Surrender to the Roman (3 page)

Utter shock stopped him from tearing after her. An illusion, then. She couldn’t be real, yet she argued with Flora in the distance, her accent lilting and lyrical. He traced her steps in a daze, but when he came into view, Flora shook her head, and he waited, more confused than before.

How in fate’s wicked plan had such a dangerous enemy arrived on his doorstep…and then been invited inside the gate?

Marcus extinguished his anger as the house quieted again, the last of his energy expended. He wanted to pursue this tonight, but Flora and Lucia would argue, and his daughter would wake. They would get nowhere.

The business of women baffled him.

One certainty hit him between the eyes. She did not arrive here on her own. Neither Flora nor Lucia would be able to provide the answers he sought. First thing in the morning, he’d find his second in the training yard at the barracks and beat the sordid truth out of him.

Tonight would not be as restful as he’d hoped, sleeping with one eye open. Such a turn of events could only have been inspired by one man. Tertullian owed him answers.

* * *

“Go.” Flora shoved Ademeni toward the doorway. She resisted, bracing herself against the archway. Flora sniggered, and Ademeni hated her all the more. She hadn’t asked to come into this house, to be harassed and trained for service by a jealous harpy who once upon a time might have served her.

“Go,” Flora repeated. “He waits for you.”

Bile rose in the back of Ademeni’s throat. She’d lingered as long as she could, put off the inevitable duty Flora insisted she perform by sleeping at the foot of Marcus’s bed.

Gods, if she’d only known of his impending arrival, she would have been prepared to face her enemy. She needed the upper hand. And a weapon. One could not improvise murder and escape. Not when facing a man like Marcus Cordovis. Smart, strong…

Her pulse stuttered. He had seemed surprised to see her, yet he had to have ordered that she be taken to his house. He was in charge of his own soldiers, in charge of that horrible Tertullian. He was responsible for everything that befell her, Imaj and Lilah.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, she steadied her nerves and crept into the room. With a whisper, the curtain dropped behind her, dulling the sounds of night.

The great general lay across a raised pallet, a blanket twisted around his body. His head rested against his forearm at an awkward angle.

Relief escaped her chest in a sigh. He seemed to be asleep, pulling in deep breaths. He’d bathed, the faint aroma of rosewater mingling with his masculine scent. So far as she could see, he wore nothing to sleep in, a fact she found easier to ignore than entertain.

A breeze fluttered the curtain, and moonlight dappled the general’s face, splayed across his rounded shoulders. She counted one scar, then another and another marring his skin.

Marcus groaned and shifted in the bed. Ademeni froze in her musings when she glimpsed the edge of a dagger held loosely between his fingers.

She stepped away, then toward him again, triumph darkening her common sense. Taking and holding a deep breath, she reached for the weapon.

She grasped the dagger and fell forward in the same moment, her limbs tangling with his.

Before she could blink, his hand clasped hers, crushing her fingers. He covered her mouth to stifle her scream and leveraged his weight to flip her onto the bed.

Gasping for breath, Ademeni found herself on her back, her arms pinned and mouth covered. She struggled to turn her hand and the knife toward him.

His hold slipped and she took advantage of the moment to force the blade toward him. He cursed as it slid across his shoulder. She cursed him back. “What did I tell you?”

With a grunt, he slammed her wrist against the wooden bed frame. The dagger flew out of her grasp and clattered against the stones.

She froze, all too conscious of the way her ragged breath mingled with his. Long ignored parts of her body sparked to life. One wrong move and that sheet would unwind itself down to the ground, and she’d be faced with a different sort of problem.

In the near perfect darkness, she could still make out the anger in his eyes.

He released her, taking a seat beside her, his hand clamped over the cut she’d inflicted. She gathered her wits and scrambled to her feet, inspecting her wounds, which were mere scrapes but included damaged pride.

When she darted toward the doorway, he rose, grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She barely heard his question.

“How did you come to be in my house?”

The query seemed ludicrous. Had he not initiated the chain of events that led her to this very spot? She lashed out with her free hand and he ducked to avoid her claws.

He caught her wrists in his hands as she continued to fight against him, unable to either injure him further or break free. Reduced to whimpers and desperate curses, Ademeni stopped her struggle.

One glance at the impassive face of Marcus Cordovis told her all she needed to know. Even the blur of tears could not ease his hard lines, his cold nature.

“Let me go,
dominus,
” she rasped, defeated only for the moment.

He released her at once, and she scampered into the night. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him washed in white moonlight. He looked like a marble statue, unmovable and unbreakable. Without the element of surprise, it would take everything she had to bring him to his knees.

“Think of her as a rare gift.”

Marcus grit his teeth and went on the offensive with his practice weapon. He wanted to wipe the smug expression off Tertullian’s face. They’d been sparring for some time, but Marcus had much more aggression to expend.

“She was not yours to give,” he reminded his brother-in-law, shifting to the side to avoid a parry.

Tertullian jogged backward, sweat dripping from his chin, and shrugged. “Spoils of war, brother. She would have been sold sooner or later. I simply expedited matters. I doubt the emperor would object. She’d end up someone’s slave in due time—or dead.”

But not Marcus’s slave. Never his.

He had no need of additional slaves, and if last night was any indication, this one had worked his house into an uproar with very little effort. Taking captives as slaves, especially for a military
familia
, did not sit well with him.

“Come, brother. She’s the most exquisite daughter of the dead and despised king of Dacia and you are Trajan’s most courageous general.” Tertullian blocked a solid blow with his practice shield. “You and I both know Trajan has little use for women, even one so beautiful. He will not begrudge you, especially since you have no wife.”

Marcus frowned, his empty stomach growling. Tertullian’s flattering arguments made logical sense, but poor judgment lay behind them. The emperor’s proclivities didn’t matter, and bringing Julia into the fray felt dishonorable.

One thing was true enough. A beauty like Ademeni could tempt the ferryman of the River Styx. Every time he’d closed his eyes after their tussle last night, he’d felt her pressed beneath him, passion blinding him to good reason.

Marcus assumed an aggressive stance but waited for his partner to attack. “What am I supposed to do with her?”

Tertullian feinted then bared his teeth. “That’s a ridiculous question. Do with her whatever you like.”

“I slept with my weapon under my pillow.” Marcus charged, sending Tertullian reeling in a cloud of dust, and poised himself for the swift kill, a downward stroke to the throat.

“And how is that any different?” Tertullian asked, knocking the sword away. He stood and brushed himself off. “Consider your blessings. You had no pillow in Dacia.”

Marcus turned on his brother-in-law. Using his height to intimidate, he attempted to drive home his point with a finger to the chest.

“You put an angry, vengeful woman in my house. Without my knowledge or consent. She could have killed me, or Lucia, or—Juno forbid—Callia. She threatened me again last night.”

“Then discipline her.” Tertullian’s dead eyes didn’t blink. “Her sister has been no trouble to my house.”

Marcus spat into the dust, his appetite gone with this bit of news. Tertullian’s tone left no doubt as to how he had handled his new acquisition. A beating was the last thing he wanted to give Ademeni.

“You shouldn’t have done such a thing. For yourself, or in my name.” He turned away, more troubled now than when he’d risen this morning, his room empty except for the haunting aroma of sandalwood. He’d survived the night, yet the scent of this woman permeated his house and now, his thoughts.

“It’s entirely legal.” Tertullian dogged his escape from the heat of the practice yard. “She has the proper papers. If you don’t need her—or want her—I would gladly take her off your hands.”

Jaw clenched, Marcus whirled on his second, sending him backward a few steps. “And what does your wife think of your new Dacian slave?”

Finally, something paled Tertullian. His wife, Drusilla, would not take kindly to any rival in her house. Marcus regretted ever matching his sister with Tertullian, but years ago, the young solider had seemed more of a whelp than a wolf.

“I thought as much,” Marcus grumbled, happy to break away from the tension of the yard.

He poured a ladle of cold water over his head and worked through the situation. The transaction that had brought Ademeni to his house was legal and binding. For the time being, she’d become his responsibility.

Rather, his problem. Tertullian followed him down the slope toward the barracks, dogging his heels. “You have a weakness for Dacia because of Julia.”

Marcus wheeled around and stopped Tertullian with a hand to the chest but did not argue the accusation. “What really happened when you set out after Decebalus and his sons?”

The man retreated but smiled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

As promised, the unit had returned, the king’s severed head and hands in a war chest as a gift to Trajan. Looking now upon his second, Marcus did not believe for a moment that the warrior king had taken his own life. “I wanted him alive.”

Tertullian shrugged. “He would not have it any other way.”

In his mind’s eye, Marcus imagined the scene playing out. The detachment coming upon the fleeing Dacian royalty, and Tertullian deducing that the only way to get the body to obey was to cut off the head. Literally.

“He killed himself.” Tertullian stuck to his story. “I only took what rightfully belonged to Rome. All the glory was yours, and you were glad to receive it.”

Marcus turned, gathered his belongings and headed to the public bath. All he’d wanted was to be welcomed home by his family—and he hadn’t even seen his daughter but from a distance. They should be rejoicing, not arguing.

Instead, Tertullian had left another mess for him to clean up, putting a dangerous woman in his home, with his child. Marcus had ridden away from Dacia with his suspicions of how Decebalus had been handled, and now he felt certain his orders had been disobeyed. Without proof, however, he had only a bag of misgivings.

Tertullian’s missteps—if indeed they were mistakes—grew bolder across time. If he weren’t family, Marcus would have sent him to another outpost long ago.

His problem as well. He’d wanted to stay busy.

Stripping off his tunic, he folded it into a niche in the wall and strode to the edge of the pool, stretching as he went. Because it was still early, the large bath sat virtually empty.

All the better. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t feel at home with politics and gossip. Rome had been Julia’s domain. She had enjoyed the things the city offered while he preferred the more simple life of a soldier. Duty. Honor. Loyalty.

Marcus waded into the water and let the slow waves wash away the sweat and dust of the match with Tertullian. The longer he sat, the more he pondered fate, and only two choices presented themselves as far as Ademeni, daughter of Dacia, was concerned.

Sell her or keep her. He closed his eyes and splashed cool water on his face. Why did he care what happened to her? Beautiful women—free and slave—came and went with the wind. This woman was more trouble than she was worth, an easy mistake to remedy with a quick sale.

So why would he ever entertain the notion of keeping her?

* * *

“Here you go.” Ademeni settled into a shady spot in the corner of the courtyard and handed Callia a wax-covered wooden writing tablet. “Can you show me what letters you know?”

Callia smiled then chattered away, taking the stylus to draw in the soft wax. Ademeni absently stroked the child’s chestnut hair.

From the first moment Callia laid eyes on Ademeni, the child had become her silent shadow. A little girl with the sad, emerald eyes of her father, she’d drifted into Ademeni’s weary heart after several days of this game.

At first, Ademeni had shunned the attachment and ignored the girl. But she found hating a child much more difficult than hating a soldier. Besides, she had not been so different than Callia, the daughter of an absent, warring father.

Callia tugged on her sleeve. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, now what comes next?” Ademeni guided Callia through her letters. She’d wanted to learn too, and this game taught them both at the same time. When the two of them started into one of these sessions, Flora left them alone. An added reward.

The door creaked open and a hush fell over the house, everyone—save Ademeni—anticipating the general’s return. Even Callia’s voice lowered to a whisper, though she could not possibly understand why.

Ademeni glanced at Flora, whose eyes glinted with dislike, then to Lucia, who appeared to have been studying their lesson. At the thud of the closing door, the matron smiled and rose to greet her son-in-law.

As her heart thundered in her chest, Ademeni tightened an arm around Callia as much to protect herself as the child. Flora had forced her to Marcus’s bedchamber last night, but no one knew what had transpired between them.

She would not return tonight. Regardless of her duties, she’d rather die than submit to those kinds of games. Regardless, he did not even seem to want her.

In the bright sunlight, she had nowhere to hide. Punishing her for the attempt on his life fell within his rights, as did demanding she keep her post, if that was by his bed or elsewhere.

She would have taken a whip to any servant who’d dared to offer such insolence. Without a second thought. She steeled herself for whatever he decided, prepared for the fight.

“Sunshine.”

Marcus rounded the corner, the tone of his words deep and easy. She and Callia both turned toward the sound of his voice.

The child looked from him to Ademeni, then back again, but didn’t move or speak. A knot formed in Ademeni’s throat. Marcus had shaved his beard and seemed like a younger, gentler man, ready with a smile.

But the girl did not recognize her father.

When had he last been home?

“Callia…come see me,” he coaxed. Glancing at Ademeni, he raised his eyebrows in expectation of her assistance. He’d obviously anticipated a better response. “Callia?”

When the child looked to Ademeni, she did nothing to help his cause. Callia inched a few steps closer to the archway, where she hesitated again.

The little girl squinted, her bottom lip pulling down, and Marcus ran a hand over his face. Disappointment framed his response. “It’s all right.”

Ademeni sat taller, prouder. She too once had a father who would disappear for long stretches of time, only to return with blood on his sword. She set her jaw and willed Callia to resist him.

Marcus looked at her, holding her gaze with as much intensity as his daughter used in studying him. Warmth flooded her face, and she looked away, remembering the pleasurable weight of him as he pinned her to his bed.

Agonizing moments passed while Callia inspected her father from where she stood. Then, without warning, a timid smile softened her face.

“Papa?” she asked, shuffling toward him.

“Yes, Sunshine, I’m home.” A grin cracked his tanned face. He knelt and held out a hand to reel her in.

Ademeni frowned, childhood memories bleeding into the moment of reconciliation between a father and daughter she did not know. Marcus looked at her over Callia’s head, a warning in his eyes.

Stay away from my daughter
.

Nervousness netted her. If Rome was anything like Dacia, men of military renown could accumulate considerable political power. She needed to know how much power Marcus Cordovis had and how he wielded it.

Would he force her to lie in his bed, or would he rip Callia’s gentle company from her instead? She didn’t know which would cause her more discomfort.

Sitting idly by while he reacquainted himself with his shy daughter, Ademeni bolstered herself against this more compassionate side of his nature. She knew better than anyone that a man could be one thing with his family and another at war.

Marcus cupped Callia’s chubby face in his hands. “I’ve missed you, Sunshine.”

“Me too, Papa,” she whispered.

“You grow more beautiful each passing season. Before long, the boys will chase you across the Forum.”

Callia made a face at the mention of boys, far too young to understand the passion that could pass between a man and woman. Giggling, she played with her father’s fingers, pressing her tiny, soft palm against his large, calloused hand.

“But that’s a long way off,” Marcus said, climbing to his feet.

As soon as he released Callia, the child ran back to Ademeni and climbed onto her lap to continue their game. Once she’d redirected Callia’s attention, Ademeni regarded Marcus from behind the safety of his daughter.

If his stormy countenance was any indication, he did not appreciate his daughter’s connection to the new slave. Ademeni hid a smile. She needed to temper herself. Her weakness for Callia could become a strength, or be used against her.

* * *

“She won’t work.” Flora slammed her foot down on the slate floor of the kitchen. “She’s lazy.”

“She’s adjusting,” Lucia corrected, her tone gentle, but her expression forceful.

Marcus’s head throbbed. Ademeni was taking care of his daughter, and the gods knew what kind of rubbish she might whisper in Callia’s ear about him. About anything. Flora’s outspoken nature, while irritating, did not surprise him. She had been Julia’s body slave, and he surmised the adjustment to household duties did not suit her.

“Enough.” He held up his hands. He’d hoped to get a straight accounting of events from Flora and Lucia, but even they disagreed. Flora detested Ademeni, while Lucia seemed too generous. “When did she arrive?”

“Twenty days yesterday,
dominus,
” Flora said. “She refuses to go to the market, refuses to dress like a Roman and refuses to do the work laid out for her. She’s useless.”

“Why did you send her here?” Lucia asked. “The work does not demand more hands.”

Flora’s pointed look said she thought she knew exactly why Marcus had brought her into the house. To bed her.

“I didn’t send her here.” He let the revelation loose but refused to elaborate, despite their unhinged jaws. “Bring her to me.”

Flora marched away in triumph to find the wayward slave. Lucia lingered. “What will you do with her?”

“Has she said anything about herself?” Marcus looked at his mother-in-law. “Do you know who she is?”

“No.”

He paused, studying the matron, a polished political insider. “She is the daughter of the king of Dacia.”

“No wonder she doesn’t want to scrub the floor.” Lucia broke into laughter, then sobered with new understanding. “If you did not send her, why is she here?”