Gladiator Heart (5 page)

“I don’t know what to do with her.” Tristan sighed.

Conall handed him a mug of ale, which he gladly accepted, nodding his head in thanks. He took a deep swallow of the honeyed brew and stared into the leaping flames of the fire.

“What do you mean you don’t know what to do with her?” Talorc snorted. “A piece as fine as that should keep you going all night.”

“I’ll be happy to take her off your hands,” Angus offered.

“You won’t touch her,” Tristan warned, keeping his tone relatively civil in spite of his anger. The only thing he knew when it came to Valeria was that he didn’t want her with another man. Not until he’d slaked his desires with her body first.

“Have you lost your vigor?” Conall asked suddenly.

“Gods, lad!” Angus burst out. “Are you mad?”

Talorc smacked Conall on the back of the head.

“Oww.” Conall rubbed a hand over his wild, red hair. “I was only trying to help.”

Tristan clenched his jaw tighter, staring at him in annoyance. “No, I have not lost my
vigor
.”

If anything, his vigor had mounted to an untenable level.

Angus choked out an amused laugh.” Then what’s the problem?”

“She’s like no other woman I’ve met.” Tristan scrubbed a hand over his beard.

A part of him believed it was also possible that because she was unmarried, she was still a virgin. But she also had a softness and an innocence about her, and he wouldn’t feel right forcing himself upon her. She’d called him a barbarian and a savage, and raping the woman would only prove her right. Besides, Tristan didn’t need to take a woman by force. Most times they opened to him willingly.

“Of course she’s not what you’re used to,” Angus pointed out. “She’s Roman.”

“I’m very aware of that fact,” he snapped. “But it’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Talorc eyed him with suspicion.

Tristan lifted the mug to his lips. “I don’t know.” He threw back a long swallow, finishing his drink.

“Maybe you have lost your vigor, my friend,” Angus teased. “You’d best put the Roman in her place before she makes a mess of your head.”

“Yes,” Tristan agreed, his mind falling into a daze as he stared into the flames of the flickering fire. “Yes, I should.”

Valeria would not get the best of him. She was one woman, helpless, alone, and far from home. He would figure out how to break her determined will, how to seduce her passion and coax it forth, and then he would show her some Pict hospitality of his own.

Tristan came to his bed late into the night. Valeria burrowed under her fur blanket, pretending to be asleep. She heard him banging around and the sound of his sword clanging against the table. She cracked her eyes open and peeked at him through her lashes.

He worked at stripping out of his clothes and carelessly dropped each item on the ground. He stumbled, unsteady on his feet, and she guessed he was drunk on ale because Tristan was not a clumsy oaf. She now had an answer to what he’d been doing all night. When he unfastened his breeches and dropped them around his ankles, her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she couldn’t make herself look away.

She fully opened her eyes, staring brazenly at his naked body, and the sight of pale skin stretched over his hard muscles, the light dusting of hair that covered him, and the evidence of his manhood hanging between his legs brought on a strange, inexplicable yearning she wasn’t prepared to feel. He turned from her, fumbling around to extinguish the oil lamp before she could look her fill.

The impressive sight he made in the flesh was like nothing she could have imagined. She knew she should be terrified, having been exposed to such indecency, but curiosity pestered her well into the night, even after she heard him softly snoring. There were so many things she didn’t know of life and she had a feeling Tristan was going to give her a proper education before he was through with her. She shivered and pulled the fur over her head, trying to will her mind to quiet so she could fall asleep. In truth she was exhausted, and she’d need her rest to deal with whatever tortures tomorrow would bring.

At last her eyes grew heavy, but sleep did not come easy to her. Dreams filled with blood and the screams of the dying had her tossing fitfully, drifting between slumber and wakefulness.

The tent was well lit with high ceilings and lavish furnishings. Billowing curtains of red silk waved back and forth in the breeze, swirling around couches and a low table covered with an abundance of food and wine.

Her uncle stood across from her, his armor polished and shiny and his weapons strapped over his chest and around his waist. His golden hair had grown longer while battling on the front lines and his beard had grown in so it now covered his face. The expression in his hollow blue eyes looked haunted as he communicated his disappointment regarding her arrival at the fort.

Valeria hung her head in shame, knowing he would not hear her case in his agitated state. The war seemed to be aging him, hardening him, until she barely recognized him anymore. She was dismissed to her own tent to rest and eat, and soon after the screams started.

She ran from her tent in alarm out into the cold night, wearing only her tunic, and the sight before her made her blood run cold. Chaos. Terror. Wild barbarians with painted faces, looking like animals dressed in the furs they wore, butchered the Roman soldiers, cutting them down in the night. She looked desperately for someone she recognized, but no face was familiar to her.

One of the barbarians noticed her and charged towards her, weapon raised in the air, ready to land a fatal blow. Valeria ran. She had no time to find her uncle. No time to look for Rufus. She ran from the fort like the devil was at her heels, never looking back, never stopping. Only when she could run no more did she fall to her knees in the snow to pray to the Gods.

They laughed at her. Their beautiful, flawless faces twisted and contorted as they mocked her. Valeria covered her ears and begged them to stop. They only laughed louder. She clawed at her hair and screamed in frustration, trying to drown out the sound of their ridicule.

Finally the darkness took mercy on her, and the dreams were no more.

The sounds of the camp stirring to life the next morning woke her, and she was surprised to find herself alone. Where had Tristan gone? Why did she care? She should be grateful for the blessed respite. Her dreams had left her muddled and disoriented and it took her a few moments to remember where exactly she was.

Gods, had she only been here for one day? Time dragged slowly in this place. She’d started on this journey weeks ago, it was the longest she’d been away from home, and though she missed it, some part of her didn’t want to go back.

What was happening to her? Only one day with the enemy and she was questioning her loyalty, her life, everything. Was it possible to change your fate? To thwart the will of the Gods and forge your own path?

The bright rays of the early morning sunlight poured into the tent when Tristan entered. He looked tidy, wearing fresh clothes and a fur draped over his shoulders, and his clean scent filled the small space. His long, auburn hair glistened with droplets of water. He was even more stunningly handsome than ever, and in her dazed, dreamy state she wanted this man. He was powerful and captivating, and she was helpless to resist his vital allure. Enemy or not, she wanted nothing more in her life right now than for him to kiss her. She fantasized about it. She feared it. She was both attracted and repelled by her feelings for him.

“Do you plan to sleep all day?” he rasped in a gruff voice. “Morning has nearly gone.”

Valeria stamped down the sudden dangerous craving she had for him and lifted her leg from under the fur. “I cannot get far with this.” She shook her leg so the chain rattled.

“As I prefer.” His bright smile was absolutely devastating. “I think shackles suit you.”

Her shock yielded quickly to fury. “I think you’re far more suited for them than I.”

“Yet you are the one wearing them.”

A horrible thought struck her. Her nerves tensed. If he intended to keep her chained as a prisoner, it would be impossible to escape. Why was she even thinking escape was an option? She had nowhere to escape to, and with no shoes or warm clothes, she wouldn’t get far. Any spark of hope she had left was extinguished.

Tristan saw the defeat in her eyes, but he couldn’t take pleasure in his conquest. Valeria was too beautiful to look as sad as she did. Lying in a pile of furs, still soft and warm from sleep, he had to fight every urge demanding he join her beneath those furs and bury his aching shaft deep inside her.

He shifted his weight, his erection growing uncomfortably hard, straining against the front of his breeches. He’d taken a long, cold bath in the river this morning and had taken himself in hand a few times to alleviate his desire, but all of that was for naught as Valeria sat up and her tunic fell over one of her shoulders, revealing more of her smooth, ivory skin.

Gods, why was this woman so tempting?

Perhaps he should force himself on her. Let her think him a barbarian so she’d look at him with hatred instead of the interest he saw flaring in her blue eyes.

One thing he was certain of, she was getting too comfortable in this tent. “I assume you have needs to attend to.”

Her cheeks flamed red and she gave a demure nod of her head. Tristan took the key for her shackles from his leather boot and went down beside her to remove the clasp from her ankle.

“Get up,” he ordered.

He went to the trunk in the corner and fished around inside until he found a red legionary cloak and a pair of leather boots which would probably be too big for her, but they would cover her feet and keep her warm in the snow.

“Put these on.” He thrust the items at her.

She readily obeyed, draping the cloak over her shoulders and pulling the boots on. When she’d finished, she looked at him in expectation.

“Come with me.” He led her out of his tent.

She hurried to keep up with the brisk pace he set as he led her through the outskirts of the camp, headed towards the river.

“What are we doing here?” she asked when they reached the frozen banks next to the water.

“You can bathe and wash your tunic.” He folded his arms and reclined against a tree to wait. “And take care of any other needs you may have.”

She eyed him warily. “Are you going to watch me?”

“Do you think I’d leave you here alone?” He wasn’t taking the chance she might try to run. Yes, he was going to watch her. All of her.

“Will you not turn your back and give me some privacy?” Her eyes pleaded with him.

“You no longer have any privacy,” he informed her coolly. “Not from me.”

“I have no need to bathe.”

“You will wash,” he ordered. “You’re filthy.”

She narrowed her eyes in anger. “I can’t wash the Roman off.”

“No,” he admitted. That she could never do. “But you can scrub the dirt from your hair and clothes.”

She resigned herself to her fate and shrugged off the red cloak and stepped out of the boots, gathering the items in her hands before she threw them at him with an angry huff. He caught the cloak in a clumsy grasp and let the boots fall to the ground.

She quickly turned away before he could react and waded into the shallow water. “It’s freezing!”

“Then you’d best be quick about it,” he barked and gathered up her boots. “I have more important things to do.”

She cast him a hostile glare over her shoulder before sinking down into the water, submerging herself fully. She came up sputtering and shivering. “Gods!”

Tristan stared at the wet tunic clinging to the curves of her body, the flare of her round hips and her high, full breasts with their nipples peaking under the wet cloth. Looking at her was torture, and he finally turned away, more for his benefit than to give her a measure of modesty. If he saw her naked, he feared he’d be powerless against the sinister, lustful urges she inspired in him.

He kept a watchful eye on their surroundings to be sure no one would come upon them while Valeria bathed and splashed around in the water. Every muscle in his body was tense with need and desire and he ground his jaw tightly. He reminded himself she was a Roman who deserved nothing more than pain and humiliation at his hands. Only the nagging hardness in his breeches disagreed.

“I’m finished,” she said from behind him.

Tristan turned to see her dripping wet, shivering beneath her clean, but soaked, tunic with her long golden hair hanging loosely about her shoulders and down her back. The vision of her body was clearly visible beneath her wet clothing. She looked like some forest nymph or water sprite sent to tempt him with her enchanting beauty.

“You cannot wear wet clothes,” he said tersely. “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m well used to that by now.”

“Take it off.”

She blushed and brought one of her hands up to draw the neck of her tunic tighter. “I will not.”

“Do as I said,” he ordered, raising his voice to quell her argument.

“Will you bring me back through your camp naked?” she snapped, narrowing her eyes.

She might as well be dressed as she was. “Cover yourself with this.” He tossed the cloak to her.

“I’m to return wearing only this?”

“Would you prefer to return naked?”

“I will be underneath that. It would be easy for any man to take it from me.”

“No one will touch you,” he assured her. Not unless they wanted to challenge him. “Keep it closed around you. I’ll bring you directly to my tent where you can let your wet clothes dry by the fire.” He tossed the boots at her feet, then turned his back to her.

Gods, what was he doing? Hadn’t he shown this woman enough kindness? He should march her into the camp naked and dripping wet. He should make her suffer for all he had suffered, but the rational part of him knew she had not been personally responsible for the horrors Rome had inflicted on him.

When she had the cloak pulled tightly around her and the boots on, with her wet tunic draped over her arm, he led her back into the camp. They were met with curious glances from the men, all of which he ignored. Talk of her presence had spread after the incident in the prisoners’ tent, but not many had seen Valeria. Tristan could see the effect her beauty had on the men and hurried to stash her safely in his tent and away from their appreciative stares. Women in camp were always bad luck, and this one doubly so.