The Patrician's Fortune- A Historical Romance

by Kayse, Joan

  When he spoke, his words flowed over her like warmed honey. “Let us retire for the night, wife.”

  “I agree, the hour is late and my mistress needs her rest.”

  Julia blinked twice and glanced to where Kaj was standing in the doorway of the dining room. How long, she wondered had he been there?

  “Damnation that man has no respect for privacy,” muttered Damon. He sighed and stepped away but not before he lifted her hands to his mouth and lightly brushed his lips across the knuckles.

  The man could charm the heads off the Hydra and from the gleam in his eye Julia could tell he knew it. She tugged her hands free. It was going to be a long night.

  “Kaj, where have you been?” she asked strolling over to the doorway, Damon close on her heels.

  Kaj cleared his throat. “Tending to some important matters.”

  Julia frowned. “What matters?”

  He shuffled his feet, avoiding her gaze, “I...”

  “Did you check the perimeter of the domus,” interrupted Damon, “hire the guards?”

  Julia looked from one to the other. “What guards? What are you talking about?”

  “The...ah...the master,” Kaj ground out the word as though he had eaten a raw olive, “thought it prudent to secure all the entrances to the house.”

  “Oh, Damon, really. Isn’t this going just a bit beyond caution?”

  “I do not think so, Julia.” He folded his arms over his chest and tilted his head at Kaj. “Even the pirate agrees with me.”

  When had Damon had time to convince Kaj of anything? They could barely tolerate each other. But the look on her servant’s face reflected his agreement.

  “You’re both clearly under the influence of the goddess Luna. You may spend all the time you wish looking for dangers beneath the flower urns.” She pulled her palla tight around her shoulders. “I am going to sleep.”

  Julia kept a brisk pace as she walked down the corridor, nerves scraping at her resolve. She was in control, she was in control, the mantra rang in her head, doing its best to convince her otherwise. Nothing untoward would happen. She was in control. All she needed was distance, perspective. A challenge, since the source of her distraction was walking right in step beside her. Julia pursed her lips. At least he had not touched her again, because each time he did, she seemed to lose all sense.

  She had never felt so confused in her life, not when her mother died, not through Lares’ illness, not even with her father’s disappearance. In every instance Julia had known exactly what was expected of her and she had met those expectations with the dignity and fortitude of a true Roman.

  That same approach simply did not work with Damon. He refused to be predictable. Not only had he turned out to be intelligent and witty, but wielded those attributes like a carpenter uses hammer and awl to build a structure exactly as he wished it to be. That he’d lured Kaj into his delusions about their safety came as no surprise.

  And then there was his obvious kindness to Aunt Sophia who he always treated with a gentle hand and Lares...well her brother was literally thriving under Damon’s attention. She shot a nervous glance at him. If she wasn’t careful he’d soon convince her that he was a decent, caring man.

  They’d reached her bedchamber door. Julia paused, the words on the tip of her tongue that she couldn’t do it, that she couldn’t allow him to stay in her room.

  “Julia?”

  She looked up into Damon’s eyes filled not with guile but with concern. Genuine concern. A wave of annoyance swept through her. That’s just what he’d want, for her to admit she was a coward. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “I am fine.”

  His eyes went from soft gray to silver. He turned to Kaj. “That will be all.”

  Julia held her breath, waited for Kaj to explode. Instead, he leaned forward in a bow. “Remember. The Tiber is not far away.” Spinning on his heel he stalked away.

  “I do not understand his obsession with the Tiber,” Damon said in a baffled voice. “Does he like to fish?”

  Julia rolled her eyes and opened the door.

  *****

  Damon lounged against the red silk pillows stacked in one of a matching pair of couches set at an angle where he could see the two windows and doorway. Habits were difficult to break and keeping his back to the wall, gauging his escape routes was a long-standing one. He took a sip of the Gaul wine left by Basil. Smooth as silk on his tongue, with just enough fire to keep his mind sharp.

  He scanned the room. The same patrician taste exhibited throughout the house was reflected here, in the master’s chamber, though void of the aquatic creations abounding below. The lines of two ebony cabinets that flanked the door were not ornate yet still elegant, the wood dark as midnight and buffed to a high gloss. The same ebony was used in a handful of round tables and a scroll rack overflowing with rolls of papyrus, parchments, and wax tablets. A very unusual piece to have in a bedchamber. Damon took another drink. That would warrant a closer look.

  Four bronze stands held oil lamps with triple wicks, which provided more than enough light to appreciate the intricate pattern and weave of the large rug that covered most of the marble floor. His friend, Jared, would have given his merchant prince’s right arm for the chance to import, sell and profit from such a quality item.

  That left the bed. A sturdy wood frame held a double thick pallet of down feathers spread with soft woolen covers. Sheer curtains tied with silken ribbons were gathered against the four posts framing a canopy, ready to be slipped along narrow poles to provide privacy for the occupants. It was huge by most standards and could easily accommodate a man of his height—as well as a companion. Perhaps a companion with a mouth that begged to be kissed.

  He’d been without a woman far too long, he brooded. Damon frowned, unable to recall the face of his last lover. Of course he’d never been with any woman past a few mutually satisfying trysts. Physical satisfaction was all he’d ever sought, all he’d ever needed. Oh, he was a considerate lover, making sure the female, whether paid whore or noble lady, received her fair portion of enjoyment, but it always ended there.

  His gaze settled on Julia, the glow of the lamps casting her in soft golden hues. His instincts knew his Roman lady would not be satisfied with a casual tumble between the covers. She’d expect sweet words and sweeter promises; promises that a spy and freedman of lower class could never make.

  He drained the gold jewel-encrusted chalice, pushed aside the foolish idea that he could give her those sweet words, that they might be enough without the weight of promises. He’d force himself to be satisfied with the pleasure of watching his goddess being attended by her maid. And it was a pleasure.

  His wife reminded him of a dancer. With practiced movements, Julia removed each piece of jewelry, handed them off to Dorcas who carefully secured them inside a locked coffer. The maid shot an uncertain look at him, more proof of Julia’s naiveté that her loyal servants would question none of this farce. Besides, that lock would be as crumbling dust in his hands—if he craved baubles. But his interest lay elsewhere. He shifted his gaze back to Julia.

  Her profile was perfection. The soft glow of the lamps reflected the pearl sheen of her complexion, the fullness of her lips, the thick, feathered lashes.

  The clenched jaw, the tight line of her shoulders, the stubborn tilt of her chin. He smiled.

  She shot a look over her shoulder, pursed her lips together when he refused to lower his gaze. It amused him that Julia wished to pretend he wasn’t there. Even if the room were as pitch black as the Emperor’s prison, he’d have known she was present by the intense awareness between them.

  Julia rose from the table and slipped behind a carved screen. The rustle of cloth, the muted shadows cast by the lamp light—damn the intricately woven material of the screen—sent his imagination spinning and his loins aching.

  If he was to make any progress in building Julia’s trust he had to keep a tight leash on these lustful thoughts. It should not be diff
icult. He was a consummate actor when the need arose.

  Stepping back into the room, clothed now in a silk tunic of simple design and unfortunate opacity, Julia returned to her seat while Dorcas released the heavy pins holding that glorious hair in place. The thick tresses tumbled down her back in a swirl of golden brown, resting like a cloud on the smooth, silky line of her nearly bare shoulders. Damon sucked in a sharp breath.

  *****

  Julia stiffened at the pained noise behind her, cast a quick glance in the polished metal mirror. She released a small sigh of relief when she saw that Damon had not moved. She’d purposefully ignored him from the moment they’d entered the chamber, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been aware of his presence. Even behind the changing screen she’d felt the intensity of his gaze, knew he was watching her every move. She now had some idea what a hare must feel like when being stalked by a wolf. But unlike the hare, she had no hole where she could bolt to safety.

  He made a noise which sounded like a growl. Pretending interest in the items on her vanity, she watched his reflection from beneath her lashes and swallowed her own gasp. Back to her, legs braced apart, he undid his belt with quick, impatient movements and tossed it on the divan. Completely oblivious to being watched—well, he didn’t know he was being watched—he stripped off his tunic in one fluid motion.

  Julia didn’t realize immediately that her mouth was hanging open and if asked would vigorously deny that she was captivated by the play of muscles along Damon’s back and shoulders as he folded the garment neatly before bending to undo the straps of his boots. Julia ran her tongue over her teeth. Gods, the scrap of linen serving as his loincloth hugged the hard contours of his ass like plaster.

  Barely registering that he had paused, Julia managed to avert her gaze before his head whipped around. She busied herself with the ties at the shoulders of her dressing gown, watching from the corner of her eye. Damon donned a lounging robe belonging to her father. While the Senator was nearly as tall as Damon, he was not of the same build so that the indigo silk garment barely drew together exposing a rather impressive amount of muscled chest. Julia’s hands flexed with the desire to stroke the mat of short, crisp hair that arrowed down and disappeared beneath the tie belt. Still watching her, he poured another chalice of wine and sprawled across the divan.

  Julia closed her eyes against the dull throb of a headache. Gods, what was she going to do? Damon’s presence was potent and there was no use denying her attraction to all that maleness. A woman would have to be in her grave not to be drawn to it or so old that failing sight protected her from the sheer force of it. Even then she had a feeling he’d be able to dazzle the poor soul.

  She dipped a finger into a blue glass pot, smoothed rose-scented cream into her hands. It was purely a physical reaction, one that she could—and would—resist. She had no choice, because falling into a dazed state at every turn was not productive. Another arrangement would have to be found.

  The guest chamber across the hall. Why in the name of Jupiter hadn’t she thought of that before? It would be ideal. Tomorrow she would have the maids clean the room, air out the mattress. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for husband and wife to keep separate rooms. Of course, her parents never had. They had spent every night of their married lives together in this chamber, in that bed. A pang of disappointment shot through her at the realization that she would never have that type of marriage.

  No use regretting what would never be. Closing her eyes again, Julia tilted her head back to allow Dorcas to run a brush through her hair. The rhythmic strokes of the bristles against her scalp down to the tips eased the tension from her mind and body. Sighing softly, she began to relax.

  The brushing stopped. “Do not stop, Dorcas,” she murmured. The brushing continued. “You have very talented hands.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Julia’s eyes flew open at the deep drawl and met the amused gaze of Damon in the mirror. He stood behind her, brush in one hand, a swatch of her hair in the other. She started to rise but he placed a hand on her shoulder and gently urged her to remain seated. “Where is Dorcas?” she asked slowly.

  “I dismissed her,” he answered lightly. “I think it an appropriate action for the master to send his lady’s maid away when his lady’s ablutions last longer than the siege of Troy.”

  Julia’s lips twitched. Through the reflection of the mirror, she watched him set the brush aside. Spreading his fingers apart, he slid them beneath the thick fall of her hair and began to massage her scalp. His touch was gentle and extremely skillful. Against her will, she closed her eyes and sighed. “What would you know of a lady’s ablutions?” Even as she asked the question, Julia wished for it back. She braced for a suggestive response from Damon. From beneath her lashes, she glanced at his reflection. His expression was thoughtful though his eyes once again held that hint of sadness she’d noted at dinner.

  After a long pause, he said, “When I was a boy, I often spent the evening with my mother, watching her prepare for another night alone without my father.” There was a brittle edge to the wry smile that lifted one corner of his mouth. “He rarely saw fit to spend the night with his own family, could care less if they had enough to eat or fuel to stay warm. She did her best to fill the void but she was stretched into many directions balancing want and need, keeping the creditors at bay.” He threaded his fingers through her hair, sending warm shivers through Julia. “But the hour before retiring she saved for her children.”

  There was an ache buried beneath his voice and an image of a tousle-haired boy worried for his mother in the silent way of a child tugged at her heart. “Your mother taught you this skill?”

  “I was the only male in a household of females. I learned more from my sisters than any member of my gender should and keep a sane mind.” He added with a chuckle, “Playing Cleopatra leaves a mark on a man.”

  Julia smiled at the thought of Damon being overwhelmed by his siblings, a rare occurrence she was sure, though his protest was unconvincing. “I’m sure your sisters outgrew their need to torment their brother.”

  “I’m sure they did. But I wasn’t there to see it. We were sold to three different masters.”

  Her heart clutched at the raw pain etched on his handsome face. It had not been her intention to raise unpleasant memories. Damon might well be adept at maintaining a cool, detached demeanor the majority of the time, but on the few occasions he had spoken of his family he was as transparent as water.

  Meeting her gaze, Damon cleared his throat and began to brush with renewed vigor. Knowing that he would dismiss her concern and wishing to save her head from further abuse, Julia caught his wrist and slipped the brush from it. “The hour is late and I am tired.”

  Tired really did not describe the fatigue she was feeling. The constant tension of being around Damon—never knowing what he was going to say, what he was going to do and being surprised by both—had kept her strung as tight as the strings of a harp. It did not help matters that she was drawn to him, fascinated beyond purpose by his hard, muscled body, clever mind and knowing glint in those incredible silver eyes.

  Gods, it was hot in the chamber.

  Swallowing hard, Julia rose from the chair, turned toward the bed and frowned at the empty space on the floor. Where was the pallet? Kaj was supposed to have brought Damon’s pallet to the room. Trying to ignore the swell of panic churning in her stomach, Julia circled the dais only to find the other side just as vacant.

  “Are you searching for something?”

  The deep, smooth voice close to her ear caused Julia to jump and spin around so fast that her foot caught in the edge of the bed covering. Damon steadied her, which was not difficult to do since he had managed to position himself directly behind her. The man had to be part feline to move so soundlessly. Studying the expression on his face—as if he had just swallowed a songbird—convinced her of it. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was looking for your pallet.”

  “My pallet? Do
you mean the thin, lumpy one from my previous accommodations?”

  Julia pursed her lips and nodded, recognizing feigned confusion for what it was—a tactic to evade and distract.

  Damon shrugged one shoulder. “I threw it out the window.”

  “You did what?” she sputtered.

  “I threw it out the window,” he repeated, shifting his stance so that her legs were firmly wedged between his muscled thighs, her lower back pinned against the bed and her heart lodged in her throat. With a crooked finger he lifted her chin and forced her to look at him. “I’m not sleeping on the floor, goddess.”

  Julia forced herself to remain still, which was quite a feat considering the pressure of his legs against her own was like a hot iron branding her skin. Damon was not going to get a reaction from her, some impulsive response that proved he could sway her to do his bidding. She was a Roman lady and would not be intimidated. Schooling her expression into her best regal look, she held his unwavering gaze.

  Damon did not react as she had hoped. Instead, he tilted his head, his gaze searching. With his thumb, he gently traced the tender skin beneath her jaw, sending tiny shivers of delight cascading along her spine. How, Julia thought irritably, was she going to maintain her cool detachment when she was so close to all this rough, raw masculinity?

  Julia splayed her hands against his chest, eager for distance from the sheer physical intensity. The skin beneath her hand was warm, firm over muscles that rippled when he shifted to encircle her in his arms. “Where else would you sleep?” Instantly, she wished she’d cut her tongue out.

  “Why Julia,” he answered with a faint smile, “Where else would a husband sleep?”

  “Ohhhhhh,” Julia pushed against the immobile wall of his chest, relieved when he allowed her to slip past him.

  “You have lost your mind,” she said, pacing between the bed and vanity. The gall of the man. The utter gall.

  “I’ve explained it to you, Julia,” he said, his patient tone grating. “We must keep up the appearance of a devoted couple. It would not do for word to leak out that Julia Manulus makes her husband sleep on the floor like a slave.”