Tainted (2 page)

Antonia smiled, as etiquette dictated, and recalled the
women she had once thought were her friends back in Rome. How quickly they had
faded from her side once it became known that her husband no longer had any use
for her.

“I’m sure we will be.” But friends confided their deepest
secrets and Antonia would never share hers with another living soul. How often
had she thanked the wise Juno for preventing her from telling her intimate
circle in Rome of her treacherous plans? If she had followed her heart in that
matter, they would have betrayed her to Scipio. And she had no doubt, he would
have taken her life.

Carys’ smile faltered and for one surreal moment, Antonia
had the certainty that the other woman had guessed her thoughts. Heat shot
through her and she broke eye contact, smoothing the flawless silk of her
stola
.
She had to forget about the women she had once called her friends. Their fickle
natures did not matter and would never touch her again. There was only thing
she had to concentrate on, and soon, with Juno’s blessing, her stealthily laid
plans would come to fruition.

Awareness prickled along her exposed nape and in the same
instance Carys leaped to her feet in a manner most unlike any Roman noblewoman.
Antonia refused to grip her fingers together in her lap, refused to glance over
her shoulder, and instead focused with deathly intensity on the tranquility of
the tinkling fountain.

The Briton had not just entered the courtyard. Why had her
thoughts instantly turned to that possibility? And besides, if he had, Carys
would most certainly not have jumped up with such lack of decorum.

And despite herself, Antonia glanced over her shoulder.

It was the Briton. Disbelief pulsed through her as she
watched Carys rise onto her toes to kiss his face. Paralyzed, she saw his grim
expression relax into a semblance of a smile as he wound his arm around her
shoulders and gave her a brief hug.

Was he Carys’ lover?
Did the tribune know? Many of
her former friends had enjoyed illicit liaisons with slaves or those in their
husband’s employ. But even the most brazen would not display her unfaithfulness
before a complete stranger.

“Come, Gawain,” Carys said, still speaking Latin, as she
tugged the Briton by his hand. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Antonia tried to ignore the way her stomach churned and she
gripped her fingers together in spite of her best intentions. Why would Carys
wish to introduce her to this Briton?
Why did she have the sudden urge to be
violently ill?

“Antonia, this is Gawain, my beloved kin from my homeland.”
Her
kin?
Antonia stared at Gawain’s long-sleeved shirt and the
braccae
that encased each of his powerfully muscled legs. Outside she had merely noted
his clothes were not those of a Roman but now she realized that they were, in
fact, of good quality linen. How had she imagined for even a moment that he was
a slave? “Gawain,” Carys continued, turning to the now unsmiling Briton—
Cambrian
.
“This is Antonia, daughter of our esteemed merchant, Drusus Antonius Faustus.”

For a long, agonizing moment, Antonia looked up into his
dark eyes as insane images of fleeing this courtyard flashed through her mind.
He towered over her, a threatening presence of pure masculinity, and everything
about him radiated a raw, primitive danger. Only now did she acknowledge that
the torque around his throat was nothing like a slave ring. It gleamed like
silver and its intricate engravings were similar to those that adorned his
savagely compelling earring.

“My pleasure.” His husky voice and erotically seductive
accent caressed her skin like a lover’s touch and sank into her blood like a
dreaded fever. His free hand reached for her and panic thudded through her
blood, squeezing the air from her lungs and making it hard to draw breath.

Years ago, as a young bride, she had dreamed of a man such
as him. One who could ignite her senses with barely a glance and cause her
flesh to smolder with a single sultry word. But she had been a girl then. She
was a woman now. And she could not afford to indulge in foolish fantasies that
would lead nowhere. He had made his contempt for her clear. His attitude now
was nothing but an insincere display so as not to offend his kin.

She could ignore him. And disgrace her father’s name.

But she had disgraced her father enough. It wouldn’t kill
her to allow this Cambrian to take her hand. She would endure his touch one
last time. The gods knew she had endured far worse.

Yet it took every particle of nerve she possessed to
unclench her fingers and raise her hand.

She caught the mocking gleam in his eyes as he took her hand
in his calloused grip and lowered his head toward her. Her mouth dried as his
lips brushed across her knuckles, his touch deliberately languorous as though
he knew full well how she battled not to tremble at the contact.

Then, still holding her hand, he looked up at her and the
lust and fury blazing in his eyes scorched her like a furnace to Hades.

Gawain slowly caressed his thumb across the soft skin of the
Roman’s fingers and cursed how his blood thundered through his veins at the
provocative touch. She looked at him with cool disdain, her blue eyes reminding
him of a cloudless sky in the moments before a frost descended.

But she couldn’t fool him. He’d seen her desire back on the
road, before she had managed to hide it. And now she looked at him as though he
was little better than a slave. A native of a country her fucking emperor had
conquered.

She attempted to free her hand and he tightened his grip.
Her people might have subdued the vast majority of his, but no Roman dictated
his movements. For an endless moment, he met her silent challenge and only when
her eyes began to darken with reluctant acknowledgment of their mutual lust,
did he finally allow her to pull free.

“Will you join us, Gawain?”

He knew Carys’ question was pure formality. She didn’t
expect him to stay while she entertained a spoiled Roman female. He had no wish
to stay. The news he had for Carys could be given to her later, but the way the
Roman stiffened in response to Carys’ question irked.

It was clear she wanted him to leave. Conversely, he decided
that he would remain.

“Thank you.” He offered Carys a sardonic smile and then
ignored the pointed glare she sent his way. It was obvious she was going to
berate him for his bad manners once her irritating guest had departed. He
folded his arms and leaned against one of the pretentious Roman columns that
surrounded the courtyard garden. “Do you intend to stay long on this primitive
isle, Lady Antonia?”

She inclined her head in a regal manner and one pale golden
ringlet trailed across the elegant curve of her shoulder.

“I intend to stay for as long as my father decrees.”

Gawain tore his fascinated gaze from her cursed ringlet. Of
course she would stay until her father told her otherwise. She was a Roman woman,
and Roman women did only what their men folk commanded of them. But instead of
responding to her comment, his gaze became fixed on the riot of curls and waves
of her hair, held in place by glittering, gem-encrusted pins.

He had the savage urge to rip those pins from her and watch
that glorious hair tumble in abandoned disarray over her naked shoulders. The
image was so vivid in his mind that his cock, already aroused since his first
encounter with Antonia on the road, hardened with anticipation.

She was a Roman.
But it made no difference. He wanted
to fuck her and by the gods he’d find a way to have her, and soon.

“Antonia only arrived in Britain six days ago.” There was a
hint of censure in Carys’ voice. Did she know what he wanted to do with her fragile
little guest? He smothered a grim smile. Carys might pretend to be the perfect
Roman matron in public, but at heart she was a princess of Cymru. He had no
doubt that she knew exactly what his intentions toward the Roman entailed.

“Is this the first time you have ventured beyond the cradle
of Rome?” He resisted the urge to shift position. It wouldn’t do any good. The
only position that would ease his discomfort was having Antonia on her hands
and knees in front of him while he fucked her from behind.
While he plunged
his hands into her golden curls and tangled her hair around his fingers.

Gingerly he shifted his back against the marble column but
as he had already known, it did nothing to diminish his cursed erection. When
Antonia deigned to favor him with a glance, it only increased the raw need
pounding through his blood. She need only drop her gaze to see how much he
wanted her. Would she feign shock at the sight?

“I was born in Gallia.” There was a haughty note in her
voice and her eyes didn’t waver from his. “I didn’t venture into the cradle of
Rome until I was fourteen years old.”

For a moment, he was distracted from his fantasy of hearing
Antonia scream in ecstasy as he hammered between her naked thighs. Not only had
she repeated his less than complimentary words back at him. But he also
detected a scathing undertone that was all her own.

“So you’re not a Roman noblewoman born and bred?”

“Gawain.” There was an edge to Carys’ voice. “If you cannot
be civil to Antonia then perhaps you should take your leave.”

“Do you find my manner uncivil, Lady Antonia?” He offered
her a mocking smile, daring her to respond. She might not have been born in
Rome, but she was a Roman from the top of her elaborately curled hair to her
daintily clad feet and in public, Roman women rarely spoke their mind.

“I find your manner unsurprising.” Antonia smiled back at
him, but her eyes were glacial. “And civility is a matter of perspective.”

He managed to contain his own surprise at her response, but
only just. He’d bantered with several highborn Roman women since leaving his
beloved homeland two turns of the wheel ago. But none of them had so bluntly
inferred that they considered him a rude bastard.

But then, none of them had stirred his lust to the degree
Antonia managed with barely a glance. He wasn’t sure why that fact irritated
him so much or why he felt the need to bait her with barbed remarks. Was it
because he knew she hated the heat that flared between them? The knowledge that
she battled, even now, to prevent him from seeing the need in her eyes?

Whatever the reason, her reply only stoked his lust further.
And, gods curse it, that wasn’t all. Her answer intrigued him on a level that
no Roman had the right to touch.

“Your perspective,” he said, “is one I shall enjoy exploring.”

“Alas,” Antonia’s voice dripped ice and illogically stoked
his blood with flames of scorching desire. “My perspective is not available for
such exploration.”

“Indeed, Gawain.” Only those who knew Carys well would
recognize the fury beneath her level tone. “I can’t imagine what you’re
suggesting.” Her tone implied she knew exactly what he was suggesting and was
deeply affronted by his nerve.

He tossed her a dark glance. She might think this
fragile-looking Roman needed protection from his attention but she was wrong.
He could taste Antonia’s repressed arousal in the fragranced air, could feel
the fiery bonds of need that weaved between them. Could see the angry battle
between lust and propriety behind the calm façade she presented to the world.

The other Roman women he’d fucked might not have stirred his
cock so violently, but he’d been aware of their interest from the moment they
had met. In public, they behaved like model wives. In private, he’d shared
their luscious charms and taken grim pleasure in the knowledge that those aloof
foreign women had come apart beneath his invasion. It was a hollow
satisfaction, but all he could gain, in knowing he invaded the women of Rome in
response to how Rome invaded his own land and people.

Antonia was no different. Once he engineered a moment for
them to be alone, she would discard her false pretenses and welcome his
barbaric touch.

They all welcomed his barbaric touch. They swooned with
orgasmic delight at the thought of fucking a primitive barbarian. None of them
imagined it was not simply their bodies he coveted. None of them guessed it was
the information he gleaned from their arrogant husbands that truly interested
him.

Yet Antonia was not with her husband. The thought hammered
through his mind, mocking his previous thoughts. And illuminating the reason
why her presence so enraged his senses.

He wanted her. But he could learn nothing of use from
fraternizing with her. Like all her contemporaries that he’d met, she might be
frustrated, bored and eager for an illicit liaison despite how she attempted to
hide her true feelings. But with all the others, while he’d never felt the need
to decline their advances, he had never experienced the urge to initiate such
an encounter.

Yet he could think of little else when it came to Antonia.

“I suggest nothing, Carys.” His voice was harsher than he
intended. Gods. He might not care that Carys knew he desired the little Roman
but he certainly didn’t want her guessing just how badly he wanted her. “If my
words have offended the lady Antonia then I trust she will accept my
apologies.”

“Apologies are unnecessary.” Antonia smoothed the white silk
of her long gown, her lashes lowered so he could no longer see her ice-blue
eyes. “I’m not easily offended. Life in Rome is not for the faint of heart.”

It was the second time she had referred to Rome in less than
glowing terms. Every other Roman woman he’d met had bemoaned the fact they had
been torn from the civilized center of the world and thrust into a primitive
province on the edge of the empire. Shortly afterward, he impaled them, and
they forgot their discontent as they gasped with delight at the pleasures
available from willing natives.

Carys pounced on Antonia’s comment and began to ask her
questions of Rome. Gawain gritted his teeth and held his tongue. Carys cared
nothing for Rome or its people. All she cared about was that her beloved
husband and child and her goddess, Cerridwen, survived and prospered, and for
that Carys would do whatever she had to. Even if she had to embrace the enemy
in the corrupt heart of its empire.

He realized he was staring at Antonia’s profile. She sat on
the stone bench like a goddess in the flesh, the graceful folds of her gown
enhancing the curves of her body in a sensual caress. Her cursedly provocative
ringlet brushed her shoulder as she inclined her head toward Carys, and a pale
blush stained her aristocratic cheeks as though she were fully aware of his
intense scrutiny.

She was beautiful, pampered and nothing like the kind of
women he preferred. Did she even possess the knowledge of how to wield a bow,
never mind the strength required to use one? He doubted she had the first idea
how to use a dagger except as an implement to spear her food. Yet he couldn’t
drag his mesmerized gaze from her.

It made no sense. Except for the ethereal quality of her
beauty, she was the same as every other Roman woman he’d had since he’d left
the sacred Druid Isle of Mon.

None of them were warriors. None of them were capable of
defending themselves against attack. Not once had he been unable to tear his
gaze from any of them. He could scarcely even remember the last time white hot
lust had seared his veins and the primal need to rut like a savage had
thundered through his senses.

But this elegant creature, in her foreign gown and jewelry,
bewitched him. Was it because she tried so hard to deny her desire? That had
never affected him before. If a Roman woman was faithful to her husband, he had
never felt the urge to change her mind.

He had no idea of Antonia’s marital status. He cared nothing
for her marital status. But he would discover the game she played and she would
learn that he followed no rules but his own.