The Centurion and the Queen

by Minnette Meador

  A beast-like growl was the only sound he made as he moved toward her. Delia jumped to her feet and backed away from him, pushing against the further wall with no place to go.

  The centurion cleared the distance in less than three steps, stopped abruptly, and glared at her. Delia searched the tent frantically, but she was trapped. When she tried to run past him, he easily caught her by the waist and threw her back.

  As if on their own, her arms and hands whirled against him, catching his cheek with her nail, and leaving a bloody scratch across the stubble.

  Marius threw down the whip and caught her wrists. Spinning her around in one motion, he brought her hands above her head. Taking her wrists into one of his hands, he pushed his knees into the back of hers, and she fell to her knees in front of him. Kneeling behind her, he grabbed the rope from the pile at his side, unfurled it with a single flick, and wrapped it around her wrists several times.

  Without ceremony, he dragged her to the tent pole, only a few inches away, and securely tied her hands above her head. Pressing his hips into her buttocks, he forced her pelvis against the wood. With another piece of rope, he wrapped it around her waist, securing it to the post.

  When he was done, Delia knelt at the post, her hands over her head, staring at the tent wall, with Marius breathing heavily behind her. She struggled uselessly, but did not say a word.

  She heard the metallic whisper of a knife drawn from its scabbard and shuddered, turning her head to try to see. It was useless. She felt his warm knuckles gather the material of her tunic between her shoulders and then cold metal touch her skin. She gasped and braced herself, but there was no pain. Instead, there was the slightest whisk, whisk, and then a draft of chilled air brushed her skin as the woolen fabric parted and fell around her waist. Her breasts on either side of the post had stopped it from descending any further, but Marius snapped it down, making certain to expose her on all sides.

  Delia had never felt so naked, so—accessible, tied like an animal to the stake, her chest heaving up and down in fear. Marius said nothing. His silence terrified her more than his presence. She was expecting at any moment to feel the sting of the lash, but all she could feel was his warm breath mingling with the coolness of the night air between her naked shoulder blades. Unable to take the stillness, Delia found her voice and gritted her teeth.

  “Bastard! Let me go.” Unfortunately, her tone held no menace in it, only fear.

  All she heard in response was the slight rustle of fabric and the sigh of leather running along a human hand. The sounds made her close her eyes.

  Nothing happened.

  Delia opened them slowly when she felt a warmth move closer to her exposed skin. When Marius touched her neck with the back of two fingers, the feeling sent a spark of fire down her spine, into her buttocks, and through her upper thighs. He lifted the tattered braid of her hair into his hand and pulled it up to his face—she could hear the intake of his breath. With a gentle gesture, he let it fall in front of her left shoulder and it struck her nipple, causing it to swell and harden. She gasped.

  The sensation terrified her. Delia never allowed her body to rise to this level of fervor—to touch her so profoundly. To do so was to surrender, in her limited experience. It invited a touch, a stroke, and a penetrating intrusion that she knew would weaken her resolve. She hated herself for feeling this way. She hated the man for making her feel. She hated her body for craving this.

  Marius easily spread her knees with his and moved close to her back. Delia’s breath came out in ragged, shaking currents when he lifted two fingers again to run them softly down the side of her throat. The tremor was visible as it rippled through her shoulders.

  Marius sucked a breath through his teeth and opened his hand. Tracing his palm up her arm, he pressed the outline of his erection onto her back.

  The muscles contracted suddenly at her center.

  Delia could feel his hot breath on her neck. The aroma of stale wine drifted to her nose, clouding the sensations that began as heat in her belly and then spread outward. Something of fire and water touched the hollow behind her right ear. Marius’ lips and then his tongue were so delicate on her neck it made her skin erupt in bumps. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth to let the surge of passion escape.

  Marius became more aggressive when she submitted, the touch becoming a kiss, a lick, and then a bite. Delia involuntarily tilted her head to the side, letting him expertly apply his lips to the skin under her ear. He ran both hands along her shoulders. Without knowing how it got there, she found her head thrown back against his chest. His hands seemed on fire as he ran his fingers along the skin of her sides, slowly, so slowly, and stopped them at the rope around her waist.

  He moved his lips to the other side of her neck. She could feel herself becoming deeply aroused; her core opening in a sudden rush of saturation. She pushed her pelvis as far as her restraints would let her, first forward into the wood and then back against his hardness. Unable to stop it, Delia allowed him to manipulate her without protest.

  The callused hands swept over her belly, and the fingers fanning out to caress her exposed flesh. Marius slid them up to cup her breasts, then lifted the thumbs to taunt her nipples, brushing them until they became painfully hard. As pleasure took her, Delia arched her back into him, into those hands and let out an involuntary moan.

  Marius stopped.

  Without a word, he pulled away from her, leaving her to hang helplessly on the pole.

  “By the gods!” he swore. “What am I doing?”

  She heard the hiss of the knife one more time.

  With nothing else said, the ropes fell away in long strands from her waist and her wrists. She fell to her hands and knees when she was loose and turned her head to gaze up at him. Marius’ face was a mask of confusion, then pain, and he stared back at her in horror.

  “I am so sorry. It is the wine… I never meant to…”

  He threw down the knife, glared at her as if it were somehow her fault, and then stumbled out of the tent.

  Delia got to her knees slowly, holding the remnant of her tunic in front of her breasts, still breathing hard from her moment of guilty pleasure. She narrowed her eyes and hardened her lips, glaring at the empty entrance. Without even looking, her hand slid across the floor and wrapped itself around the hilt of the knife. Standing up, she reached over to take a long piece of rope from the floor, running her fingers over the wood of the post seductively, and then bent down to lace the knife to her ankle.

  The smooth metal felt reassuring somehow. She tied the remaining fabric around her neck to cover her chest and grabbed the long, woolen cloak from her bedroll. The weight of it felt good against her shoulders and the chill of the night. Blowing out the single flickering lamplight, Delia folded her arms in the darkness and waited.

  C hapter Eleven

  When Aelius woke up, it was pitch black. It took him a moment to adjust his eyes after he rubbed them and to orient his wine soaked brain. Marius had done it again. Aelius should have known better than to try to out-drink his guardian. He slowly sat up, placed his head in his hands and massaged his temples until the room stopped spinning. Squinting at the dark, he recognized the small wheezing snores of the centurion and could barely make out the silhouette showing him sprawled on his back in the elevated bed. Well, at least he had gotten his clothes off.

  Aelius stumbled to Marius and pulled the cover over his naked form.

  He stiffly stretched and yawned. Stepping outside, he nodded to the two sentries and yawned again.

  “What time is it?”

  “I would say couple hours past midnight ,” said the shorter of the two guards.

  Aelius stopped cold.

  “Glenys!” Aelius slapped his forehead, wishing immediately that he had not, and glared at the two men.

  “What are you yammering about?” asked the older one.

  Aelius shot him a quick smile. “Nothing. I almost missed an appointment.”

  �
�This time of night?”

  “Yes, sir.” Aelius bowed his head with a clumsy nod and took off across the camp.

  “Night, sir,” called the smaller guard.

  As Aelius disappeared, the older guard became suddenly alert and examined the entrance to the tent. “Did you hear that?”

  “Probably just the centurion snoring.” The guard leaned on his spear and yawned.

  “Maybe.” The older man grabbed a small lamp and stepped into the tent. He searched thoroughly, but the only thing he saw was Marius, a shadowed lump in his bed, and an empty tent. He squinted at the shadows, did one more sweep with the light, and then left to finish his watch.

  The trunk lid cracked opened a half hour later, and two eyes peered from the miniscule opening. Delia was grateful the hinges did not squeak when she lifted it the rest of the way.

  She carefully extracted herself from the cramped space, careful not to make a sound. It took her several minutes to get the feeling back into her legs and arms. She studied the slit she had cut into the leather tent wall with the sharp Roman knife. It was barely discernable.

  While Delia huddled, she watched the shadow rise and fall from the high bed. She could barely make out his rugged face, the ruffled mane of salt and pepper hair in what little light spilled from the entrance.

  The wait and the cool air had taken the edge off her resolve, but her head was still spiraling with feelings her rationale was having a hard time grappling with. She did not even consider she might end up caught; the madness made her fearless.

  The unreasoning fury that dominated every sense was mysterious and frightening. It had become almost an entity in itself, fueled by crushed desires, fear, and exhaustion. The delirium seemed to consume every thought, every feeling, and every emotion until it left her empty inside. It had not grown from the confusion that left her sick and disoriented; it was not from the thrill, the longing, the fear—the contempt that this man had touched her. It was not even from the disgust that a Roman had tried to violate her, not once, but twice in as many days. None of those things mattered. Delia rose and crossed in a daze to the bed, lifting the knife to grimace at it, as if the dagger were a friend and yet a stranger. The dichotomy settled into her mind, mingling with confused perplexity.

  The fury inside her came from knowing that she loved him, had completely surrendered her life to his touch, and would do so again—in a pounding heartbeat. That was what she could not forgive. That was what her enraged mind clung to when she raised the knife and saw, not only Marius’ face, but that of her brother, both of them intertwined in the Gods’ sick, twisted joke. They were the same… were they not?

  Marius had to die. It was the only way to justify what she had done… what she had allowed…what she would continue to do if it did not stop.

  As the rage took over her mind, Delia felt her face tilt a little to the right, and she lifted the long dagger above her head. Whether she meant it to or not, a small moan escaped her lips, and she brought the knife down.

  That sound saved Marius’ life.

  His eyes flashed open instantly, years of training taking over, and he saw first the blade, then the woman. Marius caught her wrists in both hands, the blade less than an inch from his nose. Her strength amazed him. A sound, a soft rasp, escaped her lips. Delia’s eyes widened, struggling to push the blade into his head.

  Marius twisted his hands once, making Delia groan in pain when her wrists bent backwards. The blade went flying across the ground. He pulled hard on her arms and threw her sideways. She flew off her feet and landed on her back next to him in the bed. In a heartbeat, he straddled her hips and pulled her hands above her head, pinning her effectively to the soft cushion.

  Delia’s face changed, the angry light seeming to fade into confusion. She glanced up at the hands above her head, then swiftly around the tent. When she was finally able to focus on his face, her expression smoothed and there was the faintest touch of a smile. The look he saw in her eyes was unmistakable.

  Tentatively, carefully, he touched her cheek. Delia closed her eyes in pleasure, rolled her face against his hand, touching his palm with her lips. Marius could feel her shudder beneath him and it sparked his desire. He certainly did not trust her—she had tried to kill him—so he held her tight.

  He grabbed her chin with the same hand, and her eyes opened. The madness was gone, replaced by a languid green longing, a sparkling ardor. Delia opened her lips begging for his kiss.

  “Will you behave yourself?” he said.

  Her smile was the most glorious thing he had ever seen. Delia finally shone from those tragic eyes and the sight was breathtaking.

  “No, Marius,” she whispered, her voice deep with hunger and mirth. “Do you want me to?”

  His lips curled into a grin, and he released her face and hands. “Absolutely not.”

  With a fluid motion, he pulled the tunic and cloak off her body and watched the sudden chill make her breasts shiver.

  Marius pressed his lips to hers; slowly, evenly, sending a ripple through her flesh. Delia could feel nothing but the weight of him as it enfolded her, pressed against the length of her naked body. His strong arms wrapped around her and his wide chest crushed her breasts, her nipples begging for his lips. The feel of the hard skin and taunt muscles of his buttocks under her fingers was exquisite. The pressure of his hardness grew against her pelvis, made her whimper with longing for it.

  All at once, there was nothing in Delia’s universe but Marius kissing, touching, biting, and exploring every inch of her body with his mouth, his tongue, and his hands. For the first time in her life, Delia forgot everything else. The bliss sent an earthquake through her loins, causing her body to teeter on the brink of the sublime.

  Nothing in her experience prepared her for the new sensations; the tingle in her neck, arms, and hands; the tightening of her belly when a wave of lightning engulfed it; the escape of her moisture as it saturated her, swelled her. Once unrestrained, her passion was urgent, desperate, and critical but Marius forced her to yield to his slow pace, his unhurried touch, bringing her, again and again, to the edge of rapture and then denying her, until she wanted to beg for it.

  Marius’ lips devoured hers; his tongue explored her mouth, her neck, and her ears. His teeth found her breasts and her nipples, his tongue torturing them until she moaned in need.

  With a movement that startled her, he forced her legs open with strong arms, cupped her buttock in his hands, and lifted her hips to meet his mouth. With gentle, delicate flicks of his tongue, he brought her close to the edge so many times she lost count in delirium. Delia could do nothing more than squeeze the blankets.

  His hands finally opened her, slowly, gradually, insistently. With his thumbs, he spread the softness, the moistness, grabbing her wrist to force her own hand to feel for herself, and laughing at her greedy caresses. Marius moved Delia’s fingers to the soft head of his erection where she let them linger and explore, running the tiny, delicate pads over the heavily veined skin. Delia could feel herself blush and prickles of pleasure moved through her arms when he grew harder in her hand. She squeezed instinctively, feeling the muscle throb and flex, forcing her to tighten her grip. More moisture drenched her in anticipation.

  Marius’ fingers slowly entered her, first one for a slow count of ten and then a second one, stretching her, kneading her hot flesh, preparing it for something more. He stroked her with a gentle urgency and held onto her when the first wave of ecstasy took hold, making her back arch uncontrollably and forcing a scream from her lips.

  Marius was on his knees, his erection full. He pulled Delia onto his lap, and slowly, very slowly, an eternity it seemed, slid her down the stiff muscle, inch by inch, sucking her erect nipples into his mouth, his teeth, and guiding her body with his warm hands.

  When she was full with him, hardly able to take him all, she opened her eyes and touched his dark, creased face, losing herself in his black gaze. Love flooded her senses, mingled with the urgings of her
body and left her breathless. There had never been a moment like this in Delia’s experience. Marius began his rhythm; up and down, slowly, methodically, in and out. Again, Delia could barely hold her passions, but Marius used his eyes to command her to comply with his touch, his experience, bringing her repeatedly to the edge, but not letting her pass over. Pulling her wrists behind her back, he held them in one hand, making her submit to the rhythm of his body.

  Soon, their breathing, the movements of their bodies, and even the hiss of their blood, reflected on their glistening skin and resonated in their pounding hearts.

  Finally, as the beat of their desire reached its climax, Marius let go of her wrists, wrapped his arms around her, and let them release together in an explosion that neither of them had ever experienced before. The room disappeared, the night became a cloudy blackness around them, and they clung to each other as if their lives, their minds, and their souls had melted into the darkness. The only sound was the scream of voices echoing repeatedly in their ears.

  It was an hour before dusk in the darkened tent. Delia sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a warm blanket and Marius’ arms. He kissed her neck. She leaned back into his embrace and mewed languidly, nuzzling his chin with her head and touching the splendid hands that engulfed her waist. Delia was exhausted, but sleep was impossible with the lingering rapid beats of her heart. The exhilaration was like a drug. They had spent the night exploring, discovering, and mapping out their passion, their love, and their devotion. They pressed as much as they could into every moment, both knowing the impossibility of the situation, knowing there may not be any more time.

  “I want to tell you about… Conall,” Delia whispered, staring at the shadows around her.

  “Delia,” he moved aside her hair to kiss her neck and pulled her closer, “you do not have to…”