes flicked to the thin, brown-eyed man dancing in the main hall.
; Lachlan smiled at her. ‘He hasn’t quite forgiven you, yet. It will take time. But he had no wish to deny the fact that your mother and sister wanted to see you again. He knew it was important to you.’
‘Lord Simon has punished her roundly for what she did. Making her work here, as his servant. Last night, when I visited her in her chamber, she asked for my forgiveness.’
‘As she should,’ Lachlan murmured. ‘She did you a great wrong. But your sister has fared better.’
Cecily nodded, her eyes faintly bemused as she watched Isabella catch Lord Simon’s hand across the dance floor. ‘It seems they do well together. And he has taken in her child as his own. I am so glad, Lachlan, that Isabella has not suffered. She deserves this happiness.’
Cecily splayed her hand out across the pristine tablecloth, waggling her fingers this way and that, watching the light catch the brilliant gold band around her finger.
Following her scrutiny, Lachlan laughed. ‘The ring is real, you know.’ His arm stretched out along her back; now, he tugged her shoulder into the muscled hardness of his chest. He swept his hand around the crowded hall. ‘All of this is real.’ His vivid blue eyes roamed over her, intense, possessive.
‘When I left here, I had no idea what my future had in store for me,’ she whispered. ‘I could never have imagined such happiness. This wedding day has been like a delicious dream. A wonderful dream.’
‘Then we must be having the same dream,’ he murmured, squeezing her fingers. Small bone buttons secured his shirt sleeves to his wrists; his wedding tunic was of dark green wool, fitted to his large frame, a dark leather belt pulling the fabric into his slim torso. The bright filaments of his hair were wayward, tousled.
My husband, she thought. Tilting her chin up, she grazed her lips to his mouth, a brief, fleeting touch. His pupils widened, a knowing blackness flooding the iridescent blue, the promise of the night to come captured in a single kiss. A roar rose from the bobbing crowds, smiles casting up towards the couple. Cecily flushed beneath the attention.
Lachlan’s chin rested on top of her head. He glanced along the table, across the shining faces of the knights and ladies who had gathered here to celebrate their wedding, over the magnificent outfits, the sparkling jewels in swords and circlets. His heart swelled with happiness, with hope, for the life he would share with the woman he loved most in the whole world: Cecily, his darling wife, whom he would cherish for a lifetime.
* * *
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Keep reading for an excerpt from The Roman Lady’s Illicit Affair by Greta Gilbert.
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The Roman Lady’s Illicit Affair
by Greta Gilbert
Chapter One
Rome—122 CE
When Vita spotted the woman’s loincloth on her husband’s desk that night, tears of laughter filled her eyes. It was just that the cloth looked so silly draped over Magnus’s stylus pen, which stood inside its wooden holder as usual.
Another woman’s intimate garment on top of her husband’s erect pen—what could be more humorous?
Ha!
She set down her oil lamp and plucked the mysterious loincloth from its perch. It felt expensively soft—probably Egyptian—and its fine embroidered waistband had been enhanced by gilded beads.
Gilded beads!
It was obviously the undergarment of a woman of elevated status—likely an equestrian—or at least someone who aspired to that lofty class. And Vita’s husband had obviously aspired to the woman—probably on top of that very desk.
Ha, ha!
Vita considered the female guests who had attended their banquet that evening. There had been only three: all beautiful, all of rank and all very much married.
Not that a woman’s marital status had ever deterred Magnus. A consummate adulterer, he seemed to appreciate the company of maidens and married women alike.
And they appreciated him, for part of his job as a commanding vigile of Rome was to keep its women safe.
To most women, Vita’s husband was not Magnus, but Aeneas or Adonis—a musclebound tower of a man whose physical power was matched only by his heroic deeds, which were eclipsed only by his classic good looks. In sum, Magnus could have nearly any woman he liked—and often did.
Still, a tryst in the tablinium was reckless, even for him.
Ah, Magnus.
So who had it been this time? Gaeta, the olive merchant’s wife, with her fluttering laughter and piles of curls? Or Numeria, the tax collector’s wife, who often stuttered and blinked in his presence? Perhaps it was Lollia Flamma, the architect’s wife, whose nubile beauty was wasted on her much older husband, or so Magnus had commented once.
Whomever Magnus had chosen as his paramour that evening, there would have been few opportunities to disappear undetected. And the lovers had escaped to the tablinium of all places! Instead of retreating to a quiet corner, they had occupied the centrally located office where Magnus attended to household business.
Household business indeed! But when could the two have possibly...conducted it?
Vita thought back to her husband’s movements that evening, but she could hardly remember anything beyond her guests’ frowns and groans.
Bad food, terrible service, lack of wine—how could she have possibly detected her husband’s transgression when she had been so busy watching her own reputation crumble into ruin?
Surely he had left clues? He always did. She only needed to think back to the banquet and try to remember them. She closed her eyes and willed herself to return to the disastrous gathering. All at once she was there, hovering outside her triclinium while her guests bit into her disastrous first dish...
* * *
‘These dumplings have the savour of defeat,’ Gaeta was whispering.
‘Conjured in the Underworld for certain,’ tittered Numeria.
‘Come now, ladies,’ said Lollia, ‘the dough would make a lovely sandal leather.’
There was a smattering of quiet giggles as Vita swept into the room. ‘My dear guests, the oysters are on their way,’ she announced, pretending she had not heard the women.
‘Well, that is good news!’ said one of the husbands.
‘I think I shall save room for them,’ said another, setting his dumpling aside.
Vita smiled as she prepared to tell her guests the truth: that the dumplings were an accident that had resulted from the inebriated condition of the woman she had hired to cook. But in that instant the oysters arrived, distracting everyone’s attention.
Thank the gods—the oysters! Surely the Ostian delicacies would erase the memory of the failed dumplings from her guest’s minds. Borne on trays by two Germanic freedwomen whom Vita had hired at the urging of the cook, the fresh oysters were an unassailably elegant addition to the banquet. Still, Vita’s guests were frowning.
Jupiter’s thumb—the oysters’ shells were still closed! Worse, the Germanis had forgone the special knives Vita had provided them for the task and were attempting to open the creatures with their own fingernails.
‘Is that how they do it in Germania?’ Gaeta clucked.
‘We are fortunate they are not using their teeth!’ Numeria added.
‘Filthy barbarians,’ Lollia mumbled.
Vita smiled joylessly. Her own mother had been a barbarian. Brought from Britannia in chains during the reign of Emperor Domitian, she had been bought and sold many times before
finally landing in the household of the man who would become Vita’s father.
‘You can complain all you want,’ said one of the husbands, ‘without barbarians Rome’s fields would be fallow and its chamber pots full. It is why our new Emperor must continue to conquer their territories.’
Another husband shook his head in disagreement. ‘The Empire is overstretched as it is. Emperor Hadrian is right in fortifying its defences—especially along the Germanic frontier.’
A spirited discussion ensued and Vita tried not to listen. The Roman expansion had been forged in misery and enslavement, cruelty and death, yet most Romans spoke about it as if it were a table game.
She busied herself filling her guests’ cups of wine, though she could not seem to pour quickly enough to keep them full. She emptied the last drop into her husband Magnus’s own cup. ‘The problem is not along the Germanic frontier, but the Britannic one,’ he was saying. He drank the liquid down in a single gulp. ‘Hence the wall Emperor Hadrian will build there soon.’
‘It is true, then?’ Gaeta asked. ‘Hadrian is building a wall across Britannia?’
‘I have heard that it will stretch over seventy miles, from one sea to another,’ Numeria said.
‘Humph,’ grunted Lollia’s husband, Lepidus.
All eyes turned to the bald, grey-bearded man, who had recently acquired a high post as a military architect in Hadrian’s army.
‘I honestly do not see the purpose of a wall so far north,’ Gaeta commented at last.
‘To separate the Romans from the barbarians, of course,’ Numeria replied.
‘That is not the reason for the wall,’ grumbled Lepidus. He picked up a grape and began to peel it.
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