To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  Behold, despite the man’s heroic talk of wishing his daughter happy, he only truly cared about sparing the Paterculi name this infamia. For if Aquilus did love his daughter, he’d never accept a marriage to a man of Caius Marcellus’ reputation.

  Wryn handed a parchment to Gwen’s father. Aquilus slapped it on a marble bench. “Sign.”

  With a little more alacrity than matched the carefree mask, Marcellus caught up a pen. Bruno brought a candle, and Aquilus Paterculi spilled hot wax beneath the signature.

  Marcellus plunged the signet ring on his finger into the molten stuff. The Marcellus image of a tiger, claws bared, stared back at him from the wax. A chill ran through him.

  Dripping more wax, Aquilus jammed the Paterculi signet into the molten stuff. “Here is the line granting you Gwen’s dowry of twenty-five million sestertii.”

  Gwen’s sculpted cheeks flushed. “You don’t have to give the whole dowry, Father. I know I forfeited it with my behavior.”

  “You’re getting every as of that dowry.” Aquilus glared at Marcellus. “You forfeit every denarius in a divorce, Marcellus. So, you had better treat my daughter right, or I—”

  Yet, this was the man who would have sold his daughter to Fabius Agricola. Marcellus fabricated a yawn. “I know, Zeus already said it all to Athena’s lovers. I’m sure you won’t state the threats any better than the gods.”

  Aquilus clenched his jaw shut.

  Good.

  “According to legend, Athena didn’t have lovers,” Wryn said.

  Eric shoved him. “No one cares.”

  Gwen brushed Marcellus’ shoulder. She smiled at him, her eyes lighting with the expression. “Then the kiss that seals the betrothal.”

  Aquilus Paterculi stiffened. “No need.”

  “Completely unnecessary.” Wryn gripped his knife.

  “Ever,” Eric muttered.

  Gwen’s face fell, her cheeks drooping as her long eyelashes dipped, devastated by her wretched familia’s words. Anger flushed through Marcellus’ veins. Circling his arm around her, he tugged her tight against his side.

  “Let me know when you’re ready for a divorce, Gwen,” Aquilus Paterculi said through clenched teeth, “because I can ensure it goes through within the hour.”

  “Father!” A tear glistened in Gwen’s eye. “You don’t even believe in divorce.”

  Aquilus’ knuckles whitened. “That was before I had a daughter.”

  Ha! As if Aquilus Paterculi cared what happened to Gwen. He would have let Fabius Agricola make her life wretched for the political connections such a marriage offered and now the man had made Gwen cry.

  “I’ll see you tonight, Gwen.” Eric gripped his knife hilt.

  ‘Tonight?” Gwen blinked away the tear.

  “Lucia’s birthday dinner.” Eric turned a glare toward Marcellus. “You, don’t even think about appearing.”

  “Eric! He’s my husband. Of course, he’s coming.” Gwen tangled her fingers in Marcellus’ hand. His arm already circled her.

  Wryn narrowed his eyes. “I’d suggest you wear a knife then. It would be unfair to stab an unarmed man between the ribs.”

  Marcellus rolled his eyes to the blue sky above as the Paterculi men strode out the gate.

  The wind caught Gwen’s curls and blew them across her cheek, touching the single tear that rolled down her nose. Reaching up, he wiped the tear with his thumb and stroked her hair back from her face.

  At his touch, she smiled, a smile to warm Britannia winters and melt the Danube’s ice. She’d been born to wealth untold, but instead of hoarding that power, she scattered it freely to any needy soul who asked. Nothing could branch the abyss that separated the patricians’ pampered world from the hate that grew in the hearts of the oppressed. Still, when he held her in his arms, he could imagine such a bridge existed.

  She rested her ivory fingers on his shoulders. Stretching up, she touched her soft lips to his mouth.

  Now Gwen would see his scars.

  He never should have agreed to this. She deserved a man who didn’t have to fight down rage every time he remembered her birth. If she discovered that he was no patrician, but a slave, she’d not only scorn him, she’d tell her familia. They’d demand his life as forfeit.

  He should forsake the marital bed to keep his secret safe.

  Ha! When Jupiter took a vow of celibacy. The only girl he’d ever wanted stood by him, in her mind at least, legally his wife.

  As long as he kept the bandage on his arm intact, he could come up with a good lie for the other scars. He hoped.

  Aulia’s litter halted by the Paterculi villa. As she swung to the ground, her guard knocked against the gate. A porter showed her into the triclinium.

  Gwen’s mother and Cara sat with little Lucia by untouched breakfast plates. Aulia ran forward. “It’s so good to see you, Cara. Look how your daughter’s grown.” Aulia stroked her finger across Lucia’s plump cheek.

  Reaching out, Gwen’s mother grabbed her hand. “Did Gwen stay with you last night, Aulia?”

  “No, Domina Paterculi.” Aulia raised her eyelashes. “Why do you ask?”

  A muffled cry escaped Cara’s lips. Gwen’s mother clenched her fists.

  Aulia glanced between the two.

  Heavy footsteps thundered through the atrium. The curtain tore as Wryn, the legate, and Eric plunged through at once. Wryn’s brown hair waved around his ears, even the angle of his nose stopping breath, but his expression could kill.

  Legate Paterculi clenched the doorframe. “Gwen is at Marcellus’ house. Oh, I could murder him.”

  Aulia gasped. Surely Gwen wouldn’t have defied her familia and exposed the Paterculi honor to scandal, but this was Gwen.

  Gwen’s mother leaped from the couch. “I won’t have you starting a war with that man, Aquilus.”

  Eric shoved past a potted rose bush, spilling dirt. “If Marcellus didn’t wish for war, he shouldn’t have treated our sister like a—”

  Gwen’s mother gestured to Cara. “You handle him. I’ve enough angry men to attend to.”

  Cara grabbed for Eric’s arm, her words rapid. “Your mother’s right. Scorning Marcellus will only turn Gwen against us.”

  “We’re her familia.” Eric clenched his knife.

  “He’s the man she loves. Guess who wins that battle? It’s not you.” Releasing Eric’s arm, Cara scooped up Lucia.

  “He’s abominable.” Wryn closed his big hand over the pommel of his short sword, tensing the muscles of his arm.

  Aulia knotted her fingers. Wryn stood only three paces from her now, and her betrothed had died. Her father had to ask the Paterculis for a marriage alliance. Had to. All her life she’d followed the rules, obeyed everyone of her father’s dictates. She deserved to get the man she wanted. Aulia clenched her fist, her nails biting into her palms. Pressing her teeth against her lower lip, she fought against the rising red. Whoever Father chose next, she needed to accept cheerfully. ‘Twas her duty.

  The legate kicked the breakfast table, clattering dishes. “Abominable is too weak a word. I’d call him a lecher, but that’s to name his good qualities. The man’s violent. If I ever see a mark on my daughter’s body….”

  “You’ll do what?” Gwen’s mother raised both hands. “You have no power to make Gwen divorce him anymore than you had the power to make her separate from him this morn.”

  “I should have dragged her away.” Legate Paterculi glared back into the atrium toward the path to the Marcellus villa.

  And ruined Gwen’s reputation? Aulia ran her finger across her sash. Gwen should have counted herself fortunate that her father wished her married to a virtuous man like John. Now that she’d passed the point of turning back, though, Gwen would scarcely be the first Roman daughter married to a man such as Marcellus. Her father had betrothed her to such men twice because of their large estates.

  “So Gwen could run away again?” Gwen’s mother grabbed her husband’s shoulder. “The only power you have is to make
Gwen so furious that she’ll cut us off.”

  Legate Paterculi groaned. “Ecce, I wish that man dead.”

  “Then cast your warlike thoughts up to the Most High and ask Him to strike Marcellus with fiery judgment.” Gwen’s mother jerked the legate’s arm. “Because if you do it, then it’s called murder and comes with the execution penalty.”

  “I just have to talk to Gwen without him.” The legate wrapped his fingers around his gladius.

  “We talked all day to her without him. She ran off to him.” Gwen’s mother pried at her husband’s fingers.

  He looked at her, uncertainty in those eyes that commanded legions.

  “If Gwen comes tonight, and that’s a colossal if, all the men in this family will be civil.” Gwen’s mother glared around the room. “I was eighteen once. The surest way to make her refuse to ever see us again is to let her know how much we despise her husband. Then what use will we be to her?”

  The roar of silence filled the room. Eric and Wryn exchanged glances. The legate looked at his wife.

  “Promise me.” Gwen’s mother clasped the legate’s hand.

  “Very well.” The legate dropped his fingers from his sword. “If treating the villain with civility will make Gwen divorce him faster, I’ll do it.”

  Wryn let his hand fall from his sword also. “I promise too, but I shan’t like it.” His deep voice rumbled through the room, vibrating against Aulia’s chest.

  Oh, to have him speak her name with that voice! Aulia ran her gaze across his firm forehead, strong jaw, dark mouth, divine hair. How many nights lying in her bedchamber had she imagined touching her lips to his? In her dreams, he returned the kiss with passion hotter than when Carthage burned. She’d run her hands down his hard chest, feeling every muscle through this tunic. Well, if truth be told, in her dreams no tunic covered Wryn’s chest, but she’d not admit that. A hot feeling started around her ears and blushed up across her cheeks.

  Eric looked up. “As long as I swing at him with my fists, not a knife, does that count as civil?”

  “No!” Cara and Gwen’s mother said together.

  Wryn crashed on the couch across from Aulia. Eric kicked a stool and the legate’s glare was hot enough to incinerate the room.

  The wind whipped through the open windows, carrying the scent of rain. Aulia shifted to her other foot. Poor Gwen, though at present she’d like to shake her friend. How could Gwen be such an idiot? Aulia felt hot tears behind her eyes. All her life she’d desired a good man as husband, but did her father choose even one good man in her string of betrotheds? No. Gwen’s father almost forced a good man, John, upon Gwen and what did Gwen do? Find the worst villain in the entire city and run off with him.

  The porter poked his gray head through the now-torn curtain. “Fabius Agricola to see you.”

  “Legate Paterculi.” Shoving past the porter, Fabius bowed. “I wish to marry your daughter. I have excellent political connections and—”

  “You’re too late.” Wryn swallowed a draft of water and slammed his goblet down. “An arrogant lecher’s already married, Gwen.”

  Aulia swallowed sticky tears. Wryn defended Gwen. When she’d protested once against Father’s latest choice in betrothals, her brother had told her to stop wearying his ears.

  “What?” Fabius spun.

  “And to think—” Eric thudded his sandal against the table leg. “Compared to Marcellus, you almost seem virtuous.”

  “I embody every Roman virtue.” Fabius went rigid. “Marcellus?”

  “My daughter’s husband. I cannot believe I have to utter those words.” A low groan slid through the legate’s teeth.

  Rage flushed across Fabius’ face. “I’ll make sure he regrets doing this.”

  “How?” Wryn shoved the couch back. A turquoise vase wobbled on the table. “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “If only it weren’t illegal to slit a man’s throat.” Eric dug into his seat.

  Turning on his heel, Fabius stormed out into the streets.

  “I never would have let you marry her,” the legate yelled after him.

  Aulia kicked the toe of her sandal against the tile. Would that she had a father or brothers who cared half so much about her. Instead, more than likely, her father would choose another violent, lecherous man for her next betrothed.

  Oh to seize up that vase and hurl it against the wall. No. Aulia shoved down the flames of anger. They subsided into a roiling in her innards. She’d do her duty, obey her father, and surely God in heaven would grant her some reward for that.

  Chapter 13

  The wind whistled through the olive trees, carrying the scent of rain. The back of Gwen’s legs brushed the bed.

  Gwen ran her hand across Marcellus’ jaw where a purple bruise swelled, the mark of her brother’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

  Marcellus cradled her in his arms, his gaze locked on her lips. With a flippant smile, he shrugged. “I’d pay a much higher price for this moment.”

  She closed her fingers on the wide neck of his tunic. Holding her breath, she slid it down one shoulder, over the bandage on his arm.

  He stood motionless as she ran her hand over the warm flesh and muscle of his arm and down to his back.

  Knotted ridges and ugliness protruded.

  She spun around him. In the space where the tunic hung off his shoulder, brutal scars crisscrossed his back. She yanked his tunic down further. Another mass of scars.

  Pulling the cloth off his other arm, she tugged the fabric down. Long lines, some faint, some gruesomely deep, mixed with healed-over gouges, covering every handbreadth of his back.

  “What is this?” Gwen’s voice went shrill. No single spear mark or sword slash like a soldier might receive, the scars almost looked like—like the marks of a lash.

  No, that stretched the bounds of belief. Marcellus was a patrician.

  Fingers on her waist, he drew her in front of him. Brushing a curl from her face, he touched one finger to her lips. “Do you find them repulsive?”

  “Of course not.” Her gaze found his.

  A teasing light utterly obscured whatever those eyes hid. “Then, there are much more important things to think about.” He pressed his lips to hers.

  She wriggled out of his hold. “How did you get them?”

  “Too much tumbling off chariots. Got twisted in the reins every time,” he said as glibly as the truth and caught her in another kiss.

  This time she returned it. The smell of his skin enchanted her senses. Staring up at his handsome features, she could lose herself in that face and almost forget that this man could slip out a lie as quickly as any truth.

  She’d seen him do it many times in Britannia.

  Marcellus’ knee caught the edge of her tunica as it pressed against the mattress. His hands over hers, he pushed them up above her head until her shoulders sank against the pillow.

  She gazed into his eyes. With a flick of his thumbs, he split both her tunica brooches. The now-loose fabric slithered down her chest.

  Throwing her arms around his neck, she struggled to raise herself and press her mouth against his. His other knee now held her tunica against the bed, his weight on top of her.

  Marcellus grazed his knuckles across her cheek. “I love—”

  The door burst open.

  Marcellus twisted. “Leave, Bruno. Now.”

  “Some business has come up.”

  “I’ll deal with it later.” He tugged the silk coverlet over her, though he was more naked than she.

  “Fabius is at your door, saying—” Bruno swallowed, moving a lump up his throat. “Indiscreet things.”

  “Shut the door. I’m coming.”

  As the wood panel swung closed, Marcellus moved off her. Face as black as night, he tugged his tunic on.

  “What are you doing?” Gwen dropped her hand to the mattress. “Fabius’ business can wait.”

  “I only wish it could.” He slipped a knife underneath his tunic.

  Holdin
g her unfastened tunica with one hand, she grabbed his arm. “It’s our wedding day. Don’t leave me.”

  No careless words or embraces now, Marcellus clasped his hand over hers with the intensity of a man going to war. “I love you, Gwen.” He turned.

  “Remember we’re going to my familia’s house this evening.”

  He walked out the entranceway.

  Marcellus touched the blood dripping from his jawbone. He might have deserved Eric’s blow this morn, but he did not deserve the gash of Fabius’ signet ring over that first bruise.

  Fabius shoved him into Consul Julius’ tablinum. Though he could have twisted around and killed the man, his own life would be the price of that deed.

  “He took my woman,” Fabius yelled in the consul’s face.

  “Gwen Paterculi. I heard the news in the marketplace. The greater issue is that he mixed slave blood with patrician.” Consul Julius turned his sallow-eyed gaze to Marcellus. “You were not to touch patrician women.”

  Fabius shoved past Marcellus. “No, the greater issue is he took my woman.”

  His woman? Gwen would never belong to any man. She had too much fire in her soul for that.

  “She was never yours.” Consul Julius laid one tablet on top of another. “The market gossip also said that Legate Paterculi yelled in your face that he’d never have let you have her.”

  What? Marcellus narrowed his eyes. Impossible.

  “If I had my wits about me, I’d have kept her overnight at my house as Marcellus did, then see the legate try to say no.” Fabius kicked the wall.

  If only he broke his foot.

  “Fabius!” The consul narrowed baggy eyes. “Respect. She’s a Paterculi. You’re no slave to disregard that like he did.”

  “Besides,” Marcellus removed his bloodstained hand from his jaw, “Gwen wouldn’t have agreed to spend the night with you.”

  Fabius spun. “Doesn’t take agreement to compromise a girl.”

  Grabbing Fabius’ arm, Marcellus wrenched the man forward. Fabius kicked back, but Marcellus tightened his arm over the man’s windpipe. “If you ever hurt my wife—”

  Consul Julius struck his hand against his forehead. “She’s not your wife. Marriage between even a freed slave and the granddaughter of a senator is not legally binding. Speaking of slaves, no one’s given you manumission papers yet. Release Fabius.”