Barbarian's Soul: A Historical Romance

by Joan Kayse

  Adria’s face crumpled, her troubled eyes reflecting the same guilt Bran knew so well, the guilt she had chastised him for holding. Now was not the time to point out the similarities. Not when her heart was so obviously broken.

  Not when Tiege and his bastards might return at any moment, alerted by others who felt as Lycus did.

  “Come, agara,” he whispered. “We must leave.”

  Adria allowed him to lead her from the rooms. Bran could feel her trembling and when they reached the first set of stairs, he scooped her into his arms, ignored her weak protests and carried her down to the courtyard.

  Bran hesitated. He wanted to keep Adria safe, spare her the brunt of the residents’ anger, a dozen or more of whom blocked their way. Beneath his hands, Adria straightened her shoulders. “I will put you down,” he whispered in her ear, as he set her feet on the ground. “But only because I can defend you better with both hands free.”

  “You’re not in the arena,” she bit out.

  Bran scanned the group and the high emotion reflected there. “Do not be so certain.”

  Adria smoothed back her hair, ran a hand down her dress and spoke to a weathered-faced woman. “Where is Miriam, Sola?”

  The woman moved her toothless gums in a chewing motion, stared with bleary eyes at a goat tethered beside her.

  “Sola?”

  “She is as old as the dirt beneath our feet,” said

  Bran. “Perhaps she did not hear you?”

  Adria’s jaw clenched. “She hears well enough, especially if coin is involved.”

  Sola flicked her gaze to them, then returned to the goat when she saw no silver in hand. Bran hoped the goat spat on her.

  Bran stayed close as Adria approached the woman she’d greeted on their arrival.

  “Lucia?”

  Lucia turned away.

  Adria faced the circle of residents. “Demetri? Agnes? Please, Agnes. Do you know where Miriam went?”

  Each person in turn either met Adria’s inquiry with sullen silence or a display of scorn. Bran’s anger flared at the hysterical edge in her voice. “Agara, come.”

  Adria raised her eyes to his, their violet depths bright with tears, tears she had not, nor would she, shed in front of these bastards. Placing a threatening hand on the hilt of his sword, Bran glowered at the cluster of people until they cleared a path for them to leave. Still keeping a wary eye on them, Bran escorted Adria out into the street, vowing that he would kill the master thief for her pain.

  “Adria?”

  The voice was so soft, Bran almost missed it, but Adria had not. With unerring accuracy Adria moved into the shadow of a nearby alley with him close on her heels, and found a small girl hiding there.

  A soft smile curved Adria’s mouth as she knelt down in front of the girl. “Mili! I am so glad to see you.”

  Mili smiled shyly, sparing Bran nothing more than a curious glance with eyes as big, brown and beautiful as a doe. He forced himself to ease lest he frighten the child.

  “I’m glad to see you too, Adria,” replied the girl. She made a face. “I was afraid I’d never see you again. Grandmother is very well. She says the oranges brought her back from the river Styx.”

  “Adria,” he said in a low whisper, kneeling down beside her. “It would be best if we did not delay our departure.”

  Mili pointed a small finger at Bran’s chest. “My grandmother says it is not polite to interrupt someone when they are talking. Do you want to act like a barbarian?”

  Bran raised both brows as Adria nearly choked on a spurt of laughter. He supposed he could ignore the set down and insult if it eased Adria’s sorrow.

  “You’ll have to excuse him, Mili,” she said. “But he is right. The people of the insulae are not keen for my presence.”

  Mili shook her head, nut-brown curls bouncing. “Because of Miriam?”

  Gods, Bran thought, don’t let this child know what had happened.

  “She got hurt. Some bad men came and hit her a lot. They made her cry.”

  “I know,” Adria said, her voice thick with emotion.

  Mili peeked out from the alley, then lowered her voice so that Bran and Adria had to strain to hear her.

  “She is well, Adria. My grandmother took care of her until she could get on a pony and leave. She and all of her children left for some place far away.”

  Bran felt the tension drain from Adria. He placed a hand on her back and gently rubbed.

  Mili chewed on her lower lip. “It is too far away, where she went. I can’t play with her little girls anymore.”

  “I know,” Adria answered. “But they are safe and there are lots of other children for you to play with here.”

  The depth of compassion in Adria’s voice caused Bran’s chest to constrict.

  Mili looked quizzically at Adria. “I could play with you.”

  “No,” Adria answered. “I will—” she paused “—I will not return to the...house.”

  Bran recognized the emptiness echoed in her words. A loss of home, of family—he looked around the crumbling alley—the loss of one’s sense of self. But she wasn’t alone, he thought, not as long as he had breath in his body.

  He would take Adria to Eire.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Adria sighed, reveled in her new favored position, on her side, nestled against Bran’s warm body, one leg draped across his firm thigh. She would be content to remain here the rest of her days, making love by dawn’s new light and dusk’s waning. Food and drink would be inconsequential as long as she was in Bran’s arms. She sighed again. She didn’t have time to lay about in bed.

  Not when there was revenge to seek and a confused boy to save.

  Her contentment drained away. Her relief at discovering Miriam had survived her ordeal and fled to safety did little to assuage the guilt of causing Tiege’s men to seek out her foster mother. Her chest tightened. If not for her, Miriam would not have been hurt. Fool! Gods, she’d been so arrogant and stupid to believe that the master thief with his vast network of cronies and a burgeoning interest in her skills would not have known where she lived. Information that became all too useful when she publicly humiliated him. Because of her, Miriam might well have been killed.

  She would not make the same mistake with Linus.

  The youth continued in his secretive ways, avoided Adria as if she had the pox, but he knew better than to be too-long absent from Bran’s attention. Oh, he hadn’t mellowed, had continued to snarl and be argumentative. Adria pressed her lips together. Clever boy, taking advantage of Bran’s distractions. Another pang of guilt pricked at the knowledge she was part of that diversion.

  Part of her pushed to be done with it and tell Bran what she knew about Linus’ involvement with the gang. So many different scenarios played out in her mind with that choice and all of them full of danger. The worst was the thought of Bran donning his gladiator persona and attacking the nest of Vipera. The monsters were feared and loathed among the plebeians but the authorities would not hesitate to arrest a former slave, a barbarian, for the slaughter of citizens, no matter how nefarious.

  Adria pushed that fear from her thoughts.

  She shifted and studied Bran. He looked so relaxed in his slumber. Black lashes fanned in a crescent over his bronzed skin, the lines of strain around his full, firm, wonderful mouth erased. Since they had started sharing a bed, his nightmares visited less often. If one made it through, Adria had only to smooth his brow, claim his mouth and the night terror was thwarted. Would the dreams of blood and death return with her departure? Gods, she prayed not.

  And she would return to the streets. Once she had Linus back on a safe path, she would disappear. She would never lead Tiege to her family again.

  Adria resisted the urge to run her finger across the stubble of his beard for fear of waking him. She snuggled her face against his shoulder, inhaled his scent, noted the different hints of forest and musk and spice so uniquely Bran. Fear shuddered through her that this memory might
be lost to her when she returned to the acrid stench of the streets.

  It wouldn’t. She would never forget this man.

  If she delayed one moment longer, she might lose her resolve. Gingerly, she eased from his hold, paused when he mumbled and grasped her waist. The ache in her chest grew at his protective gesture.

  Bit by bit Adria slipped free until she stood by the bed sparing one more look. Flat on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other still curved as if holding her. His face was tilted in her direction, the harsh lines of his handsome features all but erased with the relaxation of his slumber. Her eyes devoured him, searing every nuance of this magnificent man into her memory.

  Adria put a hand over her mouth and took several deep breaths to quell the tears threatening to spill out. She would not cry. This was for the children, for Menw, for Bran.

  A wry smile tugged at her lips as she wiped tears from her eyes. She could just envision Bran scowling at the notion that he needed protection. But he did. Not so much from the master thief, but from her and her ties to Rome. She would never ask him to stay, not when he’d endured so much tragedy at the hands of her people. Suffered so much betrayal.

  She ruthlessly suppressed the thought that he would see this as another betrayal, a wave of guilt that it was, in part, true. She’d coaxed him from his protective walls, earned his trust, only to do exactly what he’d expect, run from him. His pride would stand the blow. But it would hurt her beyond measure that he would count her among the heartless Romans.

  How could she be heartless when that very thing was breaking?

  She glanced at the skylight above and could just make out a lightening of the night’s darkness. She moved quietly, her thief’s stealth enabling her to dress without making a sound. She slipped an older, rough woolen tunic she’d found at the bottom of Bran’s chest over head and tied it with a length of woven cord. She sliced off a bit with her own knife which she’d also discovered in Bran’s possession, and tied her hair in a braid. Glancing once more at the man who’d come to fill her heart, she left the room.

  Adria stopped at the children’s room, her heart seizing with love as she looked at Cyma, one thumb stuck in her mouth, her curls tousled like a bag of gold across her pillow. She ran a gentle hand over her head. The little girl sighed and snuggled into her pallet.

  Julian lay sprawled on his back, covers kicked free, his sword arm restless. She smiled. No doubt even in his dreams he fought invaders. With just as much care, she covered him over, kissed her fingers and placed them on his forehead in silent farewell.

  Her gaze moved to the far pallet and at the form covered in blankets. Moving carefully, she lifted the corner of the covers and was unsurprised to find sacks of grain. She’d heard Linus leave hours ago, when Bran and she were still awake.

  Forcing herself to walk unhurried, alert to any noise, she made her way down the stairs. She paused to glance around the kitchen at the herbs hanging to dry, the cooking vessels stacked and ready to use, the amphorae of wine that had not dwindled in the past weeks, Bran having less need for it. An overwhelming sadness gripped her again.

  She was leaving home.

  She had to go now, before she changed her mind. She hurried across the rear yard, found the wall gate loosely fastened with a length of cord. Careful not to loosen the knot, Adria managed to squeeze through the opening. Behind her, she heard Cyclops bleat. Without a backward glance, she sped down the alley.

  ***

  Bran’s eyes snapped open when he felt the cool breeze from the skylight brush across his chest. He knew in an instant that Adria was not where she should be.

  How could he not have known she’d left his side? He’d not slept that soundly since—he raked a hand over his face—he couldn’t remember. Perhaps since being dragged from his land in chains, but even then there had never been such a peace and contentment in his soul to dull his awareness of his surroundings. Bran smiled ruefully. Never until Adria.

  He swung his legs over and sat up, by habit surveying his surroundings. The tunica she had worn yesterday lay neatly folded where she had left it. He smiled, remembering her insistence that it was too fine a garment to be ripped off her body as he had wanted to do on their return from the Forum. His disappointment had been rewarded when she’d slowly undressed before him like an exotic Persian dancer, teasing his senses to the point of madness. He would allow her any number of dresses and finery if she would vow to remove them all in such a manner.

  But where was she this morning? From below, he heard the ceaseless chattering of Cyma and Julian. A warmth stole over him. She’d be with the children, seeing to their morning meal, perhaps teaching them more of her Roman letters. He rose, stretched the kinks from his back and padded over to the basin. He poured water into it and began to wash. Soon he’d be bathing in the bracing waters of the crystal-clear lake nestled in the forests of his clan’s land. The warmth in his chest bloomed into searing heat at the image of Adria in his arms on the soft, grassy bank, claiming that delicious mouth, teasing her woman’s mound before burying himself within her welcoming sheath, just as they had done last eve—three times. Laughing, she’d called him a barbarian for his insatiable demands while eagerly meeting them with her own. Bran glanced up into the polished metal disc positioned over the bowl. The reflection of the smiling man caused him to suck in a sharp breath.

  Bran was not a vain man, but he’d seen his likeness before, and while the image was hazy there was no mistaking the change in his visage. Gone were the shadows, the grim lines of self-recrimination, the haunted darkness in his eyes. Instead he saw something he’d thought never to see—or feel—again. He saw hope.

  The truth came together in a jumble of realizations—he no longer felt weight on his soul, his chest was not tight with guilt, he no longer turned to wine to ease his burden.

  He turned to Adria.

  He could not set a time when his feelings for Adria changed, though if he were to wager, there had been a bond from the moment he’d looked down from Paulin’s wall into those beautiful, violet eyes. Even then, some part of him had seen the light within her, the answer to the darkness in his heart.

  He dried his face and arms with a linen cloth and snatched his rumpled tunic up from the floor—he had not been so conscientious as his woman—and dressed. She would heal from her grief once he got her away from Rome. The verdant hills and valleys of Eire would soothe her troubled mind, show her that life was more than survival. Yes, he would take his agara, his love, home.

  Lacing his boots, he slipped his knife into the side of his right one, grabbed his sheath and sword and very near to whistling, bounded down the steps.

  “But Adria always puts honey on my porridge,” Cyma said in a plaintive voice.

  Menw raked his hand through his hair. “I know, but there is no more honey.”

  Bran smiled at the pointed look Menw gave him and scooped up a piece of bread. He tore off a piece and popped it in his mouth, his gaze skimming the kitchen. “Where is Adria?”

  “She’s not here,” answered Julian, marching his spoon to his bowl of gruel.

  Bran’s gaze shot to Menw who was looking at him with a puzzled expression.

  “I...I thought her to be with you.”

  Bran shook his head.

  “Perhaps she went to bathe,” suggested Menw.

  Perhaps. It had become a favorite of Adria’s, a favorite of them both. Images of their foreplay in the sweet heat of the pool mocked him as Bran approached the door. Things did not feel right. It took only a quick glance to find what he expected—steam rising undisturbed from the sunken pool.

  Cold dread sank into his gut. She’d been angry and upset after their journey to her old home. Riddled with guilt about the attack on her foster mother, he’d sensed her utter helplessness. Those were emotions with which he was well acquainted and had credited her quiet reserve on the way home to grieving the loss of her world.

  She was not passive, his woman. No Adria, this woman o
f Rome, was full of fire and passion, not just of the type that filled his bed, his body—Bran swallowed hard—his heart, but of the attributes one applied to all of life. Forged with compassion and fierce defense of those less able to fend for themselves, she was a warrior. A warrior who might allow outrage and guilt to make bad decisions.

  “Menw,” he bit out as he entered the kitchen. “Keep the children safe. Take them to Bryna’s. Take the coffer with you.”

  “What’s happened?” asked Menw, banking the hearth fire even as he spoke.

  “Nothing that I cannot right.” He hoped. A pain gripped his heart. What if his suspicions were unfounded? What if Adria had taken advantage of his lowered guard and simply escaped as she always stated she would? Would the pleasure they found in each other’s arms stand as nothing?

  “What of Adria and Linus?”

  Do you have visions like Bryna? Did you see Linus?

  Why had she asked that? Linus was a problem, one that challenged Bran at every turn. He was handling the boy.

  “The streets are a dangerous place for boys filled with rebellion.”

  Gods.

  He met Menw’s gaze. “I will bring them to Bryna’s.”

  “Papa?”

  Bran’s heart clenched as he looked down into Cyma’s anxious face. He kissed her on the head. “It will be all right little one.” To Julian he said, “Keep Menw and your sister safe until my return.”

  He headed across the courtyard, not surprised to see the garden gate pried open. With one slash of his sword he cut the rope and threw it open. The alley branched in two directions. The left branch was little more than a narrow space between buildings. It ended at another street filled with too many people. To the right was a proper path lined with back entrances to a few other small houses and twice as many tenements. Adria could have chosen either one.

  Of course her path would be determined by her reason to leave. If she sought revenge against Tiege, she would head toward the district where she lived. He knew the general direction they’d traveled, tried to retrace the route in his mind. The warren of streets and alleyways of the cursed city was like a maze. Gods, he didn’t have time to navigate Rome’s infernal layout.