by Joan Kayse
He’d had every intention of doing exactly what he’d promised when they’d entered the jeweler’s house. Collect his fee, turn over the little thief and reclaim the small measure of respect he’d lost beneath the Roman’s scorn.
His gut tightened at the memory of Paulin’s lecherous offer and he berated himself all over. Turning the girl over to him would have been a simple solution and he would have gotten the full price for his goods. But even as the thought formed he had rejected it.
Giving the girl over to the Roman seemed a betrayal to her at some level. Not that he could explain why. He certainly had no connection to her, no interest in her save regaining his property. She could have disappeared into the streets of the city never to be seen again and he’d have gone on about his business without a second thought. She was a Roman. She did not matter.
But by Danu, the girl had spirit.
She hadn’t cowered or begged for mercy from either himself or the jeweler. No, his little thief had sat there in rebellious silence, every line of her body rigid with pride. He’d felt the enormity of it through his touch, had caught impressions of fierce loyalty and determination with his gift. Loyalty only to herself, he was sure, but loyalty he understood. Those same emotions had helped him endure every miserable day of his enslavement.
That that kinship stirred his blood was of no consequence.
“Where are you taking me?”
An image of capturing her lips with his own popped into Bran’s head, displacing the memory of her breasts brushing his chest. “To my house,” he answered gruffly.
“Your home?”
“No,” he snapped, sparing a glance over his shoulder and instantly wishing he hadn’t. Her chin was lifted in silent defiance, that luscious mouth was pressed into a tight line, those eyes sparked violet fire. He marveled that he hadn’t been incinerated on the spot. “My home is not this pestilence-filled cesspool.”
“Mine is,” she answered, tugging ineffectually against his hold, “and I want to go back!”
Well, he did not and why would she? The city was crowded, noisy, the streets filled with refuse and human waste. And that was some in the more affluent areas. The hole he’d found her in had been worse. “No.”
“Bastard,” the girl muttered beneath her breath.
He’d been called much worse.
“You cannot keep the girl prisoner,” said Menw, ignoring their arguing.
“Yes, I can,” he answered curtly, rounding the corner of the street that led to the modest mud-brick house he rented. “There will be payment for the coin I have lost.”
Behind him the girl gasped. Bran slanted a look first at Menw’s disapproving frown then to the girl’s pale expression. It took him all of two heartbeats to realize what they thought he’d meant by payment. He ran a hand through his hair. He was many things. A killer. A monster. He was not a rapist.
He leaned toward her and lowered his voice so that only she could hear. “Be assured, when I take a woman to my bed, she comes of her own will and with gratitude.”
Bran heard her breath hitch and watched as a deep blush crept up her neck, the maidenly reaction doing nothing to dampen the fire in her eyes. His cock twitched at the enticing contrast. With effort he stifled a groan and continued. “You will work in my household to repay the difference in my profit.”
“I’m not a slave,” she protested, rubbing the wrist he’d held. A twinge of guilt went through him at the sight of the reddened skin.
“So you have said—numerous times.” He crossed his arms and gave her a stern look. “What is your name?”
She gave him a suspicious look. “Adria,” she answered.
“No, Adria.” Her name felt like nectar on his tongue. “You are no slave, but you are a thief. And you stole from me,” he answered. “A fact you seem unable to remember. If this is not agreeable to you than I will let the Roman courts decide your fate.”
The girl’s jaw went tight and the frown on Menw’s face deepened. Bran waited. He’d learned patience well as a slave.
Adria held his gaze. He did not need any flashes of intuition to see she was considering her choices, including, he had no doubt, another attempt to escape him.
“Enduring your presence is punishment enough for any crime,” she replied with an aggrieved sigh. She waved a hand toward the small house. “But only until the Nons of Aprilis. Then my debt is paid.”
Bran schooled his features into that careful blank mask that had helped him survive his enslavement. Displaying emotion, even the smallest bit of concern or worry, had been the same as handing a weapon to his owner, Hapu the Egyptian. His master had not been content with complete subjugation or simple torture. The bastard had watched his gladiators like a hawk for any weakness and when he found it...
The memory of Beatrix’s limp, cold body in his arms blended with the sorrow that swelled from the dark recesses of his mind, threatening to overwhelm the defenses he’d built. He willed the pain away and forced his concentration back on Adria. She stood with one hand on her hip, her eyes filled with challenge. The foolish girl actually thought she had a voice in the matter.
“You will stay until I say otherwise,” he growled, then gained some satisfaction when his next words wiped the smirk from her face. “I will decide when your debt is paid.”
“What tasks would you set for her?” asked Menw looking at Bran sharply as he stepped between them. “Our needs are simple.”
Gods, he didn’t know. His only focus had been to find the thief and retrieve the jewelry. He’d embraced the initial lust for revenge, temporarily assuaging the vengeance that always burned like an ember in his chest, but he’d given no thought to the aftermath.
He glanced at the girl. It would have been so much simpler had she been a man that he could have just pummeled into to a bloody pulp for retribution.
“Simple? Release me,” she said with an air of authority she did not in truth possess. “That is simple. I...”
A thunderous crash shook the plain wooden door of the house. Bran exchanged an exasperated look with Menw. He didn’t have to look at the girl to know she was backing away, hoping, he knew, to take advantage of the distraction and escape. He’d never thought her ignorant but her refusal to believe that she was his captive was as grating.
A loud screech pierced the air, bringing with it the ideal solution to the problem of the thief. Bran’s lips curled with satisfaction and without looking at Adria, he reached back, caught her wrist again and slammed the door open.
***
Adria dug her heels into the square stone marking the entry of the house more out of principle than any real hope of thwarting her tormenter. As expected, the barbarian dragged her across the threshold as if she were made of air. The door slammed shut behind them.
The bastard.
If she hadn’t felt as if she were on the edge of a precipice Adria would have burst out laughing at the sight that met them. It looked as if an enemy horde had attacked the entryway. A mound of black dirt, bits of withered plant roots still clinging to dried clods, littered the small vestibule floor. A yellow-and-white kitten stalked a dried, wilted plant before it pounced, holding it with tiny paws and yowling in triumph at conquering the vegetation.
Standing on the other side of the mound was a young boy, no more than ten years of age, she guessed, with deep-brown eyes that were as wide as plates, his mouth forming a perfect circle of stunned surprise. From his hand dangled a roughly hewn wooden sword, which was pointed absently at the source of the high-pitched crying. Adria cringed as another sharp squeal cut through the vestibule.
The little girl was half the boy’s age, beautiful, with ringlets of gold tumbling down her back in a tangled mess and tears streaking down rosy cheeks. More temper than injury, Adria decided as the girl fisted her small hands and glared at the boy through narrowed eyes. The boy would do well to watch his back.
“Cease!” Bran roared.
The boy’s eyes grew wider and the little girl cla
mped her mouth shut, though the sniffles were more than a bit exaggerated. Adria bit back a satisfied smile as Bran rolled his eyes. Chaos among his children was the least that he deserved. Adria paused, drew her brow. The man had children?
“Why did you stop them?”
Adria scanned the small entry, unable to ascertain where the sneering voice had come from. She glanced at Bran and followed his glare to the shadows beneath a narrow stairway. Menw and the other children had gone motionless, holding their breath, as if waiting for some cataclysmic event to occur.
Bran said nothing, just continued to stare at the stairs with a thunderous expression which heightened the tension strumming through Adria by several notches. Menw motioned the boy and girl to him, holding them both against his legs with his one arm in a protective gesture. Adria shifted her gaze to the stairs again. Gods, what was lurking there? A centaur? Perhaps it was Hades’ three-headed dog? That, she mused, would be most appropriate for a demon god.
She sensed a stirring within the shadows and released the breath she’d been holding as a third child stepped forward. Well, not a child, she decided, more a youth close to fourteen. He was taller than she, all limbs and awkward angles. While his face still clung to the fullness of childhood there were patches of blond fuzz sprouting on his jaw, but neither could conceal his mutinous expression.
But it was his eyes that drew her attention. As beautiful as the green and gold of his hazel eyes were, they could not conceal the hard, angry, challenge simmering within them. It was a look she recognized, the same one sported by most boys his age who scraped out a life in the Roman streets.
“Why did you stop the show?” he asked again in the smug tone of an adolescent which she noted had Bran grinding his own jaw. “They were just becoming entertaining.”
Beside her, Bran took a deep breath as if trying to control his temper, which surprised Adria. But then these were children. A father should have patience. Even if that father was a tyrant by nature.
“Linus, you were told to keep the house in order,” Bran replied through clenched teeth.
“I’m not your slave,” the boy spat out.
Ah, she and the boy had something in common.
Menw had begun to sweep up the dirt when Bran ordered him to stop. So that would be her first task, Adria thought, cleaning up after the barbarian’s children. She glanced between his harsh profile and the three youngsters. Odd. None of them favored their father. The sneering boy had wheat-colored hair while his sister was fair and the younger boy sported auburn hair and a darker complexion. She narrowed her eyes. In fact, the children did not look like each other either.
Bran stalked toward Linus and Adria readied herself to witness a beating. The boy showed no regret for his words, broadening his stance in defiance and meeting the barbarian’s glare with his own. They reminded her of two dogs preparing to fight to the death over a bone.
What did she care? A father’s power over his son was absolute both by Roman law and tradition. There was nothing she could do to forestall it. She was a stranger and a prisoner, powerless to intervene. A soft sniffle drew her attention to the younger children and her gut clenched at the worry and fear filling their eyes. Bran’s right hand fisted.
Her mouth opened before she could think. “Stop!”
Adria felt the shock in the room and forced herself not to shrink beneath the sharp look Bran shot her. She swallowed and crept toward the pair, skirting the mess on the floor. She hadn’t completely lost her wits, positioning herself out of Bran’s reach. “I have no wish to clean up blood along with this mess.”
Bran stared at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. “Blood? Dagda’s balls, what are you babbling about?”
“I never babble.” A bold pronouncement, for the longer he stood there glowering at her with those deep-green eyes, the greater the urge to do just that. “I would not have you harm the boy.”
A flash of disbelief crossed his face before it fell behind a scowl. “The whelp must learn responsibility.”
“By violence?” The heat in her cheeks flared along with her temper. He was a barbarian. Violence was his very nature. To challenge his word was not wise. He might well turn his fist to her. She risked a look at the younger children who mirrored Menw’s astonishment. From her words or from the insanity of daring to challenge the brute? Adria straightened to her full height, which just reached Bran’s shoulder, and met his unwavering gaze. Gods, those eyes were unnerving. It felt as if he were looking into her, gauging her weaknesses. She drew a deep breath. If she was going to receive a beating she might as well earn it. “Children are often boisterous in their play. Mishaps are sure to happen. Your servants should have been more diligent.”
“There are no servants,” Bran replied in a flat voice.
Her surprise must have been apparent because the scowl deepened on Bran’s face. There were few people in Rome who did not have servants. Even the poorest tradesman scraped together enough coin to own at least one slave, even if they were barely able to feed themselves, much less their chattel. There had not, she realized, been a doorkeeper to greet them, nor one maid or cook to venture into the atrium to investigate the uproar.
Bran still watched her with that penetrating stare. Those emerald eyes were extraordinary and burned with an intensity that felt as if it might ignite her at any moment. That melting heat stirred between her legs once more. She cleared her throat. “Still...the boy should not be punished for an accident.”
“I don’t need your whore defending me!”
The insult struck her like a whip. Adria crossed her arms and looked at the boy. “However, perhaps he would benefit from a lesson in manners.” The corner of Bran’s mouth quirked but tightened back into a thin line when she returned her gaze to him. The bastard found that amusing? His father had brought a strange female into the house. Of course the boy would think the worst.
A sudden chill went through Adria. They had not actually discussed the nature of the tasks he would have her perform. She felt the color drain from her face as she contemplated his fierce profile. Gods, she’d been in precarious situations before but this could be the worst one yet. How trustworthy could a barbarian be? What folly had led her to believe he would keep his word and leave her untouched?
The terror she felt scattered as Bran grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck. He hauled him against the wall. “You will apologize to the lady.”
Lady? Adria’s head swirled. Bran was forcing the boy to show her respect when he held none toward her himself?
Linus was undeterred. “Lady? Do ladies dress in rags?”
Adria smoothed her hands self-consciously over the edge of her sleeves. The tunica was worn, she would not deny it, and there were rips along the hem, but it was clean...at least it had been before Bran had dragged her halfway across the city. She forced her head up, refused to give into the tears that burned behind her eyes.
“If she’s a lady then I’m the Emperor,” sneered Linus.
“I like playing Emperor,” chirped the little girl who immediately shrank against Menw when Bran and Linus both glowered at her.
“She’s a whore!”
Was that the only word Linus knew?
Bran shook the boy. “She is not a whore.”
“If not a whore than what?”
Bran swung his gaze from Linus back to her, a bright anticipation in his eyes, a glow she imagined an executioner might have before bringing the blade down across a prisoner’s neck. Dread seeped into her limbs, spread when his lips curled into a mirthless smile.
“She is your nursemaid.”
***
“I do not like this game.”
Adria brushed the last bit of dirt onto a shard of the broken urn and sat back on her heels. The little girl, Cyma, had been trying to help clean up the mess only to make a larger one in the process. She shifted her gaze to Julian, the younger boy. The little soldier was forcing a clod of dirt across the floor at the tip of his wooden sword. The e
ldest, Linus was nowhere to be found, a fact she could not regret given his penchant for insults.
“In truth, neither do I,” Adria replied with a sigh. Gods, she was exhausted. Three days with little sleep, even less food, outwitting Tiege and dealing with an irate barbarian had left her drained. All she wanted was to go home, fall onto her pallet and sleep until market day.
It wasn’t going to happen soon. After Bran had proclaimed her the children’s nursemaid he’d stalked out of the house, leaving them all speechless. All except Menw. His amusement had been clear as he’d gathered brooms and instructed the children to help clean up the dirt, rankling the raw edges of her temper.
Adria stood and carried the shard to the edge of the garden where she added it to the rest of the discarded soil mounded around the base of the one, lone bush that showed any signs of life. She paused, taking a moment to admire the delicate beauty of the red, bell shaped flowers. A vague image of her mother tending a garden flashed in her mind. Strange that she should think of that now, one of the few memories of her life before she and her parents moved to Rome. A precious memory wherein she had felt safe and happy. She lifted one corner of her mouth in a wry smile. A life free of mad barbarians.
“I’m hungry.”
Adria stared at the grubby hand tugging on her tunic hem. The blue eyes looking up at her were full of innocence. A deceiving trait as she’d watched the girl aggravate her brother Julian by tossing small clods of dirt at the back of his head when she thought no one was watching.
She shifted the tiny kitten mewing in her arms. “I’m hungry,” Cyma repeated.
Adria’s own stomach rumbled. “I have no food.” That sounded ridiculous even to her own ears.
“That’s all right,” said Julian, slipping his weapon into a rope tied round his waist. “Menw always does.”
With military precision, he turned on his heel and marched down a narrow hallway leading to the rear of the house, Cyma skipping behind him. Adria moved more cautiously, taking her time, peeking into each room as she passed. The house was larger than it appeared from the street. There was a modest receiving room on the right, its walls decorated with a fresco of a Roman battle. The first room on the left appeared to be a dining area with a single table, a battered bronze lamp, but no couch upon which to recline. The second room was no more than an alcove, a pallet set on a low wooden frame taking up most of the space. A brown woolen coverlet was folded neatly at its foot. It was modest by patrician standards but to her, it seemed a palace.