When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Horror filled her eyes. “Don’t say that.”

  “Twin boys. That would be sons, just like you want.” He flicked the sleeve of her dress.

  She made a face. “Don’t you have to go to sleep so you can work tomorrow?”

  “It’s my day off.”

  The fire’s warmth heated Cara’s back as she looked up at Eric. Oh, that was right. “Plans for the morrow?”

  “I still need to teach you to read.” His eyes shone by firelight. His hands had felt so tender against her midsection, and his kisses tasted like honeyed wine. Each time he gave her one, he looked like he wished to do more.

  Shoulder arched, she dug a spoon into the porridge and let her tongue just touch the tip of it. “If you so enjoy setting yourself a task you’re sure to fail at.” She could have torn that shredded tunic off him, too, but now the thick wool of the jerkin covered it. She frowned, but she honestly didn’t want him thinking her a wanton even though this very marriage proved she was one.

  Once Conan had discovered her wantonness, he’d never respected her again. Eric had thought her drunk, but he might revise that thought if she initiated this.

  “I’ll take that bet. What are you offering as your wager?” Eric leaned back on his hands, a self-confident look in his mesmerizing eyes.

  Laying down the bowl, Cara cast her gaze around the room. A bare hovel, a few copper asses, not much more. Her cheeks flushed. She eyed Eric. His gaze lingered on her, wandering down from her face as it did more and more often these days. She scratched her nail against the spoon handle. “A reenactment.”

  “A what?” He picked up the other bowl of porridge.

  “A reenactment, such as when Emperor Claudius staged a naumachia on Fucinus Lake and brought in boats and dressed up war captives to play the role of the Sicilians against the Rhodians, reenacting their famous sea battle. You told me about it.” She felt her cheeks burn, but she looked him right in the eyes.

  “You want to learn to sword fight?” Eric wrinkled his brow. “I should start leaving my knife with you. This is a crime-ridden street.”

  Her cheeks burned even hotter as she shifted on the dirt floor. Eric wouldn’t smile and kiss her like he did if he wasn’t interested, at least according to Pruella’s mother, He didn’t do anything about it, though, almost as if he waited for her to start it. According to Pruella, if she started it, he’d think her wanton, but wagers weren’t wanton. After all, she could win.

  Then again, if he took her bet, she fully intended to lose. Cara pointed around the room. “This pallet certainly is as dirty as stable straw. Perhaps that log could play the role of the baby goat. No horses, though.”

  Eric’s eyes widened.

  Widened meant interested, or not interested?

  The bowl he held fell on the pallet as he leaped to the pack. As he struggled with the ties, he kicked another log onto the fire, sending up a flame of light.

  “What are you doing?”

  He pulled out a scroll. “You have an alphabet to learn.”

  The answer to her question was interested. A smile rose through her. She slid one shoulder back, eyelashes sweeping up.

  Eric moved toward her. His knee touched the thin pallet. He placed his hand behind her back, wrinkling the wool, and lowered his large frame next to her. The edge of his thigh brushed hers, so close she could feel the warmth of it. “Do you know any of the letters already, or should we start with A?”

  She traced her finger across his leg, running over the thick wool. “My babe-fogged mind’s already failed. You win.”

  “No, you bet that I could not teach you, so to win I have to teach you.”

  Her fingers froze, gaze locked on his chiseled mouth, which she’d fully intended to kiss after he kissed her.

  She’d bet the wrong way! To lose, she’d have to read.

  Outside, snow fell. Eric’s cloak around their shoulders, the pallet dragged up to the fire, they sat close, the Galatians scroll spread on his knees. Cara grimaced. All last night and ever since they woke this morn she’d tried, and now the cloud-obscured glow outdoors promised midday and the letters still danced incomprehensibly on the page.

  Any chance a sentence of Galatians would overwhelm him with passion causing him to catch her in his arms and cover her with kisses? Cara suppressed a groan. If only he’d brought an Ovid scroll.

  She traced her gaze across his aquiline nose and over his strong cheekbones. He had good-looking ears, too, firm earlobes flattening against his wavy hair.

  Eric pointed to the page. “Pay attention. I have a mind to win this wager.”

  She sighed. “I wish I hadn’t bet on this.” If only she’d bet he could teach her to read. Then when he couldn’t, as now, she would have lost and had an excuse to tear off his jerkin.

  His face fell, disappointment in those deep brown eyes. “You want to withdraw from the bet?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “How did you mean it?” He studied her face.

  Could she tug his jerkin off anyway? No, that was wanton. With a groan, she rested her elbows on her knees, gaze on the exasperating letters. “I didn’t mean it at all. I’d love to learn to read.” Even if it took wretched years to learn.

  Outdoors, afternoon shadows grew long, fading into the dark of night. “Here in-sen-sati.” Eric separated out the syllables with his broad hand and the letters stopped dancing.

  Cara jerked upright. “Foolish?” She’d just read a word.

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s the apostle calling foolish?”

  “You’ll see. Ga-la-tae. Focus on the syllables separately.” He separated out two or three letters at a time with his hands.

  The words did make more sense that way. She leaned toward the parchment. “The Galatians.” She skimmed her gaze down as he pointed to the syllables and the dancing letters formed into words and she read them. Read them. “For as many as are of the works of the law are under the curse. What’s that mean?”

  “The law was Moses. The Jews had to rest on the Sabbath, wondrous law by the way. I wish Atticus Orca saw it that way. They couldn’t wear certain fabrics, or eat certain meats.”

  Cara let out a satisfied sigh. “I wonder if they could eat weevils.”

  “And then here, read this.” The parchment crinkled as Eric unrolled the scroll further.

  The words felt strange to her tongue. “Di-c-ite mi-hi. Tell me, ye that desire to be under the – ”

  “Law.” He smiled at her.

  “Law. Do ye not hear the law?” She dug her chin into her hand, fingers on her lips.

  “The Mosaic law was impossible to obey, which is why Jesus died to forgive our failures.”

  “Oh.” She traced the line. They made such beautiful letters, magical letters. Letters she could read.

  “And yet the Galatians wanted more rules, didn’t just want Jesus to forgive.”

  “The Galatians were idiots. Who’d want more rules?” The parchment of the scroll crinkled underneath her hand. That teacher who had called her a dullard had spoken falsehood. She could read.

  “That’s what the apostle Paul said.”

  She swallowed. “What if we’re abominable? Such as, you know, murder a man for his tunic?” Or lay with a drunk man not one’s husband as revenge on one’s almost betrothed. She hugged her arms to her side, teeth bearing into her lower lip until the blood came. Surely God wouldn’t accept that.

  “Read this.” Eric handed the scroll to her. He rested his hand on the pallet by her.

  “Vos enim – Only use not liberty as occasion for the flesh.” She flicked her gaze up to his. “What’s that mean?”

  He shifted toward her, so close. “Jesus does forgive, so much so that you could take advantage of the fact, but you shouldn’t.”

  “In truth?” Guess she should start praying again with God saying He’d listen to sinners.

  “You read well.” He knocked the scroll from her hand with his elbow.

  She dre
w her knees to herself, hugging them to her chest. “Gratias. You’re a good teacher.” She’d read every day now that she knew how.

  “I really am.” He moved his hands behind her shoulders.

  Her knees separated her from him.

  He slipped his arms underneath her as he lifted her in front of him. Then, her knees no longer separated them, but she rested on his.

  She arched one shoulder back, hand on her hip, displaying every curve. “I think I lost this bet.”

  “I’m sure you lost this bet.”

  She ran her hands up under his jerkin, across his hard chest, which really was wanton, but it was a wager. Only ingrates reneged on a bet.

  Eric touched his mouth to her. He tasted of sweat and dock grease with the faintest odor of moldy straw. His chest moved in and out as he breathed, his arms holding her tight against himself.

  The grease streaked calluses on his hand brushed against her cheek so gently, his skin skimming over hers. She yanked his jerkin off and slid her hands across the falling apart threads underneath. A gust of the fire’s warmth blew across her. “You’re reenacting quite splendidly.”

  He pulled her down to the straw pallet. Stretched out beside her, his elbow on the pallet, chin in his hand, he gazed at her. “I intend to remember it this time.”

  Lightening jolted through her. Cara sat straight up. “You don’t remember doing this with me?”

  Eric shook his head and grabbed her hands.

  “You must remember something?” Rather than following the tug of his hands, she stared at him.

  “Nothing.”

  “You still believed me when I said the babe was yours? Still married me? Were disinherited for me?” Oh, she was vile, planning to do that with Eric, forcing this life upon him. He could have walked away, said, “if that girl’s wanton enough to get with child, I certainly have no reason to believe her babe is mine.”

  Did he have so much faith in her character to believe her word despite knowing it would ruin him? He must think her a virtuous girl, and she wasn’t. Not even close.

  She’d wondered how he could love her despite everything. Obviously, he could love her because he didn’t really know her. Still, it was love, and she’d take it. If she made sure he never knew the real her, never knew what she really did that night, then maybe he’d keep loving her. “I’m so sorry, Eric, I – ”

  “Not your fault.” He smiled at her, his two hands spanning her waist.

  “But you were so noble, and I was horrid. I need to apologize.”

  “Nothing to forgive.” He pulled her back down beside him. He moved his mouth over hers, his head above her as his mouth touched hers. He moved his hands lower, yanking up the fabric of her dress.

  Sliding her arms around his neck, she kissed him back. Eric hadn’t even remembered, and yet he’d believed her. Even Hercules and Odysseus and all those other men of legend who Eric told her about, wouldn’t have done that.

  Chapter 19

  Weak morning light filtered through the clouds above. The docks swirled with activity as gusty blasts blew last night’s snow into the air. Eric’s jerkin fell down his arm as he reached for a crate.

  “You look like a barbarian.” Atticus Orca’s ridicule rose through the wind.

  Eric swung the crate down. “Maybe I am one.” Every single time he kissed Cara last night, she kissed him back.

  Feet tramped the gangways of the docked vessels, unloading crates and reloading earthen vessels, back and forth. As Cara ran her hand up his chest last night, she’d looked at him like he was Hercules.

  Walking to the ship to the right, Atticus Orca yelled Latin words into a Celt’s tattooed face. The man stared at the overseer.

  Eric thudded his crate down and called, in Celtic, over the water. “He wants you to come two hours earlier tomorrow because there’s a full moon.” He’d always known Cara was beautiful, but he never expected her to be that beautiful. Why did the Greeks build temples to Aphrodite, goddess of beauty? They should build those temples to Cara. Only he wouldn’t let them, because he wasn’t sharing.

  “Is that what the clod’s sayin’? I thought he talked ‘bout some footrace.” The Celt incorporated choice words.

  Eric moved his gaze to the red-faced Atticus Orca as he used a language the overseer did not speak. “I doubt the man’s ever exerted himself thus in all his days under the sun.”

  The Celt laughed and threw in a few more expletives.

  Atticus Orca swung around. “You speak Celtic, rich boy?”

  “Like a native.” Eric carried the crate toward the hull’s ladder. Cara had whispered “I love you” as she fell asleep in his arms last night. His heart had pounded as the words caressed his ears. She hadn’t loved that carpenter.

  “Come here then.” Atticus Orca motioned to him. “Tell those ignorant oafs the lighter boxes go on top and the heavier on the bottom. They’ve botched it all morning.”

  Laying down the crate, Eric moved down the gangway to the other ship. “I wouldn’t stack those on bottom, though.” He gestured to the heavier crates.

  “It’s sandalwood. It goes on the bottom.”

  “No.” Eric pointed to the Hebrew word stamped on the crate. “It says olive oil.” King Xerxes had been defrauded when he held a beauty contest throughout Persia and chose the Hebrew woman Esther as his bride for Cara was a thousand times fairer than this Esther, and she didn’t belong to any king.

  Atticus Orca jerked his sharp chin up. “You read Hebrew?”

  Eric nodded. He thought Cara’s kisses at the tabula board were flaming arrows, but those were burnt out embers compared to the kisses she’d given him last night. When she’d –

  Atticus Orca coughed as if he’d just said something.

  Eric looked over.

  “I said, why are you laboring on a dock?”

  Eric rolled his gaze to the overcast sky above. “For the unadulterated pleasure of working with you, sir.”

  Atticus Orca snorted.

  In front of him, a one-toothed man grasping a crate slipped and landed on one knee. The other dock loaders chortled.

  “Laugh away. I once broke myself out of rope bonds thick around as your finger.” One-toothed man struggled to right himself.

  “As if we’d believe that,” a hairy man catcalled.

  “How did you do it?” Eric grabbed the other side of the one-toothed man’s crate as the man struggled upright. Cara’s eyes had a light in them this morning, also. He never exactly knew what she’d say next, a fascinating riddle, except then she’d arch her eyebrows and touch her hand to her hip, and he couldn’t focus anymore.

  “Scrub your hands back and forth like you’re washing up for the comeliest gal you ever laid eyes on,” one-toothed man said, regaining his balance. “The ropes will loosen up. Then you snag one strand with your thumb.”

  “Come here, Eric,” Atticus Orca yelled, standing on the dock now. “Check these shipping reports for me.”

  Eric slid his side of the crate to the tattooed Celt and walked over. “I’m not actually that good at figures.” That hadn’t stopped Cara from comparing his wits to Cicero last night. Why did she think so highly of him? Father certainly never had. Then again, Cara did many, many things that no one else ever had.

  “It’s written in Hebrew. You read Hebrew. That makes you the best.” Atticus Orca’s self-important voice grated across the planks.

  “Isn’t that scribe work, as in you pay me more for it?” Despite the fact he’d still smelled of the docks, hadn’t shaven in days, and currently could afford no more than a hovel, Cara had kissed him as if he was the only man in the world last night.

  Speaking of hovels, she’d said “disinherited” last night as if she didn’t know that one apology could buy him back the Paterculi wealth. Well, one apology and every drop of pride he had.

  He didn’t suppose any woman would rejoice to learn she could have worn pearls instead of rags and reclined at table instead of scrubbing others’ soiled laund
ering. He stiffened his back. Cara had married him, not his father, and he had every right to provide for her himself rather than rely on his father’s wealth.

  So why did guilt prickle through his veins?

  “Dock work’s getting slower with the winter months. You want to keep your position, you do it.” Atticus Orca shoved a wax tablet at him.

  Eric closed his fingers on the tablet. Atticus Orca had spoken truth last month. He, Eric Paterculi, was smiled on by fortune. If Wryn had become accidentally drunk, he’d only have solved a conspiracy ring, but he’d become accidentally drunk and gotten a woman who would put emperors’ harems to shame as his wife.

  He hoped Cara liked being in his arms as much as she seemed to because he only had eight more hours of work left. Then again, in eight hours he should tell her that his father hadn’t actually disinherited him.

  All at once, the sun’s rays seemed paler, and the prospect of these eight hours passing much less pleasant. It’s not as if anything she could say, with her beautiful lips, would change his mind. He truly didn’t want her to be angry with him tonight.

  He’d just not tell.

  The Ides of Ianiurius

  Snow lay on the ground. Outside, the last rays of sunshine sunk behind the houses.

  Cara stirred the hot water. A basket of customers’ soiled clothes sat at her feet. The baby inside her bulged out her stomach, stretching her dress more and more these days. She grasped the handle of the cauldron.

  The door swung open.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that.” Eric took the heavy cauldron from her hands.

  “The babe will be all right.” She hoped. Blinding pain had shot through her midsection thrice today when lifting, and she’d had to sit down an hour before her legs cooperated again. She wanted to earn these few copper asses and help, though. Eric shouldn’t have to labor so hard to earn their daily bread. She should, but she was a woman.

  Eric’s shoulders sagged, his hands blistered. He’d awoken hours before dawn. “I got some wood for the door.” Eric motioned toward the rotten panel and thudded onto the straw pallet. He rubbed his hand across his eyes.