When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  An hour later, after hasty good-byes, where both Wryn and Gwen acted irrationally jealous of his upcoming exile, Eric flung himself on his horse and rode off.

  Linen tunics and excellent mounts surrounded the inn. Young men gathered eagerly in the courtyard. The future generation of Roman statesmen, Father would call them, and remind him of how far he fell short. Cara spoke truth, though. If he could memorize Ovid and read Hebrew, he could pass Balbinus Maximus’ class. Not by much mayhap, but he would pass.

  Eric swung off his horse and led the steed to the stables. Marcellus leaned back against a wooden post. Eric stopped in front of him. “You opted for the forum over Victor’s debauched party? I’m all agog.”

  Marcellus paused. He tensed one hand around the wood behind him. “You shouldn’t go.”

  He didn’t intend to, but Eric widened his eyes. “Why would you care?”

  “Your father wouldn’t be fighting this much smuggling if the smugglers didn’t have patrician backing. What better place to knife a Paterculi than at such a party?” Something dark shone in Marcellus’ eyes.

  Eric stared at him. Maybe he would go to Victor’s party. If he could apprehend a smuggler, Father might actually approve of him for a few moments.

  Chapter 9

  Palla pulled over her head, Cara snuck through the dark streets. A man reeled out of an alley. She pressed back against a house’s eaves until he’d passed.

  Finally, the white marble of the temple glinted in the moonlight ahead of her, the flames of the altar shining through the pillars.

  Victor’s horse pawed the ground. Kicking the horse forward, Victor cantered up, leaned down, and swung her into the saddle.

  The horse’s hooves beat the cobblestone as they exited the city gate and rode on down deserted roads. As the wind blew through her uncovered hair and moonlight lit the oak trees overhanging the path, she tasted freedom. Only one more night of freedom ever, but she’d make the most of it.

  Victor touched her thigh.

  She shoved his hand away. “Stop touching me.”

  “You’re sitting against my chest on a galloping horse.” He slid his hand across her stomach.

  “Touch me less, then.” Ripping his arm away, she moved up to the horse’s withers. The horse leaped over a pothole and she careened forward.

  Victor grabbed her waist and caught her. “You’re going to get yourself killed. If you didn’t trust me, you shouldn’t have agreed to ride on my horse.”

  “I just wanted to see Eric.” Tears welled in her eyes. After tonight, she’d never see Eric again.

  “Why? It’s not as if he thinks you’re comely.”

  “How would you know?” Cara knit her hands in the horse’s mane as the steed’s gait jolted her.

  “He’d not stop at chaste kisses if he thought you comely.”

  “Eric respects women.” She stiffened as she sat three handbreadths from Victor. Though why had Eric so swiftly turned away from her kisses at the tabula board?

  “I’ve seen him grind a girl before.”

  “Who?” That patrician one who wore pink silk? No, a patrician girl would be closely chaperoned. Another girl at Victor’s parties? A slave?

  “I don’t remember. It was some time ago.”

  Some time ago? Eric said he’d never even kissed a girl until that time behind the training grounds, but Victor wouldn’t lie, and Eric did find her comely. He did. Only, maybe he didn’t. Victor spoke the truth when he said she couldn’t possibly avoid falling off this horse without sitting back against him. Cara slid down from the horse’s withers. “Do you know any patricians hiring scribes? I’ve a friend who’s looking for a job.”

  “Ha! With this Dacian conflict and the worst midsummer storms in a decade, trade’s going to Hades. My father discharged two secretaries this week.”

  “Are any of your friends hiring? Their little girl will starve if he doesn’t find work.”

  “If you cry for every person who starves this winter, I won’t see a smile on your lovely face from first frost to Mayday.” Victor brushed his fingers across her cheek.

  She slapped his hand down. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Wars cost coin, too. I’d bet ten aurei the Emperor will raise taxes this year. By first frost, there will be no work in all Camulodunum.”

  Father’s business had slowed, too. Perhaps she should feel grateful her husband-to-be made a good living, but just now, she’d like to shove those coins down Conan’s throat.

  A few miles later, the path opened. Noise and light spilled out of a large farmhouse. Victor spurred the horse to the stables.

  As they rode up to the stable, a woman’s giggle then a man’s voice rose from behind a stable wall. Victor swung off his horse and reached for her. She jumped off the other side and hurried toward the light of the farmhouse.

  The door creaked open. Inside, a multitude of oil lamps lit the room to a brilliance reminiscent of day. Food stuff piled on tables at the edges, and from the look of the men and women interacting here, wine already flowed liberally.

  A tabula table sat in the middle of the room. Eric’s white linen tunic stretched tight as he leaned over the game.

  Smiling, Cara walked up to the crowded table. She touched the wood by Eric’s forearm. “Need a partner?”

  Eric turned. Surprise shone in his eyes, but he slid to the right and made room. “Yes.”

  See! He did find her comely, or maybe he only valued her skill at tabula. She slid onto the bench. Squeezing away from the sharp-jawed man on her left, she brushed against Eric.

  Across the table, the slick-haired man slapped down a piece. “Raise you five.”

  Touching Eric’s upper arm, Cara leaned up to his ear. She felt the heat of his skin as his beautiful brown hair brushed her forehead. “Make it ten.”

  Eric shifted his arm to the back of the bench. “Why?”

  With his movement, she sat almost in the circle of his arm, his shoulder behind her head. She leaned across his chest to whisper, “He left that piece open to capture.” Please, let him find me comely. All right, stulte prayer. God would scarcely aid her in getting a man not-her-betrothed to fall in love with her.

  A half-hour later, she slid their final piece over the finish line for their fourth victory.

  Victor walked up behind her. He looked at Eric. “Time to remember who brought her here.”

  “What?” Eric touched the game board, his ear half-cocked toward Victor.

  “Me.” Victor slid his fingers across Cara’s shoulder.

  She slapped his hand away. “Doesn’t mean you can control who I talk to.”

  “Maybe not just talk.” Victor leaned over her, trailing his hands down both her arms.

  Placing one hand against his chest, she shoved him. Ecce, that’s what she wished she could have done to Conan when he’d touched her at that feast two days ago.

  A wicked grin stretched Eric’s mouth. He made eye contact with Victor. “Cara might have come with you, but one doesn’t need Cicero’s wits to see who she prefers.”

  Behold, Eric did care! Leaning past Eric’s shoulders, Cara broke Conan’s command and brushed her lips against Eric’s.

  Eric moved his arm around her.

  Victor snorted. “A sisterly kiss? You should have seen the kiss she gave me at her papa’s shop.”

  Eric dropped his gaze to her, more surprise in his brown eyes.

  Heat built on her cheeks. “I only did it because Victor made a stulte wager, and I’ll never kiss him again.”

  Laughing, Victor swept his hand across her cheek. “You could have stopped any time, but you didn’t, did you? Not for a very long time.”

  “Not that long, and I’m saying ‘stop’ now.” Cara glanced to Eric. Though she sat in the circle of his arm, he no longer looked at her.

  Victor arched his eyebrows. “What numbers were on that tablet when I kissed you?”

  She couldn’t picture the tablet, but she distinctly remembered the hot feeling wra
pping around her body at the shop that day. In fact, it wrapped around her again now.

  Victor brushed her shoulder, tracing his finger down her arm. “Find me when you want a ride home, mi carissime.”

  Eric rolled his eyes, but he dropped his arm from her.

  As if he disliked that she’d kissed Victor? Turning her back pointedly toward Victor, Cara picked up a tabula piece. “Eric – ”

  “Eric, I want to show you a shipment of discuses I just received.” Victor raised his wine goblet.

  “Can’t you see I’m playing tabula?” Eric picked up the dicebox.

  “You haven’t even started the new game,” Victor said.

  “I’m going to.” Eric rattled the dicebox.

  “I think the weight’s off in the disks. You know the discus best of anyone. Please help me.”

  Cara glanced back at Victor. He never said “please”.

  “Quidquid.” Eric climbed out of the bench. His shoulder brushed against hers as he scrambled out of the tight space, but he didn’t spare her a glance.

  Now she sat at the table alone with patrician men. Not that plenty of women didn’t crowd around this table, but they weren’t sitting on the bench playing. Rather, they stood behind patricians, or sat on patricians, or twisted around patricians.

  All eyes turned toward her. A man on the right slid down, taking Eric’s abandoned space by the tabula board. She could smell his breath.

  The sharp-jawed man turned toward her. “You can play on my side.”

  With a shake of her head, she climbed off the bench. She should never have kissed Victor, but if Eric was jealous, perhaps he did care about her.

  “Where are these discuses?” Eric walked into the room Victor indicated. Dusty crates filled the small space. A chalice filled with wine sat on one. He’d need to stock discuses and javelins for his training school, which is why he’d researched the quality of all the Britannia producers. The Grecian discuses had a better grip than any Britannia-make, but they sold for twice the cost.

  “Drink first.” Victor held the chalice forward.

  “There’s more than enough wine flowing at this party already.” Whoever Cara’s mother was, the woman had severely neglected Cara’s education about men. Not only did she kiss Victor, but she came to this festivity, on Victor’s horse no less. Gwen had abandoned such naïveté by the time she’d turned ten.

  “It’s one glass of wine.”

  Eric glared at Victor. “Stay away from Cara.” After he caught a smuggler, he’d offer her a ride home.

  “Why?” Victor spilled wine into his own cup.

  “Because you’ll hurt her.” He probably should get back to that main room before a different lecher hurt her. All Victor’s parties encouraged licentiousness, but this one already grew ten times worse than the others.

  “I wager you don’t care enough about her to break your fool prohibition against strong drink.”

  “A fool’s prohibition? Because drunkenness always attracts Socratic men.” Now that all the men grew drunk, he could mingle through the tables listening for talk of smuggling. Marcellus needn’t have worried. He had his knife, and any man who attempted to stab him between the ribs would find himself bleeding out first.

  Victor touched the crate behind him, voice suggestive. “If I’m wrong and you drink with me tonight, I’ll leave your girl alone. If not, there’s an empty stable out back and quite a few hours left in the night.”

  “She’d never do that with you.”

  “So sure?”

  “Yes.” Eric glared at Victor.

  “Sometimes if one person wants it, the other has very little choice.”

  “You had better not.” Flicking his knife out, Eric gripped the handle. The lamplight glimmered off the blade, not so very many handbreadths from Victor’s chest.

  “A jest. I’ve never forced a girl.”

  An abhorrently coarse jest, but he believed Victor. He’d never seen Victor violent. “Good.”

  Victor held out the chalice. “Peace offering, drink with me.”

  “I don’t need – ”

  “It’s diluted wine, not even strong drink.” Victor extended the chalice again. “We’re friends, right?”

  “Sometimes, I wonder why.” Eric seized the cup from Victor’s hand and drained it.

  A moment passed, then another.

  His head and feet felt heavy. The room wobbled. Stumbling forward, he crashed down on the crate. The room stopped tilting, and he reached for the shelf above him. The shelf broke under his too clumsy hand.

  Strangely, he laughed. His laugh sounded unusually loud.

  Taking a seat on the crate across from him, Victor started talking, saying many things, asking many things.

  Fog rolled over Eric’s consciousness, but he could see Victor’s face now. Through the blur, he started answering: saying anything, asking anything, laughing at anything.

  “Does your father know the Ocellis are smugglers and pirates?”

  “You’re the smugglers Wryn’s hunting?” Despite the fog in his mind and the heaviness in his limbs, Eric jerked up. “I’ll report you to the garrison.”

  “No, you won’t. I drugged you. By morning, you’ll have no remembrance of anything that passed this night.”

  “I’ll report you now, then.” He grabbed for his knife. The blade fell between his large fingers and his hand hit his leg instead.

  “Stay.”

  The word reverberated in Eric’s head. He tried to stand, but his legs refused to obey.

  “The potion also makes you suggestible. You’ll find it difficult to say ‘nay’ to anything one tells you to do tonight.”

  “What?”

  A footstep sounded at the door. A slave woman dressed in yellow stood in the doorway. “I was looking for you, Master.”

  Victor’s irritated gaze jerked up. “Leave now, Venus.”

  The door clicked shut behind the woman and the questions continued. Victor spoke truth. Eric’s answers spilled out as much as he tried to stay his tongue.

  After what seemed like hours, Victor clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t tell anyone what I asked you tonight.” He exited to the main room.

  Senses burning, Eric stood. His too heavy leg hit the crate. It crumbled under the blow and amphorae rolled out. He knelt and grabbed for them. Clay broke underneath his legs as his numb limbs crushed what they touched.

  The hour passed from late into scandalously late. Oil lamps burnt low and only stubs of the tall candles remained when Cara kissed him.

  The roughness of his lips clung to hers. He touched her waist, shooting tingles through her. This is what everyone else in the now almost empty room had already started hours ago.

  She let him deepen the kiss, and heat rose across her body. As she rested her hand on his belt, the headiness of freedom and her senses intertwined.

  “The gods of Olympus once had a beauty contest.” His deep voice had a magical quality. “Hera, against Athena, against Aphrodite, and Zeus named a Trojan, Paris, the judge. If you’d been there, Paris would have chosen you.”

  That was a thousand times more than comely. “Show me then.”

  He twisted his hand in her hair, his other arm tugging her so tight against his body. His breathing quickened.

  Cara pressed her chest against the man’s as she reached for more kisses.

  Conan could force her to marry him, but she could easily ensure he’d not get a virgin as his bride.

  What was it like the first time? She’d wondered that then and again ever since she’d started to grow a woman’s body. Within a fortnight’s time, Conan planned to take her to that bed he’d carved, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he’d not brook “nay” for an answer. Did she truly want her first and only experience of this beautiful thing to be with Conan?

  Grabbing the neck of the man’s tunic, she pulled it off his arms, down to his waist. He closed his fingers on her sash.

  Her whole body choked, but the curvy girl at
that party had said the bridegroom couldn’t tell. Or, what if she told Conan herself? He said he’d let her out of the marriage then.

  With a yank and a tug, the man had her sash off and her dress hung flapping around her waist.

  If word of this got out, she’d be shamed through every hill and house. Maybe she shouldn’t do this. Guilt, that thing which Pruella’s mother invented, ate at her.

  He fumbled with the cord at the back of her dress. Maybe they should stop.

  He pulled her dress off one shoulder. Before he could get it all the way off, she grabbed his hand and led the way to the stables.

  Straw crunched beneath her feet. She still had time to stop. Her breath stuck in her throat, but she pressed her mouth together. God’s rules or no, she had the right to do this once of her own accord, with a man she’d chosen to bestow her favors on. She deserved to do this with a man who would make this act a night to remember all her life.

  What act? No one had ever described the details. How did it even work? Ah well, he’d know.

  Moonlight poured through the opening above, reflecting off his now bare chest. His tunic hung down around his thighs.

  He grabbed the neck of her dress, ripping it down. She couldn’t afford a torn dress on the morrow, so she stepped back and slipped it off herself. He needed no other encouragement.

  Hours later, Cara woke up naked on dirty straw, half a pace from him. His back to her, his chest rose in time with his snores and she had bruises from where he’d moved too roughly.

  Straw crunched outside the door. With a mah, a baby goat ambled into the stall. Mahhing insistently, it butted its horn nubs into the man. Outside the stable, the first glimmers of light rose above the horizon.

  At this moment, Conan would be headed toward her house to sign betrothal papers. Grabbing her dress, Cara ran.

  Chapter 10

  Acold mist drenched the streets. The moist wool of Cara’s dress clung to her, seeming even less capable of hiding what she’d chosen to do last night. Though her fingertips grew blue, her cheeks flamed red as she ran.

  Above, lightning streaked through the gray clouds. She spied the white marble of the temple. Pulling her palla tight, she hurried down the streets.