My Spartan Hellion (2 page)

Something hard slammed into her jaw, and she felt as if she’d clumsily hurled herself against a large boulder as the wind rushed out of her. She staggered then stumbled, her vision blurry. Lifting her hand to her lips, her fingertips came away stained with her blood.

Then her world turned black, just before she collapsed in a heap to the ground.

* * * *

Thanos studied the sleeping woman, praying to the gods he had not seriously injured her. The physician had said she would be fine but that had been shortly past midday. Now it was dusk and yet she still remained motionless.

While she slept, he took his first real look at her. His gaze travelled the length of her body, drinking in the hills and valleys of her womanly figure. When he’d come upon her earlier, she had been filthy. Her abundant, sable locks had been a tangled, matted mess, her garments ripped and soiled, and her feet chafed with blisters.

With a slight grimace, he gently touched her swollen mouth. The blow to her lip had not helped, either.

Before leaving Athens, he’d hired a couple of slaves at the boarding house where he’d been staying to bathe and clothe her. He had not been able to tell then, but now as he gazed upon her washed form in clean garments, he could easily see she was a beauty. The rich sienna of her skin glowed beneath the burnished embers of the dying firelight as a gentle breeze from outside curled around them to carry her fragrant scent through the air.

A wisp of hair curled along her high forehead, and he brushed it back, grazing the soft tendrils with his fingers. Unlike the fierce woman he’d encountered in the
agora
earlier, in her sleep she was oddly vulnerable as her obsidian eyelashes rested against beautifully sculpted cheekbones. He should have pulled away—he should have folded his hand into his lap and waited until she woke. Thanos could not say what drew him—what compelled him to touch her—only that he could not seem to stop. Stroking a single finger across her cheek, his callused fingertip glided across the smooth silk of her skin. He then trailed it across the delicate flesh of her bare shoulder, before skimming down her arm.

The traditional Athenian
peplos
covered most of her sensual figure now, but the tattered clothing she’d worn in the square earlier had revealed ripe full breasts, a taut middle and rounded hips. A smile furled his lips as a wayward thought found purchase within the corners of his mind—that a figure as lovely as hers would be better suited by Spartan clothing.

The women of Sparta revelled in the magnificence of the feminine form. Unlike the women of Athens, Spartan women enjoyed displaying their beauty in revealing garments, sometimes even choosing to go nude at special occasions.

He started when she shifted beneath his fingertips, and, glancing up, his gaze settled upon her face. He stared in silence as she struggled to awaken, a low moan escaping her lips when she fought to prise her eyelids open.

“Take it easy,” he whispered, resting a gentle but firm hand atop her shoulder.

She resisted his touch, her hand shooting out to push him away as she scrambled back against the sturdy wall of the tent, her ochre eyes flashing.

“Who are you?”

The hoarse croak of her voice didn’t go unnoticed by him, and he frowned, worrying again of any lingering discomfort from his strike even as he answered her.

“I am General Thanos Aristaeus of Sparta,” he offered in a gentle, hushed tone, not wanting to frighten her. “You should take it easy. You suffered a nasty blow.”

She studied him with those lovely, piercing eyes of hers. And when they darkened, he knew she recognised him.

“You’re the one who fought me,” she stated, the accusation heavy in her voice.

“I apologise for striking you but it was the only way I could subdue you without hurting you. My intent was not to kill you—”

“Well, you should have. I will not be a slave to that madman.”

He knew exactly of whom she spoke and he tamped down his rising fury towards Atallus for whatever ills he’d done to this woman, and he imagined there were many.

“And you shall not be.” His voice was firm. He wanted to assure her she was now safe with him. “You are no longer his slave.”

“How is that possible? If you do not plan to return me to Atallus, then why am I not dead?”

A good question—one he’d known would come the moment she awoke to discover she wasn’t to be returned to Atallus. His small militia of Spartan soldiers had been in Athens for a fortnight, gathering information on the movements of the Roman army. He’d just concluded his meeting with Atallus, the pompous and arrogant governor of the city-state of Athens, when several Athenian soldiers had rushed in with the news that Atallus’ newly acquired Berber slave girl had single-handedly killed three of his men and was trying to escape.

What could he possibly tell her? That he’d been intrigued? That in a moment of impulse he’d offered to purchase her from a very grateful and relieved Atallus? It seemed ludicrous, and yet it was the truth. As soon as his coins had settled in Atallus’ palm, Thanos had marched off with his soldiers to try to capture her.

He chuckled to himself. Ludicrous indeed, but in all of his thirty-five
annos
Thanos had always trusted his instincts. And as he’d set off to find the ‘spawn of Hades’, as Atallus and his men had named her, he knew he was being guided by the gods to seek this spirited woman out.

“You’re not dead, because I have no reason to kill you,” he answered truthfully.

“But I killed all those men.”

“They were not my men, so you are not my enemy. Those soldiers meant nothing to Atallus. In the end, all he cared about was making a hefty profit out of you—”

“So it is
you
who has purchased me.” Her eyes darkened. “It is you I now
belong
to.”

“I did,” he acknowledged, his belly twisting with her last words. The way she said them, the melodic lilt of her voice caressing him even as it brimmed with anger, did something to him. What would it be like to have this woman belong to him? Though not in the way she spoke of. She thought she was still a slave, but he needed no slaves—nor did he want one. What he wanted—what he truly needed—was something
more.

“I will not deny that I acquired you from Atallus, but you do not belong to me. I have no desire to make you my slave, or my servant.”

“Then why did you purchase me from Atallus?” She frowned. “What is it that you desire of me?”

She nibbled on her bottom lip, slowly inching away from him until her back once again touched the wall behind her. He understood her fear, but she had nothing to fear from him. He was not Atallus. He would
never
take a woman who was not willing. And when it came to this woman, her willingness was the only thing he desired.

How did he even begin to explain to her? That he was a practical, almost cynical soldier who didn’t believe in chance or coincidences. The gods orchestrated the lives of mortals, bringing them together for a single instance, a single purpose, or for a lifetime. And when it came to the gods and this woman, they’d certainly sent him a very clear sign.

As he’d sat in Atallus’ office listening to the men refer to her with a mixture of fear and awe, and had glimpsed the look of trepidation on the governor’s face while his soldiers spoke of her, Thanos had been overcome with curiosity to lay eyes upon the woman who could conjure such fear in the hearts of men. His thoughts had been noble at the time, and they’d remained so when he came upon her in the
agora
. He’d told himself he would purchase this woman then set her free so that she could have a life away from Atallus, where her spirit would not be broken.

Noble thoughts, indeed—he stifled a wry snort—until he’d stared into flashing topaz eyes and found himself captivated.

There was something about this woman—her steady, unflinching gaze, the fiery challenge blazing in her eyes, how she refused to be cowed even though her future was uncertain. Everything about her called to him, taunted him, daring him to breach her walls and
master
her. Such a challenge to a man of his nature was impossible to ignore, even harder to refuse.

She wanted to know why he’d purchased her. The response, even to his own ears, sounded absurd—because it was—but Thanos prided himself on honesty, so, instead of sparing her with a lie, he met her steady gaze and gave her the only answer that he could—the truth.

Chapter Two

Lamia’s mouth fell open. “Your pardon?”

“I said I have no need for a slave or a servant. What I have need of, however,
is
…”

A wife.

Yes, she’d heard him the first time, and she wanted to tell him her ears were just fine—it was his words that gave her pause.

His eyes softened then, obviously glimpsing her inner turmoil across her face. He seemed so earnest, so genuine, which puzzled Lamia. Thanos Aristaeus did not appear cruel, and it was apparent to all he was a handsome man—the chiselled muscles of his arms, which strained against his
tunic, impossible to ignore by any woman, including her. She experienced a soft, warm stirring in her belly as her gaze unwittingly strayed to the sprinkling of dark hair along his broad torso, taut and defined. A man such as Thanos should have been wed by now. She had no doubt there were many women who clamoured for his attention, his
affection.

“I know my words were quite unexpected, and I am sure you must think I am mad.”

That was exactly what she thought. He’d purchased her…to
wed
her? To purchase a woman as a concubine was quite common, as was a wife, but such arrangements were typically not made between a man of his station and a woman such as herself—a foreign slave.

Many would have seen it as an honour for him to even offer her a place in his bed as his concubine, a position far more elevated than most would think she truly deserved.

But Lamia was not honoured by propositions from a stranger, no matter that he wished for a wife instead of a whore.

“I assure you I have no intention of pressing you on this,” he said gently. “I know you need time to consider my offer, mull over the notion. And I shall give you that time—”

“Time?” Her eyes widened. “You purchased me to wed me. The way I see it, I have no choice in the matter. After all, you
own
me.” By law, he could command her to do
anything,
including wed him.

He shook his head, a frown marring his handsome face. “You are wrong—you do have a choice, as I do not own you and I will not force you. I simply ask that you consider my offer.” He gestured around the small space, and her eyes lit on his fine garments and expensively made weapons. “In Sparta, I am well respected. I could offer you a good life, a secure one. The way I see it, there is nothing for you here in Athens.”

She was incredulous. So, because she had nothing left, she should just cast her lot with him—a stranger? She bit back a snort. This was lunacy, and yet she acknowledged he was correct in many ways. There was nothing for her there—or anywhere else for that matter—but she had no desire to wed him, or any other man.

But what of him? She wondered of his desires. She knew he desired a wife, but she had a feeling there was more to his reasoning than he’d revealed.

“Tell me truly. Why is it that you seek a wife…and why have you decided that woman should be me?”

“Truthfully?” When she nodded, he let out an uneven breath. “I need an heir. I am a soldier—a general. With war coming to Greece there is the very real possibility that I could die, and I have no child, no son to carry on my father’s name.”

There it was, but Lamia knew that was only half of the story. The rest was right there in the crystalline depths of his eyes and a fist closed around her heart at the glimmer of sadness that crossed his face. He was lonely, and for just a moment she wanted to reach out and comfort him with the slightest touch of her hand against his. She wondered if he was a widower, if he’d lost his wife in the passing
annos
. But then she realised what she was doing and with a quick shake of her head she immediately set those thoughts aside. She could not feel compassion for this man. He was not part of her plan.

He’d spoken the truth. She had nothing left and no one to return to—all because of one man.
Atallus.
She intended to make Atallus suffer for all he’d done to her and Darius. She would snuff out his life, the way he’d so callously snuffed out the life of the only family she’d had left.

She was indebted to Thanos for what he’d done for her, and she truly hoped he found a woman to ease his lonely nights—to give him the heir he so desired—but that woman was not her.

“I am sorry, Thanos.” She pleaded with her eyes for him to understand. “I will be forever in your debt for freeing me, and I will find a way to repay you, but I have no desire to wed you or any other man. I fear my destiny lies elsewhere.”

Thick lashes obscured knowing eyes as he studied her, and she fought the urge to fidget beneath the weight of his stare.

“I know not of what happened before I came upon you, though I have heard of Atallus’ cruelties,” he said finally, his expression gentle. “I can see you plan to go after him. The desire for revenge burns in your eyes, but I would not suggest it.”

“You have no idea what he did. I cannot just let him get away with it.”

Thanos’ gaze did not waver and Lamia knew what his next question would be.

She steeled herself to recount the horrible memories of Darius’ death and Atallus’ brutality, so he would understand why her desire for vengeance was so great, but Thanos never got the chance to question her.

A young soldier burst into the tent, his expression intense.

“General. We have spotted a band of soldiers advancing towards us. They move with great stealth as if they intend to come upon us by surprise given the late hour.”

Thanos snapped to his feet. “Do you recognise their crest?”

“Athenians, sir, about half a kilometre out.”