Celtic Fire (7 page)

He lifted her easily, his arms flexing around her like a living cage, and for a moment Rhiannon forgot to breathe. Her fingers closed on his upper arms. His skin was smooth and golden, stretched taut over iron-hard muscles. Rhiannon willed her racing heart to slow and, as she filled her lungs with air, she thought she had succeeded. Then she looked up into his eyes.

His steady gaze enveloped her like a fur cloak on a winter night. His frown softened, drawing her attention once again to his smooth chin. One corner of his mouth lifted with the promise of a smile. She shifted in his arms. His lips parted on a quick intake of breath, revealing a row of even white teeth.

He smelled of the wind in the pines and of leather freshly cured. His powerful, blunt-fingered hand closed on her arm. His skin was dark against her fairer coloring, but his grip was not harsh. His fingernails were clean and trimmed short.

Rhiannon’s heart set to pounding harder than before. She thought perhaps she should be afraid, but, oddly, she was not. When his callused warrior’s hands lowered her to the bed, she thought only that this Roman’s touch was softer than Edmyg’s had ever been.

He straightened, the frown returning to his eyes. He swiveled his head to the right and left—searching, it seemed, but for what, Rhiannon couldn’t imagine. He hunted, prowling to the window, then back to the door. He bent to inspect the underside of the long table against the wall.

“Gone again,” he said, his tone abrupt. He turned on her with a swift movement. “Could it be you?”

Rhiannon’s confusion grew. “What do you mean? Who is gone? The healer?”

He didn’t answer. His shoulders slumped and his hand passed over his eyes as if to wipe away some unwanted vision. She’d seen only his strength when he had first entered the chamber, but now, looking closer, she noted the weariness in his stance, the slight tremble of his hand as it curled into a fist. After a long moment, he raised his head and met her gaze. Again recognition sparked in Rhiannon’s heart, along with an overwhelming desire to ease the raw pain that showed so clearly in his soft, dark eyes. Eyes she was certain she’d looked upon before. Then, suddenly, she knew.

The Roman commander bore an uncanny resemblance to the young officer Madog had slaughtered at Samhain. The man whose soul had cried out to Rhiannon at the moment of his death. Was the new fort commander kin to the murdered man, come to avenge his death? A sound of distress escaped her lips.

Her captor’s features smoothed, as if he’d exerted a sudden effort to wipe them clean. “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said. Then, a heartbeat later, “You shouldn’t walk. I’m sure Demetrius told you.”

“He did.”

“But you thought to try anyway.”

“Yes.”

The smile returned to his eyes. “My esteemed physician will not be pleased to find you think so little of his advice.”

“Then he should refrain from giving it.”

The corners of his mouth lifted, first one side, then the other. The result was a lopsided smile and a dimple that was identical to his son’s. One dark curl fell over his forehead. He brushed it aside only to have it fall back again.

“Forgive me if I don’t relay that sentiment to Demetrius. I know from hard experience he wouldn’t take it kindly.” He took a step toward her. His hand came to rest on the bed, very close to her arm.

She inched in the opposite direction. Did he think after a bit of light banter she would welcome him into her bed? If so, he was to be disappointed. At the same time, she wondered why he bothered with polite pretenses at all. He’d claimed her as a battle prize. He could take her whenever he wished and there was precious little she could do to stop him.

“Rhiannon,” he said. “A beautiful name.”

She looked up to find him watching her. “How did you— Oh. The lad told you.”

He nodded. “My son.”

“Marcus.”

“Yes.” He paused. “You may call me Lucius.”

Lucius. It fit him. A bold name, but not a rough one. Rhiannon was drawn to the sound of it in spite of a fierce wish to snap the thread of fate that joined her soul to his. She shifted backward on the bed, away from him. No matter what he was called, no matter what connection his kinsman’s blood had forged between them, he was her enemy.

The heat in his gaze told Rhiannon that he desired her and the knowledge of it filled her with dread. Her captor was above all a man, and like all men he would take what he wanted. But she would not yield easily.

She kept her expression neutral. “How is your arse, Lucius, where it was struck by my arrow?”

His eyes narrowed. “Improving.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

He snorted, but to her relief moved away to the window. Supporting his weight with one hand on the frame, he peered through the opening as if contemplating the scenery. Beyond his dark head, Rhiannon caught a glimpse of the green hills she called home. How simple her escape could be if she had the wings of a bird.

“Where did you learn to speak the language of Rome?” Lucius asked without turning.

She bit her lip, thinking belatedly that perhaps she should have feigned ignorance. She could hardly reveal the truth—that she had been taught by a Druid master so as to better understand her enemies. Druidry had been banned by Roman law well before her birth.

“Many of my people speak Latin,” she hedged.

He turned and fixed her with a piercing gaze. “A few words, perhaps. Enough to trade in the fort village.”

“My grandparents had dealings with the Romans.” That, at least, was no lie. Cartimandua had been an ally of Rome. “I learned your language as a child.”

To her relief, he didn’t press further. But his next question proved even more disturbing. “Who was the young warrior you protected on the battlefield?”

Rhiannon didn’t answer.

“Too old for a son, too young for a lover. A brother, perhaps?”

She shrugged.

“He owes you his life. If not for your arrows, I would have killed him.”

“A pity none of my shots pierced your neck.”

That brought a smile to his lips. He moved from the window, closing the distance between them with two quick strides. “You are a brave woman.” He lifted his hand and grazed her cheek with one finger. Just a feather touch, but it conveyed a wealth of honest esteem.

An odd spark jumped in Rhiannon’s belly. It took all her strength not to lean into his caress.

“Such a beautiful nymph,” he said. “You’re mine now.”

Rhiannon stiffened. “Your bed-slave?”

His soft eyes glittered like a wash of stars in the winter sky. “If you wish it.”

“A slave has little choice as to her duties.”

“True enough, but I’m not in the habit of forcing women into my bed, slave or free.”

She forced a laugh. “You’re a Roman.” She let her contempt show in her eyes. “A defiler.”

His hand dropped from her cheek. He placed his palms on the bed, one on either side of her body and leaned close, so close that his hot breath grazed her neck, though he didn’t touch her.

“I am a man, like any other.”

A man.
Niall’s face, twisted with lust, flashed before her eyes. How many times had she lain beneath her husband as he took his pleasure with no thought to hers? “I know the ways of men, Roman.”

He caught a strand of her hair and let it slide between his fingers. “Do you, my nymph?”

“Yes. They sate their needs with a few quick thrusts. Afterwards, they run to their mugs and boast.”

He frowned.

Rhiannon closed her eyes, berating herself for her quick tongue. She’d wanted to buy herself time in the hope that she could contact Cormac before the Roman forced himself on her. Instead she’d provoked her captor past any man’s patience. She braced herself for his assault. He would press her into the cushions and part her legs. She would fight, but in the end she would not escape his lust.

“A few quick thrusts?” His incredulous whisper stroked her ear. “Not all men expire so soon, little one. You and I will enjoy a far more leisurely lovemaking.” He drew back slightly and captured her with his dark gaze. “First I’ll explore you with my fingertips, learning your body until it becomes as familiar as my own. Then I’ll lower my lips to your sweet flesh. Your scent will fill my nostrils. I’ll savor your taste on my tongue until you writhe beneath me.”

His words were as heady as the wine Rhiannon had tasted earlier. They poured like sparkling heat through her veins. Taste her? Dear Briga! Surely he did not mean …

She shifted, trying to assuage the restless ache that had sprung up between her thighs. What was happening to her? Neither Edmyg’s words nor his touch had ever provoked such a reaction.

Lucius’s voice dipped low and she found herself leaning forward, closer to his heat. Still, he did not touch her.

“Your moans will be sweet music in my ears, your fingertips like fire on my skin,” he whispered. “My flesh will harden, longing to find its home within you.”

The words painted a vivid image in Rhiannon’s mind.

Instinctively she reached for him, if only to steady herself on the strength of his body.

He stepped back. Cool air rushed over her skin. The door closed with a soft thud, leaving her alone.

Rosebushes hardly belonged in Britannia.

Lucius leaned on the wooden rail opposite the nymph’s chamber door and looked down into the courtyard below. Clusters of bare canes, studded with thorns, ringed a small fountain pool. In Rome, no doubt, gardens were already resplendent with roses. Here in Britannia, the first tentative leaves had scarcely begun to unfurl.

A flicker of white settled beside him.

“The roses are too large for you to have brought them with you three years ago,” he commented without turning his head. Aulus had reappeared the instant he’d emerged from the nymph’s chamber.

“One of our hapless predecessors must have transported the shrubs north for his wife.” Lucius snorted. “I hope she polished his sword well for his trouble.”

He turned in time to catch his brother’s answering grin. His heart slammed in his chest at the familiar sight. Lucius would have given much to be able to throw his arm around Aulus’s shoulders, but the chill that accompanied the specter kept him from closing the distance between them.

He pushed himself back from the railing. “Why do you stay away from the nymph?”

Aulus shrugged.

“Ah, so I am right, you are avoiding her. Why?”

Aulus looked away, into the courtyard, as if studying the roses.

“Perhaps,” Lucius mused as he paced toward his chamber, “you wish to afford me a modicum of privacy at last. Jupiter knows I’ve been loath to bed a woman in your presence.” He paused to shoot a glare at his brother. “Though I suspect you wouldn’t have protested.”

Aulus glanced back at the nymph’s door and smirked.

Lucius’s own gaze followed his brother’s. His rod was still hard from his encounter with Rhiannon; he’d barely escaped the room without ravishing her. He’d approached her too soon, of course. Too soon for both of them. He’d been intending to allow her a few days to become accustomed to her new situation, but he’d found himself unable to stay away.

Rhiannon. She was as mysterious as the forest from which she’d sprung. She brought to mind fingers of mist sifting through the trees, beckoning him to explore wild places he had never known. He was as eager to taste her as a man dying of thirst was to drink from a mountain spring. She’d been gloriously savage in her resistance to him—how much more so would she be in surrender?

His mind raced with plans for her seduction, his rod springing upward once again. He would gentle her like a new colt, drawing her closer each day, until she rested in his arms. He had no doubt of his ultimate success. Women varied little from one end of the empire to the other. They were creatures of sensation, susceptible to flattery. Rhiannon would revel in his endearments and the luxuries a civilized household provided. And she would no doubt enjoy making love to a man who lasted beyond a few swift thrusts.

He crossed the threshold to his bedchamber. Aulus drifted in behind before Lucius could shut the door. The room was crowded with Egyptian-styled furniture even more hideous than the table in the receiving chamber. A wide bed, another table, a padded bench. A tall cabinet opened to reveal trinkets, jewelry and small works of art.

A golden chain hung with a perfect teardrop of amber caught his attention. The color reminded him of Rhiannon’s eyes.

“Just how many wagonloads of useless items did you bring to Britannia?” he asked Aulus.

Aulus, of course, gave no response. He floated about, inspecting the corners of the chamber as if lately returned from a long holiday. Lucius sighed and reached for his armor. He fastened the hammered metal over his short war tunic and cinched his war belt about his waist. He slid his battle dagger into its sheath.

His hand closed next on his sword. The hilt was fashioned in the shape of a wolf s head, the emblem both of Lucius’s family name—Ulpius—and of the Roman Empire itself. The artist who had crafted it had been clever—the blade seemed to spring from the beast’s jaws.

“Do you remember when you gave me this?” he asked Aulus, rubbing his thumb along the gilded edge of the cross guard. “It was on my twenty-second … no,” he amended, “my twenty-third birthday, when you had but fifteen years. Seven years ago. You told me I was the warrior, you the dreamer. I was to buy you a new translation of Homer for your birthday.”

Had he done so? Lucius couldn’t remember. He thought not.

He moved one jerky step to the low table on which the contents of his toilet kit lay scattered. He dragged a comb through his hair, then slid it into its leather case. With careful precision, he retrieved the other items one by one and fitted them into their proper slots in the polished wooden toiletry case. Razor and strop. Toothpick. Tweezers. A small mirror of polished silver.

He looked up from his task to find Aulus watching him with sad eyes. “I grew to manhood basking in your adoration,” he said, his chest constricting painfully. “Was there ever a time when I didn’t take your love for granted?”

His throat burned. He swallowed hard and closed the toiletry case, taking care to fit the corners in place despite the slight tremor in his hands. He lifted his crested Legionary helmet and left the room, too cowardly to dare another glance at the ghost drifting by his side.