Barbarian's Soul: A Historical Romance

by Joan Kayse

  Adria picked at her bowl of stew. She was not so foolish as to believe Bran thought of her past her role as nursemaid and bed companion. He referred to her less and less as thief, though when he did she could almost convince herself it sounded more endearment than accusation. Besides, he would be leaving Rome in a matter of days.

  A sudden urge to weep overcame her.

  “Adria?”

  Menw’s gentle tone almost set the tears to flowing. She took a steadying breath and forced her voice to be calm. “We had a wonderful visit with Bran’s sister. It was surprising to find her here in Rome, and with her husband, no less. He was very nice, nothing like the patricians of my acquaintance. Their baby was beautiful, and looked so much like Bran.” Gods, she was rambling. “There was another couple there, Julia and Damon. Damon seemed familiar to me, though that is impossible, as someone of his stature would never be caught in the streets where I live.”

  “Adria, cease.”

  She snapped her mouth shut and pushed her bowl of stew away, sending Menw a quick glance. The children were no longer in the kitchen.

  “Bran has struggled for several years,” he began slowly. “In an instant he went from a life of honor to one of shame. Not an easy thing for a warrior, a man used to protecting his family, his people.” Menw drew in a slow breath, stared at the wall before shaking his head. “He held this responsibility close to his heart. Even though the circumstances were beyond his control, he took on the blame for the capture of his sister, myself and several others whose fate we do not know.”

  She could not imagine anything being beyond Bran’s control. “Menw, how was Bran enslaved?”

  Menw took a deep breath, his expression reflecting his indecision about how much to say.

  “Please, Menw,” she pleaded. “How can I know how to...” She searched for the right word and settled on one he would abhor. “How can I know how to help him if I do not understand?”

  After a few more moments of thought Menw nodded. “Bran is a very gifted goldsmith,” he smiled ruefully. “But you already know that.”

  Adria’s cheeks burned.

  “He had quite a reputation for the skill among his clan, among the region really, for the beauty of his pieces. He found the craft much more to his liking than tilling the fields and tending the cattle, and had begun to trade with peoples from across the sea, a place the Romans call Britannia.”

  Adria nodded. Rome’s victories in the wild, barbaric reaches of the Empire had long been lauded.

  Menw continued. “I accompanied Bran on one such trip. The men we’d traded with before decided they’d rather keep their coin and Bran’s goods and attacked us. Bryna had had a vision, but came too late to warn her brother yet soon enough that she, too, was captured. In their greed, the bastards decided to increase their profit. Instead of slaying us, we were taken and sold to the Romans and brought to your world.”

  A fierce protectiveness swelled within her. “It was no fault of his that this happened.”

  “I agree,” replied Menw, “and if Bran were to take the time to consider it, he would also. But he feels as if he has to make amends. He’s spent months trying to locate the two other clansmen who were with us that day. One, Gair, was as close as a brother to him, the other a cousin.” He lifted his crippled arm. “He even goes so far as to blame himself for my master’s cruelty.”

  Adria’s heart ached as Menw absently stroked the stump of his arm. “He will not forgive himself.”

  “No,” Menw agreed. “The only reason he has remained in Rome was to assure himself of his sister’s happiness. As difficult as the burden has been for him, he now believes she is well taken care of and he can return to Eire.”

  And leave her.

  For a moment, Adria felt as if she could not breathe. For all of her denials, the simple, plain truth came to her.

  She loved Bran.

  And because she did, Adria knew she could never add to his burden by telling him. He would only heal if he left Rome. And she had to allow that. She stood, reached a tentative hand to his, pleased when his warm fingers grasped hers. “Thank you, Menw. I shall see you in the morning.”

  Turning away from Menw’s curious look, equal parts pain and determination had her formulating a plan. She would ensure the family he’d forged remained intact and, selfish as it may seem, make memories that would have to last her a lifetime.

  ***

  Bran climbed the stairway to the bedchambers. A light night breeze blew in from the lone window at the top, across his still-damp skin, sending an involuntary shiver through his body. Cold was good. Cold kept the burning need he felt for Adria tamped down and helped him think clearer, kept the beautiful thief in the proper place in his head.

  He blew out a frustrated breath. The vixen hadn’t stayed in her proper place since he’d brought her to his home. Forced, you mean, accused a voice in the back of his mind. Very well, he forced her to pay for her crime though he seemed to be paying the higher price. It had seemed a reasonable solution at the time and now sound justification for keeping her close.

  Close. Bran shook his head in annoyance as he reached the second level. He hadn’t let anyone close since Beatrix, and even then there had been boundaries. The gladiatrix had been content with the arrangement. He sensed she had always guarded her heart as many slaves learn to do. She’d been specifically bred with various renowned fighters, three of whom had fathered her children. He and she had been lovers, two slaves trying to find solace in each other’s arms, neither offering promises. He’d never expected anything more than that, had not wished for, nor wanted more.

  Adria was different. She was in his blood. His mind craved her as much as his body did. Nothing dampened her spirit. Not his intimidating manner, not his threats—especially not his threats—nor his surly ways. She genuinely cared for the children and they were growing close to her, their need for a mother so long denied.

  A good long soak in the bath had done nothing to clear her from his thoughts. Instead, he’d imagined her in his arms, massaging her with oil, stroking her damp hair, ravaging her mouth. Even calling on that single-minded force of will that had aided him in banishing unwanted emotion while a slave had failed to purge her from his mind, his heart.

  He loved her.

  The truth slammed into him. But what did it matter? She would never accept a barbarian as a mate, and for all the temptation to force her as he had forced her into his life, he knew he would not do it. Adria was a woman of her own mind, a proud, independent woman and he would have her make her own choices even if they did not include him.

  Bran peeked into the children’s room, satisfied that they slept as he looked at the three blanket-wrapped figures. He’d had them for nearly two years now and his devotion to them had far exceeded his obligation. They were his. If only it could be as simple with Adria.

  He entered his bedchamber and stopped, eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. A half-dozen oil lamps were positioned along the periphery with three more grouped together on a table closer to the bed. The combined light lent a soft glow to the room without interfering with the crystal view of the stars beyond the skylight.

  Bran’s nostrils flared. A light lavender perfume wafted on the air. But it could not conceal the sweet spicy scent of woman. His woman. Adria.

  He entered with caution, forced himself to appear unhurried. He glanced at the corner where her pallet had once been before he’d taken her into his bed, but it was bare. The covers on his bed were smooth and waiting to be turned down for the night. He searched the corners, the small alcove attached to the room, even beneath the bed but found no trace of Adria.

  Bran sat down hard on the side of the bed. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, taunting him with what he was losing. Since the day he’d been enslaved the gods had mocked him, decreed that Bran, son of Fynbar, slave, gladiator would never attain his deepest wishes.

  “I am here, Bran.”

  The soft, sultry voice floated into the roo
m, wrapped around him, lured him to look at the silhouette framed in the doorway. Adria was draped in shadows, her arms raised and braced against the sides of the entry, every luscious curve outlined in delicious detail, illuminated from behind by the glow of yet another lamp. His mouth went dry.

  ***

  Adria loved moments such as these, when Bran’s mask slipped and all pretense of control vanished. First a look of stunned relief swept across his features before settling into an expression of raw need. An exhilarating sense of power flowed through her that she had been the cause of such desire. She closed her eyes and held the image, knowing it would soon be all she had.

  Slowly, she entered the room. Bran watched her like a hawk might a tasty morsel as she approached the bed. She was nervous, prayed she did not appear as inexperienced as she felt. But she wanted him to know that she wanted him. Bran.

  He started to stand but she placed a hand on his shoulder. “No, tonight you will do as I say.”

  For a moment he looked as if he would protest, then a slight smile curved his lips. “You do recall that I am a difficult student?”

  A tiny thrill shot through Adria. She raised a brow at him. “No matter, as I am an exacting teacher.”

  Amusement curled his lips but his eyes had gone dark and filled with heat, which caused her belly to clench. She slid her hands down her legs, watched Bran’s gaze dart to follow their path as she pulled the material of her tunica up. Adria caught her breath at the hunger in his eyes as he tilted his head to look at her exposed thighs. She paused for only a moment before kneeling on the bed and crawling behind him. He made to turn but she put another restraining hand on his shoulder. “No.”

  She sensed his frustration and smiled in satisfaction, but Bran obeyed her, though his hands and curled into fists at his sides. Adria positioned herself behind him and ran her hands across the wide expanse of his shoulders. Gods, she loved the feel of him, firm and unyielding beneath warm, smooth skin, the play of muscle beneath her touch as he shifted. Powerful, strong and dangerous. She speared her fingers through his hair, reveling in the thick silk strands, regretting that she could not enjoy it longer as she brushed the locks away from his neck.

  Adria felt him tense at the exposure, a gladiator’s natural response, she supposed, and she wondered if he would call a halt to her exploration. Tentatively, like one would do to a skittish stallion, she began to stroke the strong column of his neck. She traced the ridged scars of his gladiator’s mark, felt a stab of anger that such perfection had been marred. She pressed her lips to it then began to massage his shoulders in a soothing, swirling pattern. In moments, the muscles relaxed beneath her fingers and Bran leaned his head to the side to allow her easier access.

  A swell of pleasure swept Adria at his display of trust. She moved her hands down his bare back, her fingers skimming along the white lines and ridges of scars that crisscrossed his back. She traced the raised skin. Anger flared within her that he had been so hurt, beaten like a dog.

  Bracing her hands on his shoulders, Adria began to trail kisses along the scarred tissue, nuzzled his neck. Bran hissed in a breath but she squeezed his shoulders in a silent command to be still. She smiled to herself as his fists tightened further. Always in control. She meant to remedy that.

  “What lessons are you trying to convey?” Bran asked in a strangled voice.

  “Oh, many lessons,” she whispered in his ear. “The first is obedience. Stand and face me.”

  Bran hissed out a breath and Adria wondered if she’d tested him too sorely. But he pushed himself off the bed.

  “Turn around,” she commanded.

  Bran turned until he faced her, legs braced in his favored fighting stance, his emerald gaze locked on her.

  Adria released a shaky breath. “Remove your loincloth.”

  Bran hesitated just long enough that Adria thought she might have to beg, which would spoil the plans she had. She held her breath until he lifted his right hand and pulled the ties loose. With his legs spread apart, the triangle of linen floated to the floor.

  Gods, he was magnificent! She thought she would never tire of his wide chest furred with crisp black hair that swirled in an enticing pattern down the flat, ridged plane of his stomach, arrowing into the thick nest of curls between his legs. Adria’s eyes snagged at the juncture between his thighs. His cock, thick and swollen, jutted out in full arousal only a hand’s reach from where she knelt on the bed.

  “Tutor, have you forgotten your lesson?” he asked in a low, rumbling voice.

  Adria reluctantly pulled her gaze away and caught the smugness in his own. She swallowed against her dry throat. If she wanted memories to keep, then she would have them.

  “Oh, no student. I have not,” she answered. Straightening on her knees she grasped his member in one hand. Bran closed his eyes, threw his head back and hissed in a breath.

  Adria spared a glance at Bran’s face, concerned that she may have hurt him. But the look from beneath his half-closed lids convinced her she had not. She studied his shaft. She’d had it within her many times in the past weeks, but she’d never had a chance to examine what it was that had sent her to such shattering climaxes. Large and thick, it felt like an iron bar wrapped in softest velvet. He twitched beneath her hand and instead of releasing him, she cupped her other hand around him and slid up and down along his length.

  “Gods, woman! Keep doing that and I’ll come in your hand!”

  Adria hid a smile. She did not wish for him to have all the pleasure.

  She released him, amazed that his member still stood at attention. Adria scooted off the opposite side of the bed. Bran looked as if he would pursue her but she did not give him the chance. “Lie down. On your back,” she instructed.

  “Woman, I am done with games,” he growled.

  Adria kept her distance as she rounded the end of the bed. “Oh, this is no game,” she whispered. “Lie down.”

  At that moment, Bran looked every inch the barbarian. There was murder in his eyes but she was reassured that the hunger flickering in those green depths would be enough for him to obey. Growling like a wild beast, he lay on the bed, legs spread wide and propped on his elbows.

  Holding his gaze, she lifted her left hand to the fibulae at her shoulder. She removed it with purpose and heard his sharp intake of breath as the material fluttered down, exposing one breast. Holding the pin in her hand, she repeated the action on the other side. The look on Bran’s face was pure lust as he stared at her bared torso.

  “Woman, get in the bed. Now.”

  Bran’s eyes tracked her as she strolled casually around the bed, arousing her with the intensity of his attention. It was all she could do not to leap on top of him. Memories. She wanted to make memories. “There are lessons yet for you to learn,” she whispered huskily. She pulled the cord around her waist loose and stepped out of the dress as it pooled at her feet. Bran made a grab for her but she stepped just beyond his reach. “Be still. Trust me, Bran.”

  Looking even more dangerous, he did as she asked. But he was near the edge of his patience. She picked up the small crockery jar she’d left on the nearby table and sat on the bed beside him. Their hips barely touched but she could feel the heat of his skin like a torch.

  “Bryna’s poor feline was so distraught today,” she began, lifting the lid off the container. “Honey is so sticky.”

  Bran growled low in his throat. “You have stirred me with your foreplay and now are talking about that demon cat?”

  Adria shrugged and pulled out the wooden stirrer in the pot. She held the gooey stream up to the oil lamp. “I know you sought to teach the boys a lesson by taking care of the mess, but you know the cat would have licked it off eventually.” She leaned across his chest and swirled a small dab of the golden fluid on first one then the other of his nipples.

  “It just takes time.” Another thick stream swirled along his ridged stomach to pool in his umbilicus. Adria licked her lips. “And a concentrated effort.”
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  Bran watched her, his gaze burning. Adria set the pot aside. “Shall I show you how to clean it best?”

  Swiveling onto her knees, Adria leaned over and began to lave the sweet syrup from his chest. Bran growled, arched his back as the sensitive nubs pebbled beneath her tongue. He caught her head between his hands, but not to pull her free, Adria realized with delight, but to hold her closer so that she might do a more thorough job.

  “You have honey on your lip,” he said, guiding her mouth down to his, where he ran his tongue over her lower lip.

  “I think,” said Adria, between kisses, “that the honey is gone.”

  “No,” he breathed. “There is more.”

  Her braced arms went weak as he plundered her mouth, his tongue nudging her lips open so that he could delve into her. Gods, he tasted so good. She angled her head to deepen the kiss, desperate to imprint his taste—honey, wine, spicy musk and male— on her lips and on her heart.

  Adria raised up and slipped one leg over so that she straddled Bran’s waist. She felt the hard length of his erection pressing against her bottom. In a moment, she thought dazedly, running her hand against the stubble of his jaw as he continued his onslaught of her mouth. But the moment was lost in the growing whirlpool of need consuming her. She straightened and looked down at him.

  Bran was watching her, his breath coming in short, quick pants, his eyes smoldering with desire. She would always remember him like this, she vowed. Strong and wonderful.

  Still holding his gaze, she sidled back and positioned herself over his cock. He reached for her but before he could take hold, she lowered herself onto him.

  Adria threw her head back, reveled in the feel of him within her sheath. So hard, so thick, so perfect. Beneath her, his hips begin to move, his shaft sliding. Small movements at first, then longer, quicker thrusts. She clamped down with her thighs while reaching blindly for Bran’s outstretched hands for support.