“Aulia’s a good friend for you.” Father dug his fingers into the polished tabletop.
Raising her eyebrows, Gwen met her father’s gaze.
“John asked about you,” Father said.
“Gwen doesn’t want to hear about John.” Crossing the room, Mother grabbed Father’s arm.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to push John on you. Men aren’t interesting at all. You should visit Moesia with Wryn when he returns there next week. I’ll help you start a business venture near the garrison. You don’t want to marry.” Father spoke uncharacteristically fast, one word jumbling against another.
“Maybe I do want to.” Gwen kept her tone cold.
“Marriage is worshiped these days.” Trepidation blazed in Father’s eyes, he gestured as he looked from her to Mother and back again. “Tell her, Ness. You were miserable those first four years after we wed. I didn’t know anything about being a husband. Men ruin women’s lives. You should wait years, Gwen, before you even consider marriage.”
She’d never seen Father like this. Guilt stabbed Gwen’s heart. “Mother, may I bring the basket of embroidery thread to Aulia’s house? I think the one color you have would suit the spread she’s making.” Cerulean for the boar’s eyes, she really shouldn’t be helping Aulia with this project.
“Of course.”
Father grabbed for a blank tablet. “I’ll check with the Moesia legate, see what businesses are needed in the vicinity. You can leave with Wryn.”
“I don’t know.” If this meeting with Marcellus went as poorly as last night, perhaps she should go. “It’s so far away.” From Marcellus.
Father jerked his gaze to her. “You’ve always wanted to go with your brothers.”
“Not anymore.” Gwen dug her thumb into her belt. Father should rejoice over that. He’d always wanted her to accept her role as a woman. Now she had. Well, partially. She wanted to become a matron anyway.
“If there’s anything you wish to tell me.” Father traced the lip of the table, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “You could, you know? I wouldn’t rage.”
Insulting how little faith her parents had in her judgment. She wasn’t so much of an idiot as to give any man that before she got a marriage promise in exchange for it. She swept her eyelashes up. “There was something.”
“Yes?” Father and Mother both looked up, hands tensed.
“I stole Wryn’s short sword. He’s looked for it everywhere. I’ll return it today.”
Breath whooshed from Father’s lungs. “I’ll order you your own dagger. A dozen even.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“I’ll teach you to practice with them too,” Father said. “You and I tomorrow morning in the garden, some swordplay?”
“I still wish to marry Marcellus.”
Father opened his mouth.
Mother touched his shoulder and looked to her. “Eric and Cara arrive tomorrow morning, early. They only plan to stay a week. Play with little Lucia these next days and think of happier things. We can talk when they leave.”
Gwen nodded and turned. She’d tell Marcellus this afternoon that she couldn’t see him next week.
As the curtain fell back in place, Father spoke. “That was ingenious, Ness. Ingenius. In a week, Gwen will come to her senses. Perhaps even say yes to John’s offer.”
Forget Marcellus in a week? She could live a lifetime, and she’d still want him.
Chapter 11
As the sundial in the front courtyard moved to the tenth hour, Marcellus paced the newly-weeded cobblestones. The rabble itched to leave, and they’d need every hour of sunlight to get a start on Fabius and the Viri.
A familiar shadow moved through the street. “Gwen.” Marcellus swung the gate open.
A smile lit the most beautiful face in the Empire. She swept her dark eyelashes up as her gaze moved across the courtyard to where blossoming myrtle trees overhung the marble. Pearl earrings dangled from her ivory lobes, marking her as the domina she was. “I’ve never seen your villa before. It’s lovely.”
“Not as lovely as you.” He touched his mouth to hers. After tonight, he’d never kiss her again. His throat constricted as he slid his hand around hers. “Come inside.”
Her sandal slipped on the now-clean marble. Gwen moved her gaze over the spacious atrium to the little rooms that adjoined it.
If only he did have all this to offer. If her father had said ‘yes’ two days ago, he’d have brought her here despite his slavery making any marriage illegal and he’d have to fight Consul Julius for any chance of keeping the place.
“This way.” He shoved the door to the main bedchamber open.
He slid his arm around her waist and moved his mouth over hers. She hadn’t said ‘no’ yet. Good. Now for the talkative cook. He needed to go tell Bruno to send the woman in.
As soon as the cook’s gossip spread across Rome, Gwen would become unmarriageable. That wouldn’t be pleasant for her. He grimaced.
“You look like you’re wincing at kissing me.” Gwen’s clear voice cut through the air, which the smell of fuller’s earth still clung to.
Better to bear a harlot’s reputation than to die at the Viri’s hand in Fabius’ house. Or endure marriage to that wretch. Marcellus forced a smile. “Kissing you, my love, could never make any man wince.” He ran his finger down her bare shoulder.
“I talked to my father. I don’t think he’s weakening.”
He could have told her that yesterday. Patrician fathers didn’t care about their daughters’ wishes, despite Gwen deluding him into thinking her father did.
“I had an idea, though. We could get married by contemptio usus.”
Contemptio usus, marriage by cohabitation without the traditional papers signed. Some fathers arranged that kind of match for their daughters to protect certain property rights. The betrothal process remained the same.
“Your father won’t agree to any kind of marriage between us.” He’d never see her after today. He ran his hands underneath her shoulder blades and tugged her so close he could feel her heart beat.
“I mean without my father’s permission.”
“What?”
Gwen tilted her dark-eyed gaze to him. “Cohabitation a marriage makes by contemptio usus.”
“You’re not saying….”
Gwen nodded.
“That’s only done by women of your class with parental consent.” What he planned to do this day would make her unmarriageable, but the scandal of a patrician woman cohabiting with a slave was a thousand times worse. If Rome ever discovered his slave status, he’d make her infamia. He shouldn’t risk that.
“Usually, but even without parental consent, it’s legal.”
Wait, when he fled to Germania, Fabius would announce his slave status to aid the manhunt. Gossip about an encounter with a patrician would make Gwen unmarriageable. Gossip about an encounter with a slave would do a thousand times more. How could he ever live with himself if he made her infamia?
Then again, the Shadow Man or Fabius might very well kill him for agreeing to a contemptio usus marriage.
He looked to Gwen. “You’d flout your father and invite public shame for me?”
“I love you.” Gwen looked into the eyes of the man who could stir her heart like no other. He understood how she chafed against Rome’s oppressive laws.
“In truth?” Marcellus’ green eyes stretched wide.
“Of course, in truth.” She grabbed his hand and pressed it against her other. “Haven’t I told you a thousand times? I’m sorry I called you a liar last night. If you love me, you’ll forgive me, and—”
“All right.” Marcellus pressed his mouth over hers, the sweetness of wine on his breath. A look glimmered in his eyes; she couldn’t read it.
Hand on his arm, she tugged against his grip. How had that gone so easily? “Before we do this though—” Her voice slowed. “I’ll need a few months. I’m hopeful I can at least get my father to not hate you as much.”
Marcellus went rigid. His pulse pounded against her hand. “He’ll marry you off to someone else.”
“My father would never do that.”
“You also said he’d give your hand to me.” Marcellus stepped back, shoving against the plaster wall.
“He’s a loving father.”
Marcellus snorted. He stood there, only his eyes moving as he watched her.
“Next week my brother and his wife will stay with us.” Gwen traced the tile grout with her toe. “After that, I guess we could pick a day, and we could meet…well, here.”
“No.”
He said the word so emphatically her gaze jerked to him.
“Now.” Advancing, he grabbed her hands. “We’ll do it tonight.”
“Tonight? But I….”
“Unless you don’t want me?” He dropped her hands, a darkness in his eyes.
“I do want you.” She touched his chest, tried to read his face.
A mask covered his emotions. “It’s settled then.” He closed his arms behind her back, dragging her next to him.
Settled? Two years of waiting and this very night their life could begin? She wasn’t ready. “What if my parents look for me tonight?”
“Will they?”
“I’d planned to stay the night with Aulia, so my parents don’t expect me home. No one will miss me until morning.”
“Excellent.” He brushed his thumb against the back of her hand as his fingers tangled in hers.
“But….”
“Or don’t.” He dropped his arms from her and turned to the arched window, glaring ahead.
She chewed her lip. Stepping back, she sat on the couch. No couch, but a mattress gave into her weight. Her gaze darted around the room. This was a bedchamber. The door closed tight. She sprang to her feet. She shouldn’t be here with him.
If she accepted his suggestion and started a contemptio usus marriage this day, what better place to sit?
No more sneaking conversations behind garden hedges, always looking to see if curious eyes tracked them. No more of Wryn walking in and ruining her kisses. Why not tonight?
Father and Mother had both made clear they’d never agree to a parent-approved marriage with Marcellus.
She thumped back on the mattress. “I’ll stay.”
“Good.” Marcellus’ smile lit the room. “I have to talk to someone. One moment.”
Marcellus strode through the atrium to the peristyle. His rabble lounged in the back gardens. Wild hedges and overgrown weeds filled the forlorn place. The men tapped staves against the stone walkway. Packed bags lay at their feet.
Androkles jerked his chin up. “Is the domina sufficiently compromised so Fabius will never want her and she can remain secure and miserable at her father’s fortress?”
“Victor Ocelli sent this note for you.” Bruno extended a wax tablet. “Wants you to meet him tomorrow night for a smuggling operation, a slaver boat. We’d best leave within the hour for any chance of getting a start on the Viri.”
“Change of plans.” Marcellus spread his stance. This should work. Rage wouldn’t begin to describe Fabius’ reaction, but Consul Julius would control him for the sake of catching the Shadow Man. He hoped.
Bruno groaned. “Again?”
“I’m marrying Gwen. That will appease the Shadow Man,” he hoped, “and we can stay in Rome for the slave revolt, keep this villa even.”
The new recruit shoved his eyebrows down. “I thought her father told you ‘no.’”
“Two days ago, but I imagine he’ll take a different view of it by morning.”
“This was your plan all along? Why didn’t you tell us? I wouldn’t have complained half so much about the scrubbing.” Bruno rubbed red knuckles on his tunic.
“It wasn’t. Gwen asked me to.”
The new recruit snorted. “She suggested this? Patrician girls truly are—”
Marcellus grabbed him by the collar. “Whatever you were going to say, don’t.”
The cook stuck her head through the door. “Dinner’s almost ready, dominus.”
Marcellus clenched his fingers as blood surged through his limbs. “Marcellus, not dominus.” Dominus, master, that’s what he’d called Caius Marcellus. And the wretch’s more wretched father.
“Marcellus then, how many plates shall I set?” The cook rested a broad hand on her ample waist. She glanced to his rabble. “Rest of the food’s hot in the kitchen.”
“Twenty-two.”
The cook puckered her forehead, gossiping thoughts no doubt running through her mind. “There’s not enough tables in the triclinium.”
“Out here will do.”
The cook nodded and turned.
Bruno lowered his voice. “Should I dismiss her now that the original plan’s off?”
“Not yet.” Marcellus shook his head. “Her gossiping tongue will come in useful this night yet.” Though Gwen wanted this, her father still didn’t. He’d need enough gossip to ensure her father had no choice.
Petiphor thundered into the garden. “The cook’s made lamb with fig sauce and fresh baked rolls. Oh, the scents wafting out of that cookstove! My nose will never make peace with lesser things again.” The boy’s stomach growled.
“Going to stay and eat, or too busy with that girl of yours?” Androkles elbowed him in the ribs. It hurt.
Marcellus rolled his eyes. “For the leader of this army, I get no respect.”
“Waste time on eating bread?” Bruno grinned, showing his teeth. “I think he’d much rather see if patrician skin is as fine as patrician coin.”
Androkles grunted. “Have the patrician tongue that orders the lash otherwise employed for once.”
“Now that’s a pleasant thought.” The new recruit narrowed surly eyes. “So many other uses for a domina’s hands, which usually hold the scourge, or her soft body pampered at the expense of dozens of slaves.”
“Muzzle yourselves.” Marcellus shoved the new recruit and glared at the rest. Not that the idea of him over a domina, the same kind of woman who’d yelled commands and ordered him beaten at the slightest offense the first twenty years of his life, didn’t send a surge of power through his veins. He worked on forgetting that, though, and just remembering this was Gwen, the woman he loved, patrician or no.
After all, if she’d been merely a domina, he would have killed her when the Shadow Man ordered it.
A light footstep tripped against the courtyard stone. The doorframe silhouetted Gwen. The rabble went silent. Marcellus crossed between twenty rigid men. He slid his arm around her waist. “Gwen, I’d like you to meet my….” He bit his tongue. Exactly how did one describe the beginnings of a slave revolt army to a domina?
Bruno smirked. “Bodyguards. Marcellus’ bodyguards. We call ourselves the rabble.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Gwen inclined her head and smiled, a smile that could make the earth shake.
Marcellus tugged her tight against him. “They’re sworn to protect you.”
The new recruit crossed hairy arms. “I took no such oath.”
“Then you can leave.” Marcellus jerked his thumb toward the villa gate, which would need reinforcing.
The new recruit groaned. “Very well. I’ll protect her.”
The cook plodded through the door with a heavy cauldron.
Petiphor ran and grabbed one side.
The cook wiped her hands on her chiton. “Dinner’s ready, Marcellus.”
“Marcellus doesn’t wish any.” Androkles smirked. “He’s much too otherwise occupied.”
Marcellus glared at him and shook his head.
“Yes.” The new recruit grabbed a bowl. “Why handle high-peaked rolls and tantalizing meat when one could handle so many other things?”
“In truth?” Gwen’s captivating voice cut through the unkempt garden. “I was under the impression it takes nourishment to do as you suggest.”
Androkles dropped his gaze. The new recruit’s ears reddened.
“We don’t have to e
at with them.” Marcellus grabbed her hand.
“On the contrary, I greatly desire to hear what other wells of knowledge you’ve shared with your men.” Gwen swung her dark-eyed gaze to him, thoroughly unimpressed.
“This is not my fault.”
Gwen coughed, a less than convinced cough.
Unlike most things, this was not his fault!
The evening meal progressed swiftly as his rabble devoured the best food they’d seen in months. Marcellus sat on a bench by Gwen while the cook brought in more rolls. She glanced at Gwen, but no spark of recognition lit in her eyes.
How had Bruno managed to select the one servant in the city who didn’t recognize the Paterculi daughter? She’d know the Paterculi name, though.
He’d only have to drop that name, but not here in front of his men. They’d already had their say and a thousand times more than that.
Gwen dipped a roll into the remains of lentil broth.
“Come see the villa.” Marcellus touched the small of her back.
She set the bowl down and smiled at him.
Moving right, he leaned toward Bruno’s ear, voice hushed. “Send the cook to the main bedchamber in a half hour. Tell her to build a fire or something. Then dismiss her for the night.” To go home, where her gossiping tongue could make full use of its power to force Aquilus Paterculi’s hand as Gwen wanted.
Bruno grinned.
Marcellus shoved him. “Only the cook enters that room.”
Darkness surrounded Gwen in unfamiliar hallways. The sound of evening wind whistled through windows, flapping curtained doorways. Gwen moved closer to Marcellus.
At Aulia’s house, she would have been perched on Aulia’s bed sipping a warm cup of spiced wine as their chattering turned into sleep-filled yawns.
Marcellus held the candle high. The light reflected off the atrium pool, mingling with the last rays of sunshine. She pushed open the curtain to one room. Old furniture splayed across the space, moth holes in some. “Has no one redecorated in years?”
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 12