The General's Virgin Slave (2 page)

"Does anyone smell burning?" she
asked, suddenly getting a whiff of smoke drifting up the
stairs.

No one answered.

Splendid. The house would probably
burn down because of an untended spliff and she'd be stuck in the
toilet. A fitting end to her awkward, frustrating, unfulfilled
life.

None of the girls waiting there had a
tampon, although they were equipped with mascara and lip gloss—
like any Roman citizen worth her salt, she mused.

She'd have to make do with whatever
she found in the bathroom.

But what she found on the other side
of that door was something stubborn, virginal bookworm Amanda Adams
could never have expected in her wildest dreams.

Chapter One

Aquae Sulis, Britannia,
A.D. 64

Marcus Cassius watched flames devour
another hovel and listened to the screams of the filthy, reckless
natives as they ran into the swords of his men. Some of the fools
thought they could still fight. Thought they still had a chance. He
couldn't decide whether these Britons were the stupidest people
he'd ever invaded, or the bravest.

He blamed it on the memory of
Boudicea, who had, a few years ago, led a revolt against the
Romans. For a while, the widow of the Iceni king had caused the
Emperor's legions a great deal of trouble, but she and her army
were stopped eventually and slaughtered. Unfortunately, that made
her a martyr in the eyes of these primitive tribes and so, once in
a while, they stirred up unrest and had to be reminded of their
place under the heel of Roman rule. These Britons were slow
learners.

In any case— Marcus yawned wide— the
rebels would capitulate, or they would die. Their choice. It
shouldn't be such a difficult one to make. Surely they recognized
the benefits of the living under Roman law, and all the advances
that would drag their feral tribes into civilization. They only had
to look around them at the buildings of Aquae Sulis to see the
future.

Some tribal leaders had thrown in
their lot with the Romans and done well from it, but some still
fought. Stubborn, quarrelsome, scrappy little dogs. As if they had
something worth fighting for.

The warhorse under him shook its mane
and cropped at the grass, as weary and disinterested in this scene
as his rider, sensing the malaise perhaps. Marcus realized his
pulse beat hadn't even quickened at the sight of blood. He felt no
urge to join in the destruction of this nest of Druid spies and so
his gladius hung at his side, unused today. What he'd really like
to do was go home, bathe and eat. For such a small and simple task
as this razing he would not usually have come out today, but Marcus
considered this jaunt a training exercise for some of his new
recruits, and he always oversaw the rigorous training of his men.
He didn't ask them to do anything he couldn't or wouldn't do
himself.

He stared dully at the bouncing bared
breasts of a young female as she ran, chased by two of his men, but
there was not the slightest stirring in his cock today.

Must be getting old.

And now, to make his dreary day
complete, here came the rain again.

The weather on this island of savages
was enough to press a man's spirits into the dirt. He felt the
chariot wheels of the gods, rolling overhead, thrusting him down,
trying to squash his will to go on. Testing him.

But Marcus was not a man to be crushed
or trampled. He was there to do a duty, and it would be done. The
Roman Emperor wanted this fertile land and the feral natives would
simply have to be subdued. One way or another.

He sniffed at the charred air as he
watched his soldiers chasing down the last of the rebels. Knowing
victory was at hand, Marcus removed his helmet and wiped a forearm
across his brow, sighing deeply. Rain pelted his face as he looked
up, squinting at the bleak sky, where grey clouds the color of a
dead man's rotting flesh, interspersed with pus-colored bubbles,
hung low overhead. On days like these he missed his home— the
bright, clear, Mediterranean blue and the warm, sweet, fragrant air
he hadn't felt in two years. What he wouldn't give to be back
there, on his father's farm, drinking good wine instead of the
pig's swill here, strolling in the pleasant olive groves instead of
facing surly, disobedient, ungrateful natives. But Sicily was a
world away.

So here he was, getting the job done
for Emperor Nero. He was an obedient soldier of Rome and would be
till death.

Suddenly a hard object hit the side of
his unprotected head and bounced off. Fortunately for Marcus he had
a hard skull and a high tolerance for pain. And the scars to prove
it.

The projectile— a spear-like piece of
strange metal with no point— landed on the soil by his horse's
hooves.

Marcus touched his temple and saw red
on the tips of his gloved fingers.

Now, for the first time that day, his
pulse quickened. With fury.

He turned to find a woman standing
there. A woman, of all things, had wounded him!

"Oops," she said. "Sorry." The
expression on her woad-painted face suggested shock, but even
through the blue paste and mud spatters, she was beautiful, her
features more finely wrought than those of most natives. He hadn't
seen such a pretty face in two years at least. The swell under her
ugly gown suggested full tits —milk-heavy perhaps—and what he saw
of her legs promised slender length. They were smooth shaven,
unlike most Briton women. She held her head high on an elegant
neck.

There was something almost noble about
her. If they were in Rome instead of this dank armpit of an island,
he would think her the daughter of some grand patrician family.
Someone who had dressed up in a disguise to attend a festive
gathering.

He'd heard of the "thunderbolt", known
to strike a man down when he sees the woman of his dreams. But
having never experienced it for himself, and being a practical
fellow, a disciple of the principle "Vide est Crede"— seeing is
believing— Marcus had always scorned the idea. Until
now.

For the first time in weeks, Marcus
felt the prickle of sexual interest. His seed surged. At last.
Praise be! He'd begun to think his cockerel would never crow
again.

Her feet appeared stuck in place for a
moment. Then her eyes widened, and she gathered her wits and ran.
Leaving her odd sandals behind in the dirt. The hood of her garment
fell back to reveal bright copper hair. It looked like another
flame darting and dodging away through the trees.

Ah, yes, indeed. Marcus Cassius was
ready for sport. His men had the rebels well in hand. Time for a
little recreation, a bonus war spoil for the Primus
Pilus.

With a battle cry he urged his
startled horse after the woman.

She had speared him. Now it was his
turn.

* * * *

Her breath choked and burned in her
throat as she stumbled over the rough ground. What the hell had
happened to her?

One moment she was in the bathroom of
a noisy university dorm. Now she was in a forest and running for
her life. From a Roman on horseback.

A real Roman. Not in a toga, but
dressed in full battle gear.

Amanda ran on, desperation lending
wings to her feet. Was she dreaming? Having a nightmare? Had she
fallen and banged her head? Had someone slipped drugs into that
cider she had earlier?

She could be in a coma right now. Or
dead.

Perhaps this was some sort of trick. A
practical joke? Students were fond of their practical
jokes.

But no, it wasn't "Rag Week" and this
was not a second-floor bathroom magically transformed into the
facsimile of a forest with tissue paper and cornflake
boxes.

What if he was a kiss-o-gram, sent
with a message from someone? She'd heard of hiring men in gorilla
suits lifting girls over their shoulder, and Chrissy was once
greeted at their front door by a slender, bespectacled guy in a
medieval herald's suit ready to sing her a madrigal. Some men
thought that sort of thing funny.

Amanda yelled over her shoulder,
breathless, "I think this is a case of mistaken identity. You're
going to be very sorry for this."

The horse thundered after her. She
felt the earth shaking. She could smell the bark of the trees, the
moss, the wet mud. Rain fell on her lips and she tasted it. Her
heart was beating so hard she felt it in the soles of her bare
feet. She couldn't run in flip-flops and so had left them behind,
but now her feet hurt and she had no idea what she was stepping on.
Her pedicure was going to be ruined.

If this was real—

But surely that was
impossible.

Everything around her was solid, three
dimensional, and no bathroom wall stood in her way. The horizon was
endless, boundless.

Still his horse's hooves galloped over
the ground.

If
this was real, that Roman would rape and kill her. She was
dressed as a rebel and Amanda was one hundred percent positive that
the man chasing her down was not the tolerant type. Maybe, instead
of run, she should have stopped and explained.

Maybe not. He was hardly likely to
believe that she'd just been innocently looking for a tampon. Or
that she was from the future. He wouldn't even understand her
language.

Romans didn't think women were useful
for anything but sex and childbearing. And she'd made that one
bleed with her tent pole "spear".

The huge, fierce-eyed man had looked
as surprised to be wounded as she was to wound.

She had no other weapon at hand now,
nothing to help fend him off. While still running, she began
looking about for something sharp to use as a dagger. She'd stick
him in the neck with it. Or through the eye. Now she began to wish
she hadn't pooh-poohed the idea of self-defense classes.

Of course, there was another place she
could wound him. In his big, swaying balls.

The Roman gained ground. Twisting in
and out of the trees had not helped her. He clung to her path as if
he knew where she was going before she did.

Now she felt the hot breath of the
horse and wet mud hitting the back of her legs. She could smell the
animal's sweat and hear the soldier's harsh grunts.

A great fist came down, gripped her by
the neck and lifted her off her feet, as if she weighed nothing
more than a starving hen.

He threw her to the ground and before
she could get up, the soldier was on her with his broad, hairy
thighs astride her hips and his massive hands holding her wrists to
the dirt over her head.

As he hunched over her supine form,
sweat and rain dripped from the end of his nose. Amanda licked her
lips and tasted his salt.

No way was she dreaming this. It was
too vivid.

His eyes were jet black, tearing into
her face. The blue "woad" was supposed to protect her from the
enemy, but she did not feel as if it was doing her any good
whatsoever. This man clearly wasn't frightened off by it. So there
went that theory.

How could she communicate
with this beast?
Latin
...Latin, of course. Didn't know any. But a little Italian
might do.

Amanda searched her mind for the few
phrases she'd once learned in anticipation of a trip to Italy. A
trip that sadly never happened in the end, because her friend and
travel mate spent all her money on a car instead. "Mi sono perso!
Sono...straniero." It didn't seem to be helping. "Amico," she
yelled. "I am not your enemy."

"Bonum," he growled.

What the hell did that mean? She
struggled further through her mind for words to make him
understand. "Stop! Fermo! Amica. Per cortesia..." Finally she gave
up on her scant knowledge of Italian. "I don't know what's
happening," she cried. "My name is Amanda! Amanda Adams and I'm a
student at St. Michael's University in Bath, England. I
can—

He switched his hold, keeping both her
wrists in his left grip, while he reached down between them with
his other hand and tore her hastily assembled garment wide open. Uh
oh, there went Chrissy's aunt's ugly faux fur hearthrug, a
flat-warming present.

She immediately swore at herself for
thinking of that at such a time. When she was about to be
deflowered and then murdered, who cared about rugs?

So she spat. It was all she could
think of in that moment of insanity and fear, because he clearly
wasn't listening. Oh, he ought to understand spitting, whatever
time and land he was from.

Those menacing eyes narrowed. She
thought he would strike her.

Instead he laughed, a low, husky
sound.

Amanda writhed, trying to bring her
knee up between his legs, but he sat over her in a position that
made such contact impossible.

Rain fell on her skin and cold air
kissed her nipples. She felt his gaze possessing her breasts,
watching as those dark red peaks hardened instantly. He licked his
lips and growled "By the gods! I've been sent a gift."