When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “Eric doesn’t need to know.” That voice, that commanded armies, aimed right at her.

  Cara rubbed the hem of Lucia’s dress. “Yes, he does.” She might as well cross the legate of the province. He’d hate her soon enough anyway.

  Turning on his heel, the legate scowled at the dock overseer. “I’ll see you after my son regains consciousness and I can convince that stubborn toiler to let me help him.”

  Atticus Orca crossed flabby arms, his chin pointed up over his sunburned neck. “I want to see him now. Eric owes me two years’ labor for the debt I paid for him, and these tablets won’t count themselves.”

  The legate directed a shriveling glance at the man. “If you ever see my son again, it will be when he’s recovered, and not a moment before.”

  Turning, Atticus Orca slunk away.

  Cara smiled. After Eric told his familia about Victor’s drugging, his father would apologize to him and Eric would reclaim his well-deserved inheritance. Eric wouldn’t have to work on the docks. He’d rejoice for that.

  She should rejoice. Cara squirmed inside her dress. She’d much rather live in a hovel than have her secret known.

  What if Eric’s familia told, and all Camulodunum, including her father, found out?

  Chapter 29

  Cara squeezed back against the tapestry, Lucia in her arms. The physician and Eric’s familia circled him in this place she didn’t belong, the Paterculi house. All through the long journey to Camulodunum, Eric had remained unconscious. His eyes still stayed closed as he lay on his childhood bed.

  The physician looked worried now. Cara stepped closer, but white tunics and silky tunicas blockaded her path while Eric’s familia claimed him as theirs. How could she, the plebeian girl of dubious morals, push by those who owned this domus?

  Eric groaned and twitched. His eyes fluttered open.

  Cara released a breath.

  He shifted his gaze unsteadily around the circle of his familia’s faces. He struggled upright. “Where’s Cara? You didn’t leave her with those murderers?”

  “I’m here,” Cara called through the bodies blocking her.

  Wryn’s tunic brushed Eric’s bed as he stepped closer. “We found her by the docks and arrested the guards. After, we – ”

  Eric shoved him. “Then move out of the way, by Zeus. I want my wife.”

  All eyes turned to Cara. The circle of patrician bodies parted. Her heart raced as she stepped past the rulers of the known world, the patrician class.

  Eric grabbed her hand, and a sigh blew from his lungs. “I was so afraid for you and Lucia.” He tried to pull her down next to him. Clasping his hand to his side, he fell back against the pillows.

  “You should rest. Your father said you were stabbed.” She touched her tongue to her teeth as her guts churned.

  Even now, the red stain of blood seeped through the bandages crisscrossing his chest. A gash crusted over with blood cut across the back of his head where the discus had hit. Also, his familia already despised her wantonness without her making a display of it.

  Wryn stepped forward again. He looked like Eric, only not as tall, and infinitely less charming. “We tried and failed to make murder and piracy charges stick to the Ocellis. They must have powerful allies. Victor sailed for Rome on the evening tide.”

  Eric passed his hand across his bloodshot eyes. “What happened to Kelwyn, the youth who threw the discus?”

  A sick feeling rose inside Cara. Would the legate execute Edna’s brother? He certainly had the right to.

  The legate looked at Eric. “We interrogated him. The Londinium tribune planned to execute him for stealing, much too stiff a punishment for that crime, and Kelwyn only did it because the man who hired him offered to spare his life. I sent him as an auxiliary legionary to Egypt.”

  Eric groaned. “Twenty years a soldier. That’s punishment enough.”

  Quite the conciliatory words to offer one’s father who’d made his career in the army. Cara stifled a grimace. She could imagine now how those harsh words the legate had said he’d had with Eric had occurred.

  Displeasure furrowed Wryn’s face. “I’ve studied the Britannia smugglers’ routes for months, and while in Rome, I compared them to Ostia’s smuggling problems. There’s a pattern. Some of the men we captured yesterday whispered a name, the Viri. Did Victor mention them?”

  Eric nodded. “He said they’d protect him.”

  “The one man we captured muttered some lunacy about us bribing ship captains in order to catch smugglers,” Wryn said. “It’s not a half bad idea, but we never have. Why would the Viri think we had?”

  Eric shrugged.

  “What about Marcellus?” The legate stepped close to Eric’s bed and rested his hand on the oak frame. “Did Victor name him? Wryn suspects him, but we’ve no evidence to tie him to the attempt on our lives.”

  Eric brushed his finger against Lucia’s tiny fist, his hand touching Cara’s fingers, too. “I don’t think it was Marcellus. The one night he met Lucia and spoke to her, there was something in his eyes. He might smuggle, but I don’t think he’d murder.”

  Wryn crossed stolid arms across his chest. “The fact that you’re clearly obsessed with your child, doesn’t mean anyone who’s agreeable to it is innocent.”

  Battle wounds notwithstanding, Eric shoved himself up. “Her not it.”

  Wryn rolled his eyes heavenward. “Anyone who’s agreeable to her then.”

  Did the legate of the province just suppress a laugh?

  Gwen’s skirts rustled behind them. “Marcellus would never do something like that.”

  “We need to let Eric rest,” Eric’s mother said. Ignoring all rules that Pruella had ever said bound a wife, the woman turned her glare first to her husband, then her eldest son.

  “Eric will tell us if he’s tired,” the legate said.

  “As he told you nine months ago, he meant to disappear?” Eric’s mother stared into her husband’s eyes.

  The legate sighed and laid a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Recover speedily, son.”

  Eric winced. Then the legate turned to the door. Wryn and the boy followed him.

  “Let me hold your babe, Cara.” Eric’s mother reached for Lucia. “Go get her some clean clothes, Gwen.”

  Cara touched Eric’s shoulder then moved toward his sister.

  “If Gwen tells you the story about the armatura sword and the boulder, it was entirely Gwen’s fault we broke the Quaestor’s nose,” Eric called after her.

  Gwen grabbed Cara’s hand. “Don’t listen to him.” The girl led her out of the room and past tiled floors and ornate tapestries to a little bath house.

  Warm water swished in a shallow pool. Luxuriantly thick towels lay on either side, a strigil and an amphora of massaging oil by the side of the pool.

  “I’ll bring you something to wear,” Gwen said.

  Cara dipped her feet into the warm water as stillness wrapped around her. This place was so different than the public baths, which Father hadn’t let her frequent much. How had Eric given up all this? He’d get it back when he told his father the truth about how Victor drugged him.

  Even immersed in the water’s warmth, Cara shivered. Did any way exist to tell that story without revealing her part in it? No.

  After far too short a time, Cara dragged herself out of the water. Lucia would need her. She picked up a towel. After a rap at the door, Gwen swished through it. In her arms, she bore a pile of silk tunicas dyed a magnificent array of colors.

  “Here.” Gwen kicked Cara’s crumpled dress out of the way. “What colors do you like? You might have to hem them. I’m taller than you.”

  Water glistened on Cara’s hands as she ran her finger over the richest yellow she’d ever seen. Oh, to wear it! “I couldn’t. Eric doesn’t want me to take anything from your familia.”

  Gwen snorted. “Eric and my father’s little war has already cost me weeks of enjoying my niece. I shan’t be denied the pleasure of giving my first sister by
marriage a decent dress.”

  “But – ”

  “It’s mine, not our father’s. Eric can learn to survive.” Gwen shoved the yellow folds into Cara’s arms.

  Cara pushed her arms through the sleeves and the silk fell down over her legs, swishing gently.

  “Lovely.” Eric’s sister smiled at her.

  Cara dropped her gaze to the wet tiles beneath her bare feet. Gwen wouldn’t smile at her once Eric told his familia what had actually occurred that night.

  Cara traced the mosaic on the wall. Hercules, hands held high, completed the last of his twelve labors. She scooted closer to Eric who sat upright on the low bed in his childhood room. Fresh bandages wrapped around his bare chest, bloodstains still seeping through, but he held Lucia.

  She felt dreadfully wanton sitting on his bed in this house, at which only a year ago she’d longed to serve tables, but a curtain closed off the entrance. “How are you feeling?”

  “After Wryn’s second interrogation this morn? Terrible.” Eric groaned. “Victor’s behind the increase in piracy on the channel. Wryn thinks Marcellus is, too.”

  “Do you think Marcellus is as wicked as rumor says?” Cara leaned back against the plastered wall.

  Eric moved, shifting his bandages, and he grimaced. “Marcellus warned me not to go that night Victor drugged me.”

  “He must have known something then.” She reached for Lucia. Eric shouldn’t strain his wound.

  With a shake of his ungroomed head, Eric slipped his arm behind her back instead. “That doesn’t mean he’d murder.”

  “I know for a fact not all the Marcellus rumors are true. This town said Edna’s babe and Lucia were his when they weren’t.”

  “The town can stop saying that.” Eric cinched her closer. “How does that kind of rumor start anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Marcellus is a good scapegoat, I guess. Don’t worry.” She groaned. “The frightful sight of you and me up front in that church obliterated all other gossip. Camulodunum’s probably still talking about the wedding.”

  Eric grunted. “I almost retched on you during that horrid ceremony.”

  “Mea culpa.” Leaning back ever so gently against Eric’s arm, Cara drew her knees up. “If even a tenth of the rumors about Marcellus are true, though, that still makes him a horrendous man.”

  “Mayhap not quite as bad as all believe, though.”

  “True.” She ran her finger over the linen bed sheet that crumpled between the two of them. “Have you told your father yet?”

  “About Marcellus? I will.” Removing his arm from her, Eric used both hands to lower the sleeping Lucia to the bed. The bandages on his chest still strained, and he grimaced.

  She grazed her teeth against her lip, the sweet scent of perfumed oil on her skin now. “No, that Victor drugged you, and I was sober. That, despite your father’s accusations, you were no degenerate.” She directed her gaze at the colorful tiles below to hide her fright. What would her new familia think of her when they knew? These were patricians.

  “Admit I only seduced a beautiful woman by accident? I think I’ll let the subject lie.” Eric circled his arm around her waist again, but ill-ease lingered in his eyes.

  She moved her chin up. “You don’t want your father’s good opinion?”

  “I can’t imagine gaining it in that way could prove pleasant for you.” He shifted his gaze to look out the window. Outside, in the cobblestone courtyard, his father walked with his twin brother, deep in conversation. Longing glimmered in Eric’s deep brown eyes.

  A lump built in her throat. She had denied him that friendship with his father. “I deserve it.”

  “I love you.” Eric touched her lips. “Besides, society judges the man less harshly than the woman.” He twisted his mouth up in a familiar smile. “Perhaps I should tell my familia that Victor drugged you.”

  Would Eric consider holding his peace for her? Oh, to fall on her knees and beg him for that. The legate didn’t seem like a man of loose lips, but what if Eric’s sister repeated it? She’d already pulled him from a life of ease and given him what must have been the worst year of his life. Cara touched Eric’s hand. “You deserve to have your father’s approval. You did nothing wrong.”

  “I’ve lived with his bad opinion for twenty years. Another twenty won’t kill me.” He shrugged, but his back possessed the same stiffness as when he’d learned their ships sank. For all his angry words against his father and the irrational lengths his stubbornness had driven him too, he wanted his father’s praise like a parched man wants water. She could read it in his eyes.

  She laid her hand in his. “If he berates you again, you have to tell him.”

  “I’ll just tell him to read Galatians, justified by faith, not perfect living.” Eric caught her with his other hand and pulled her on top of his legs.

  “You’re not supposed to exert yourself.”

  Even as the bandages moved and he winced, he still grinned at her. “I’m not. You’re very small.”

  “Eric.”

  “I owe Atticus Orca dozens of accounts, so I need to recover swiftly and get back to Londinium.”

  “I’ll do them for you. Just rest.” She ran her hand down his smooth-shaven jaw.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m an idiot for allowing the lack of one apology to keep us from our shipping dreams?”

  “No, it’s your choice.” She pressed her hand over his bandages. The flesh needed time to knit back together. Praise heaven Victor’s knife hadn’t gouged deeper.

  Eric groaned. “I feared you’d say that.”

  She scooted off him. He’d hurt himself.

  Eric reached to his left and tugged a drawer open. “I have this for you if you want it.” Seed pearls caught the glimmers of light that shone through the cloud-obscured sky outside.

  She clasped her fingers across her mouth. “They’re beautiful.”

  “A Paterculi heirloom. I was saving them for a girl.”

  “Which girl?” Her heart clenched. She’d never asked him if he’d ever wanted one of those patrician girls who flirted with him before he got stuck with her.

  “One with the mountain dust in her hair,” Eric traced his fingers down her locks, “sparkling eyes,” he brushed his fingertip over her eyelashes, ran his finger down the skin of her throat, “kisses like she intends to set Rome afire.”

  She started to smile.

  “Intelligent too, just not quite intelligent enough to realize that I’m no Hercules.” He dangled the pearls in front of her. “Know a girl like that?”

  “You’ll never find a girl like that because you are Hercules.” Lips curving, Cara snatched the pearls. “So I’m taking these for me.”

  Grayness covered the morning sky outside, but laughter rose from this room, lighting it bright as day.

  Cara rested her hands on the linen sheet of Eric’s bed, the bulk of his body behind her. Seated on a red rug, Eric’s littlest brother tugged at a rope that a mangy mongrel held between its teeth.

  Gwen perched on a stool, Lucia between her knees, as Gwen moved her tongue without ceasing. “It was five years ago. Eric slashed imaginary foes with his armatura sword and wouldn’t stop even though I called him in for the dinner party twice. I threw a rock at him.”

  “Yea, you threw the rock at me.” Eric shoved himself up, straining the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest. “The fact that my swing sent the rock sailing into the quaestor, breaking his nose, is entirely your fault.”

  “You should have sidestepped and come in for dinner like mother told you to a half-hour before.” Gwen clasped Lucia’s little hand.

  “Still not my fault.” Eric’s chest warmed the air behind Cara’s back. His breath blew across her hair.

  “Father agreed with me.”

  Eric rolled his gaze toward the ceiling’s stucco. “Because Father always thinks I’m the one at fault.”

  Outside, a light rain fell, pattering on the stones outside the window. Gwen lifted h
er milk-colored chin and puckered her red lips. “You settle the matter for us, Cara, and remember, we’re both women.”

  Cara met the girl’s dancing gaze. “I think it was your fault.”

  Gwen stuck her tongue out at Eric. “You just married her so you’d have someone to agree with you.”

  “Not a bad plan, don’t you think?” Eric grinned as he ran his finger over the back of Cara’s hand. His gaze lingered on her. “Except that I feel horrendously guilty when I tell you ‘no’, ever.”

  Guilty? Cara swept her eyelashes up.

  “About Atticus Orca and my father’s aid.”

  Oh. “You needn’t feel guilt on my account. You’re the best husband that – ”

  “Stop saying that!”

  Footsteps thudded outside the room. The doorway framed the legate of the province. Cara swung her gaze to Eric as he swung his to his father.

  The legate looked back at his son, a piercing look in his dark eyes. “May I speak to you, Eric? Alone.”

  Eric’s littlest brother grabbed the mutt and dragged it out the door.

  “I can take Lucia with me, right?” Without awaiting permission, Gwen absconded with the baby.

  Neither Eric nor his father glanced away. As the two men’s gazes clashed against each other, sparks rose, rising into flames that threatened to incinerate the room.

  Sliding off the bed, Cara moved toward the door.

  Eric clamped his hand over hers on the bed sheet. “She stays.”

  He wanted her to stay to hear the legate of the province confront the son who was a patrician in his own right, and yet had forsaken family for almost a year now? All because of her, the village nobody who’d ruined Paterculi plans.

  Eric flicked his gaze to her. “Please.”

  She’d no wish to be thrown into the pitched battle between an angry patrician son and an unbending legate, but Eric wanted her here. Cara’s throat pressed in against itself, blocking her breath as she lowered herself back on the mattress. Would Eric bend? Life would certainly become easier if he did.

  The legate crossed to within a pace of Eric, but he stayed standing. “I hear you didn’t actually invite me to your pentathlon.”