Barbarian's Soul (25 page)

Adria rolled her eyes. “Forgive me, my lady. Bryna,” she amended at Bryna’s pointed look. “Your brother does not need anyone. He is well able to take care of himself.” And her, the thought came unbidden.

Julia gave a small laugh. “Adria, I would not be so swift to discount Bryna’s counsel. You see, she has the gift of prophesy.” Her gaze sought out Damon, her eyes softening. “If not for her, I might not have my husband.”

Adria gave Bryna a cautious look. “You are an oracle?”

Bryna shrugged. “That is the designation my master used to make his profit, though I despised it and him.” Her voice softened as she too looked to her mate. “Though I will allow that it is what led Jared to me. And that is the true gift.”

Adria pondered that. There had been a blind woman when she was a child who’d sit at the entrance of the temple district soliciting alms. It was rumored that she could predict the future, but Adria’s parents had called it nothing more than superstition.

Bryna, she did not doubt, was quite sincere in her beliefs. One look at the love on the woman’s face when she looked at her husband was evidence enough. But she was not in love with Bran as these women were with their spouses. The very thought was ludicrous.

Then why was there such an ache in her chest?

Adria took a calming breath. “I thank you for your concern my lady, but my service with your brother will be over soon.”

“Ah, yes,” said Julia speaking to Bryna. “When does Bran sail for your homeland?” With a small gasp, Julia clapped her hand to her mouth.

“Do not concern yourself, Julia,” said Bryna. “I know of his plans, though once again he thinks to spare me. I believe he plans to leave by the end of next week.”

Adria fought down a wave of panic. So soon?

Bryna stood and took Ceallach from Adria. “Those are his plans. But as you and I both know, Julia,” she said looking first at her brother then at Adria, “plans often change. Now these two look as if they could do with a nap along with the baby.”

Bryna waved Adria off as she shepherded Cyma and Julian toward Ceallach’s waiting nurse. Julia lumbered to her feet, Damon rushing to her side. He murmured something in her ear which made her smile, his hand resting protectively on her swollen belly. The intimacy of the moment clutched at Adria as Damon walked his wife toward a guest bedchamber to lie down. She wasn’t quite certain rest was on their minds.

A frisson of awareness shot through her and Adria knew Bran stood behind her. Easily explained, she thought, desperate for reassurance, plus she was very attuned to her environment by nature of her profession. It would have been the same if a servant had approached. A wave of heat surged through her, moments before she felt his touch on her shoulder.

Without thought, Adria covered his hand with her own, shivered at the feel of his warm skin, the strong length of his blunt-edged fingers. A hand that could wield a sword with deadly precision and gently hold Cyma when she cried. A hand whose callused touch caused her body to tremble. A hand that she wanted to hold forever.

“The hour grows late,” he said.

Adria shook herself out of her reverie and her impossible dream. “Your sister has taken the children to nap,” she said, rising to her feet, careful to avoid his probing gaze. She could not trust herself to look at him, not until she had the jumble of clashing emotions sorted out and her mind planted firmly back into her reality. A life without Bran.

Adria swallowed past the thick lump in her throat. “I will call you when they awaken,” she said and hurried down the corridor.

***

“Did you find the bitch?”

The man on his knees flinched. A common occurrence, as most everyone within the fourteenth district—at least anyone with half a wit about them—did when in his presence. Tiege smiled. He so enjoyed the power of terrorizing.

“Master,” the man paused and moistened his cracked lips. The wretch spoke as if he had a mouth full of rocks or as if his tongue were too large for his mouth. Tiege smiled to himself. If the man came bearing unsatisfactory news he’d cure him of that condition. He’d cut the thing out by its root.

“Master,” the man began again. “We’ve searched the entire ward and three others besides with no trace of the girl.”

Tiege kept his face neutral. The man began to visibly tremble.

He wanted the girl.

The same courage he’d come to admire in his months of observing her was the same attribute that had sealed her fate. The little witch. Adria. He’d discovered her name through some select and painful—for the ones asked—questioning. She had been foolish enough to challenge him, to taunt him in front of his followers and humiliate him by boldly stealing his coin and threatening his reputation.

And she would pay. Oh, yes. She would pay.

With her life, yes—eventually. But first this Adria would suffer. He would use her and humiliate her until she cried for mercy. She would beg for death. But the stupid whore had challenged his authority and must serve as a lesson to others.

Beneath Tiege’s cold stare the informant paled. Tiege turned to his bodyguard, a formidable Briton who did well as his second because he rarely spoke and was unopposed to following his every order. Tiege didn’t trust him anymore than he did any of his men, but for now he served his purpose.

“The short blade, I think, Albion. I want to dig the tongue out.”

His spy looked as if he might soil himself.

“No! Master! Please, I did not fail you.”

Tiege took the knife the silent man handed him and studied the blade. “Do you have the girl?”

“N-no,”

He took a step down from the dais as two of his burliest men stepped forward to hold his arms.

“No!” repeated the man on a strangled cry. “But we have seen her.”

Tiege paused mid-step and waved his men away. The man collapsed on his hands and knees, whimpered. “Where?”

“In...in the Forum this morning.”

“And why did you not capture her?” he asked with a deadly undertone.

The man had developed a most pronounced stutter. “S-s-she was with the ba-barbarian.”

Tiege froze, his vision hazed over black as anger overtook him. The gladiator! He’d cost him two of his best fighters and aided the girl in her escape.

“The gladiator has the girl? Is she in one piece?” Damn, he’d be pissed if the barbarian bastard had usurped his right for retribution.

“Oh, yes, Master,” answered the man, falling back into his groveling position beneath Tiege’s pointed glare. “They seemed content together. There were children and it was, well domestic.”

Tiege frowned. As angry as he’d been that night, he’d wager this coward’s tongue the gladiator had not been happy with the girl. And children?

He flipped his knife back to Albion who caught it by the handle and slipped it into a sheath on his belt. “Send more men into that area. Search every vendor stand, look under rocks if you must. Find out where the girl is.”

Tiege barely registered the relief on the man’s face as he scraped and bowed his way out of the lair. “Albion, sharpen more blades.”

Chapter Fifteen

T
he trip home was taking a lifetime.

Or so it seemed to Adria. After Cyma and Julian had awakened from their nap, Bran had made hasty excuses and rushed their farewells to Bryna and Julia before he’d hustled them out the door. Now they walked the darkening streets in silence as they had on the trip there but she sensed it was not in response to rude stares. Her few feeble attempts at inquires had been met with curt, one-word responses and the occasional growl.

She cast a sideways look at his locked jaw, head raised and his gait confident. He never walked with his eyes cast down but always looked straight ahead. A response to his days in slavery, she supposed, when he’d been forced to bow in submission. Not now. Now he met each person’s gaze as they passed, fleeting though it may be but clear in its message that he mattered.

But he hadn’t looked at her once since they’d left.

Menw met them at the door, the worry at their later-than-anticipated return melting off his face. He greeted Adria, sent Bran a puzzled look then ushered the children into the kitchen for their supper. Bran bypassed the meal and headed for his workshop, leaving Adria alone in the atrium.

She trailed into the kitchen and without a word began to help Menw with the meal. She gave scant attention to Julian and Cyma as they chattered on about their visit, her thoughts with Bran and his behavior. Indignation warred with something that felt suspiciously like hurt. Which was preposterous. Adria knew full well that there were no tender feelings between them. Oh, she’d come to like the surly barbarian, even admired him for his care of the children, recognized the courage it had taken to survive the horrors of the arena. But there was nothing as deep as love between them.

Adria picked at her bowl of stew. She was not so foolish as to believe Bran thought of her past her role as nursemaid and bed companion. He referred to her less and less as thief, though when he did she could almost convince herself it sounded more endearment than accusation. Besides, he would be leaving Rome in a matter of days.

A sudden urge to weep overcame her.

“Adria?”

Menw’s gentle tone almost set the tears to flowing. She took a steadying breath and forced her voice to be calm. “We had a wonderful visit with Bran’s sister. It was surprising to find her here in Rome, and with her husband, no less. He was very nice, nothing like the patricians of my acquaintance. Their baby was beautiful, and looked so much like Bran.” Gods, she was rambling. “There was another couple there, Julia and Damon. Damon seemed familiar to me, though that is impossible, as someone of his stature would never be caught in the streets where I live.”

“Adria, cease.”

She snapped her mouth shut and pushed her bowl of stew away, sending Menw a quick glance. The children were no longer in the kitchen.

“Bran has struggled for several years,” he began slowly. “In an instant he went from a life of honor to one of shame. Not an easy thing for a warrior, a man used to protecting his family, his people.” Menw drew in a slow breath, stared at the wall before shaking his head. “He held this responsibility close to his heart. Even though the circumstances were beyond his control, he took on the blame for the capture of his sister, myself and several others whose fate we do not know.”

She could not imagine anything being beyond Bran’s control. “Menw, how was Bran enslaved?”

Menw took a deep breath, his expression reflecting his indecision about how much to say.

“Please, Menw,” she pleaded. “How can I know how to...” She searched for the right word and settled on one he would abhor. “How can I know how to help him if I do not understand?”

After a few more moments of thought Menw nodded. “Bran is a very gifted goldsmith,” he smiled ruefully. “But you already know that.”

Adria’s cheeks burned.

“He had quite a reputation for the skill among his clan, among the region really, for the beauty of his pieces. He found the craft much more to his liking than tilling the fields and tending the cattle, and had begun to trade with peoples from across the sea, a place the Romans call Britannia.”

Adria nodded. Rome’s victories in the wild, barbaric reaches of the Empire had long been lauded.

Menw continued. “I accompanied Bran on one such trip. The men we’d traded with before decided they’d rather keep their coin and Bran’s goods and attacked us. Bryna had had a vision, but came too late to warn her brother yet soon enough that she, too, was captured. In their greed, the bastards decided to increase their profit. Instead of slaying us, we were taken and sold to the Romans and brought to your world.”

A fierce protectiveness swelled within her. “It was no fault of his that this happened.”

“I agree,” replied Menw, “and if Bran were to take the time to consider it, he would also. But he feels as if he has to make amends. He’s spent months trying to locate the two other clansmen who were with us that day. One, Gair, was as close as a brother to him, the other a cousin.” He lifted his crippled arm. “He even goes so far as to blame himself for my master’s cruelty.”

Adria’s heart ached as Menw absently stroked the stump of his arm. “He will not forgive himself.”

“No,” Menw agreed. “The only reason he has remained in Rome was to assure himself of his sister’s happiness. As difficult as the burden has been for him, he now believes she is well taken care of and he can return to Eire.”

And leave her.

For a moment, Adria felt as if she could not breathe. For all of her denials, the simple, plain truth came to her.

She loved Bran.

And because she did, Adria knew she could never add to his burden by telling him. He would only heal if he left Rome. And she had to allow that. She stood, reached a tentative hand to his, pleased when his warm fingers grasped hers. “Thank you, Menw. I shall see you in the morning.”

Turning away from Menw’s curious look, equal parts pain and determination had her formulating a plan. She would ensure the family he’d forged remained intact and, selfish as it may seem, make memories that would have to last her a lifetime.

***

Bran climbed the stairway to the bedchambers. A light night breeze blew in from the lone window at the top, across his still-damp skin, sending an involuntary shiver through his body. Cold was good. Cold kept the burning need he felt for Adria tamped down and helped him think clearer, kept the beautiful thief in the proper place in his head.

He blew out a frustrated breath. The vixen hadn’t stayed in her proper place since he’d brought her to his home.
Forced, you mean,
accused a voice in the back of his mind. Very well, he forced her to pay for her crime though he seemed to be paying the higher price. It had seemed a reasonable solution at the time and now sound justification for keeping her close.

Close. Bran shook his head in annoyance as he reached the second level. He hadn’t let anyone close since Beatrix, and even then there had been boundaries. The gladiatrix had been content with the arrangement. He sensed she had always guarded her heart as many slaves learn to do. She’d been specifically bred with various renowned fighters, three of whom had fathered her children. He and she had been lovers, two slaves trying to find solace in each other’s arms, neither offering promises. He’d never expected anything more than that, had not wished for, nor wanted more.