Ancient Ties (28 page)

She’d seen little boys in playground fights cling to their control trying to act like grown men. Marek had broken down once in front of her. She knew he did not intend to let it happen

again. Even though Janney understood his splintered pride, it still hurt. He didn’t choose her. He couldn’t. He had his duty.

Still, she tightened her arms around his middle. She wasn’t leaving him, not now, maybe not ever. She honestly had no idea if she had the courage to go out the portal, even if it were possible. Right now, the thought of leaving Marek hurt so much she wasn’t even sure she could stand on her own two feet. They clung to each other, Marek’s breath warming her cheek and drifting down her neck. She felt safe wrapped in his strong arms, his broad chest and beating heart the perfect cushion for her cheek.

Eventually, they ended up in the bed. Marek pulled her into his arms and cuddled her head onto his shoulder. Janney had so rarely been held quite like this. After her father’s death, her mother had been the coddled, comforted one. Janney had eventually withdrawn inside herself, and people assumed she was handling it and didn’t need anyone.

Somehow, Marek knew to just hold her. To make no promises he couldn’t keep. He rolled her to her side, his chest, belly, and thighs a cradle. Drew a leg over hers. Curled a hand over her breast. It wasn’t as much sexual as it was a communion.

Janney burrowed back against him. “I love you.”

“I love you, sweet one,” he whispered into her ear.

Janney’s flat hand shaded her eyes against the brilliant afternoon sun glinting off shiny iron and copper armor. Stunned, she stared down into the sandy-floored coliseum at the breathtaking sight of hundreds of men filling the expansive arena.

Except for the few standing around observing or directing others, most of the men were paired off and locked in practice combat. She wriggled her nose at the sharp smell of human sweat and musk. Shouts, grunts, thuds, and the clacking of the double-edged Iberian swords pounding wooden shields surrounded her.

Breathing shallowly, Janney thought of the Chicago Bears football game she’d attended last winter—in that other life that seemed so long ago. Even though she and Ed had been seated in the nosebleed section, they had slipped down to the lower seats at half-time, to get a taste of the action. Close up, she could hear the creaking of players’ equipment, and their grunts and curses as they propelled themselves head first into each other.

The Bears had played a game. These soldiers in the arena prepared for battle. This was life and death to them. They wielded dangerous, lethal weapons. Is this what battle is like?

This noise? This dust and heat? Were they afraid?

Janney’s fingernails dug into the wooden railing separating her and the other guests in the visitors’ pavilion from the grim business in the training arena. The contrast was obscene. She was sheltered by the canopy overhead, shading plush, colorfully cushioned seats. The men below them contended unprotected with the sun and the brutal and overpowering chaos. People in

the viewing area lounged, talking, eating, flirting, most of them paying absolutely no attention to what was going on below them.

The coliseum in Aquae Sulis was built in a similar fashion as the one in Rome. Two-tiered floors of arches in the local golden stone soared up above. Inside the arena, under the blazing sun and in the tumultuous clamor, men were training to kill. A metallic taste of blood, her own, as she bit the inside of her cheek in tension, mixed with grit in her mouth. Janney was too overwhelmed by what she saw below her, too distracted to even take advantage of the goblet of cool wine from a golden tray when it was offered by a servant.

Beads of sweat rolled down Janney’s face and neck and slid between her breasts. The sun beating down unmercifully upon the arena had to be baking the soldiers. Some men wore no shirts or tunics, just those short leggings. The sight of these half-dressed men, their bodies hard and muscled, was certainly a feast for the eye. Even the ones who wore a leather vest as an armorlike covering, were a mouth-watering treat. Swoon-worthy. Janney hiccupped a small laugh at the old Seinfeld joke.

“Ohmigod,” she whispered through barely moving lips.

Marek.
Glistening with sweat, he entered the arena through a huge stone arch, naked except for boots and the leggings. Her lips parted on a gasp. The man was primitive. Savage and magnificent. It was as if she’d never seen him before. Heat simmered in her middle and flashed to a blaze as it spread throughout her body. Her eyes closed briefly, as she fought to master these new primal emotions. Janney trembled. Not with fear. It was excitement. Arousal.

Her gaze snapped onto Marek. Again, she brushed aside the servant offering a cool drink. He was magnificent. Well used to his nakedness, Janney’s blood still roiled with lust at the sight of him. Even after living with this man who had brought her sensuality alive for the first time in her life, she was completely thrown by her reaction now. Marek exuded power. Was she the only one who saw it? He looked like a sex god with his sweat-glistened muscles, his larger than life, wide-legged stance. She

couldn’t be the only woman to feel his allure, but he belonged to her.

To see him in public with only leggings hugging his strong thighs and the open sandals he called boots was quite fascinating.

Powerful. Seductive.

Slung around his hips, like cowboy gun belts, were two crisscrossing copper and silver belts, one for his sword on the left. A sheathed dagger hung on his other side. Some men wore iron helmets. Marek did not. Janney prayed he did in battle.

Was he aware she watched? She couldn’t tell. He certainly did not look in her direction, seemingly completely focused on the training. His gaze flickered from group to group, probably analyzing the various levels of competence. His dark eyes squinting against sun and dust, he looked ferocious.

Marek turned suddenly at a shout, the warning focusing his attention. He instantly parried a sword blow with one neat, powerful move, lifting his sword up and across his body.

Answering the attack, forcing his opponent back, Marek hammered his blade against the other’s. He stalked his opponent efficiently and gracefully, dominating him until, striking swiftly, the sword spun from his adversary’s hand.

Janney watched the muscles in Marek’s back and shoulders bunch and move smoothly under his skin. The long weeks of his leave hadn’t diminished the potency of his arm and thigh muscles. Her eyes wide, she saw this other side of the man she knew as a peaceable landowner and a sensitive, passionate lover.

The white-hot stab of desire flooded her again, and she bit her upper lip to hold back a moan. Digging her fingers into the wooden support post to keep herself upright, she was shocked and frightened at her reaction.

Marek had noted Janney’s position in the pavilion. He’d known where she stood even before he entered the arena. Her burning gaze wrapped around him. He fought to push her out of his mind, needing to focus on his job. Every part of his body, including his sex, bolted to attention knowing that Janney was

here. It wasn’t unusual for a warrior to become aroused during battle, even in a training exercise. He did not need this distraction.

“I’ll give you a contest.”

Marek stiffened as he recognized the snarled provocation.

“A contest with a bit more difficulty than the last. Maybe the woman, Janney Forrester, would like to see a real man win.”

His antagonist’s lips drew back in an ugly grin.

Bile pushed its way up into Marek’s throat. He breathed in deeply through his nose, forcing it down. Marek surveyed his enemy with a cold, hard regard. “Glaucus, you will regret ever uttering her name.” His jaws clamped tightly shut.

No one else will have her. I found her, and now she is mine. Mine!

Glaucus raised his sword arm in mock salute to Marek, then swiftly turned toward Janney’s position in the pavilion and repeated his salute with a flourish.

“Bastard,” Marek spat. They swung at the same moment sparks striking off their swords.

Glaucus laughed tauntingly and lunged. With a series of fast moving thrusts, his teeth barred, eyes narrowed, Glaucus took the advantage and forced Marek against the rough stones of the wall.

The second Marek’s bare back met the sun-warmed wall; he shook himself free of his personal distractions. His first mistake had been honorably waiting for Glaucus to turn back from his salute. It would be his last mistake. With a vicious growl, Marek ducked away from the sideways-thrust blade and moved out into the center of the arena. Having tossed down his shield, both hands gripping the hilt of his sword, his powerful arms whipped and slashed. Marek now took control and advanced on Glaucus.

Marek’s supreme confidence in his swordsmanship spurred him on. Having taught the skill, he was strong, cunning, and gifted. He fought hard and not necessarily fairly. This was supposed to be a training exercise, but he knew Glaucus would try to kill him, or at least maim him. With the blood lust upon

him, Marek would if necessary, fight to the death. He and Glaucus sustained a long-standing animosity, and this could very well be the climax. Glaucus had the advantage of no conscience, but Marek believed that he was ultimately the better warrior.

Narrowing all his focus now on the battle before him, Marek thrust. The men clinched, arms and swords locked together. Marek squinted through the sweat running into his eyes. He gasped, his mouth wide, and dragged in the air he needed. Growling, Marek bunched his shoulder muscles to fling Glaucus away. His eyes widened in surprise when he felt himself lose his footing and thump to the ground. The bastard had pulled one of the oldest tricks. Glaucus had tripped him.

Grunting for breath, Marek spit out the flying dust. His chest heaving, he anticipated the next move and rolled to his side as the double-edged blade descended to where his belly would have lain exposed. With rolling momentum, Marek leaped to his feet and whirled even before Glaucus could raise his sword arm again.

Ruthlessly, Marek advanced. His forward momentum erupted into a savage, disciplined, two-handed drive. This had ceased to be a training exercise. It was personal. He would enjoy destroying this man. Marek’s mind was now clear, his brain functioning as he had been trained.

Methodically, he sliced and nicked his way across Glaucus’s arms and chest. All Glaucus could do was parry, and when possible, retreat. The punishment to his muscles should be weakening his arms. His grip on the sword had to be impossibly slippery. The sweat and blood running down his arms and into the cuts must be painfully stinging. With a feral howl and a mighty lunge, Marek decided to end this. He hooked Glaucus’s sword. It flew up then slammed into the sand. The momentum knocked Glaucus to the ground. Marek stood over him, his sword pointed unwaveringly at his throat.

Marek grabbed deep open-mouthed breaths, his chest heaving. Blood raced through his veins, through his brain. He’d bested the bastard. He still had the power and skill. He was not a

pathetic, weak fool. His breakdown was an aberration in the past. This was what he was born to do.

His gasps sounded loudly in his ears, Marek barely heard the shouts and cheers from the perimeter of the arena. Men surged forward to clap him on the back and to pull Glaucus to his feet, declaring that this had been the finest demonstration of swordsmanship they’d ever seen. They either didn’t know, or didn’t want to know, how deadly it was meant to be. Marek figured they didn’t want to know.

The two combatants stared at each other, the passion of victory still clamoring in Marek. His contemptuous glower declared his superiority over Glaucus. “Stay away from her,” he snarled, his lips hardly moving.

Glaucus’s pinched lips, flared nostrils, and vicious glare declared his hatred and humiliation.

Marek raised his head then and honed his gaze in on the visitors’ pavilion. Janney had disappeared. Almost staggering in his despair, he turned and quickly strode away. At the edge of the arena, he sloshed a bucket of water over his head and chest.

A servant hovered behind him to dry his back, as Marek roughly rubbed at the sweat, dirt, and blood spattered over him.

Anguish squeezed his heart. He felt as if he’d been slashed open from heart to belly. His worst fear had been realized.

Janney was disgusted. Horrified. She’d never seen him fight. She would fear him now that she’d seen him at his most savage.

Well, it was for the best then. He’d be leaving soon and maybe it would be less painful for her. He was what he was. A warrior.

A small coterie of fellow soldiers formed around Marek. He barely heard their easy joking and high spirits, his mind distant, wishing he were void of all feeling as he had been for so many years. Now that Janney had seen the real warrior with her own eyes, she rejected him. Even so, bloodlust still surged through his veins. His body was invincible. He was a soldier. A warrior.

A man.

The group passed through an arch and was heading down a dim hallway, the only illumination from small torches high up on

the walls. Light fell into the tunnellike passage from the bright end leading to the viewing stands. A figure stood in the ray of sunshine. Marek narrowed his eyes through the gloom. “Inferi sanctus!”
Holy Hades!

Janney. What in Hades is she doing down here? If she came to
castigate me, I will offer no apologies.

He strode toward her. “What are you doing down here? It’s too dangerous!” Marek ground out. He didn’t notice the other men pause curiously then melt away down the passage.

They stood close enough to touch. To grasp. Their gazes clashed. He saw it then. Janney was not afraid. His groin surged, a throbbing ache. A throbbing, hard, raging ache. Nothing else mattered. Janney was here, and she wanted him.

Gripping her elbow, he turned her and pushed her ahead of him. By some sort of gift from the Gods, they were paces from his office. He propelled her inside. Clicked the door shut.