To Burn (8 page)

"You follow me like a dog, barbari. I choose to be alone. I have no doubt that you can find your way back to my villa," she said with calm disdain. "Unfortunately."

He was more comfortable now, his guard relaxed. She was behaving normally, in her spiteful, vicious Roman way. This way was better than quick obedience; this way he understood.

"You have nothing, Roman slave, except a sharp tongue," he answered, standing on the rock next to her, staring at the rapidly sinking sun.

"And a will, Saxon, a strong will that you will find impossible to break," she said in a snarl, standing to be eye-to-eye with him, or as much as she was able given her stunted size. The woman came hardly to his chest.

Wulfred smiled, relaxing. "I do not want to break your will, Roman. I want to break you—a thing not so difficult to do."

He said it easily, confidently, and it shook her courage. He could see it. He could feel it. She was not the same woman she had been; his coming, his defeat of her and her kind, had changed everything. This he knew and this she was coming to know. It was sweet knowledge and he gloated in it.

She reacted to this knowledge in predictable fashion; she threw the empty dish at him.

He caught it with one hand and threw it at her feet, where it shattered into shards and powder on the massive rock.

"You are a clumsy slave," he said when the sound of the breaking had echoed away into the night.

"It was my dish to break if I chose," she responded with heat.

Wulfred stepped closer to her and clasped her chin between his fingers. He looked deeply into glittering eyes, the last rays of the sun turning the hazel into earthy gold. He could feel her breathing quicken and feel her stiffen under his hand. He hoped it was in fear.

"But I did the choosing," he reminded her softly. "So it will always be."

She stared up into his eyes for a moment or two longer before breaking away from his touch and hurrying down the hill, escaping the truth of his words. Escaping him. Wulfred smiled easily and followed her down, content.

When the scent of their passing had cooled, a young wolf skittered out of the shadow of the wood, making a quick and direct path to a spray of honeysuckle not far from the rock. The contents of Melania's dish were consumed in no time.

Chapter 8

Remembering how she had labored through the nights, Wulfred did not wait until the morning to gather all the inhabitants of the villa in the courtyard: Saxon, Roman, Briton, and Greek. Two torches lit the space with a hazy glow as sparks flew upward to mingle with twisting smoke before being lost in the pitch of night. He stood with his back to one torch. All could see him clearly, even those on the fringes who were indistinct shadows to him. He could be seen—seen and heard. Heard and obeyed.

"The Roman," he began, pointing directly at her as she stood against the kitchen wall, ignoring him, "will do no labor. If she is caught raising a sweat, all will suffer for it." When they said nothing, when not a Briton raised a brow and not a Saxon murmured an oath, he repeated, "She will not work. If she works, you will not eat."

He watched her as he spoke. She was standing alone, apart from them all, leaning her shoulder back against the wall in negligent ease and unconcern. Torchlight left her face in shadow, but outlined the curve of breast and hip in sharp relief. It was a trick of the light; he knew she was not so shapely beneath her Roman sack. He could not see her eyes, but he could read her mockery of him in her insolent posture. Her very lack of concern set a fire to his suspicions, and when she remained coolly unconcerned and looked down to brush a careless hand over her skirt, he knew without doubt that she had devised some new plan to rob him of his goal. A plan at which she would fail, but which would cause him no end of annoyance.

"Are you saying that it is your wish that Melania do nothing?" Theras had the temerity to ask.

Wulfred thought that over for a moment; he did not want her living the life of a pampered woman of Rome, even though that was exactly what she was. There had to be some work that would keep her idle hands busy that would also not threaten to kill her.

"Does she know
how
to do anything?" he finally asked. He had the satisfaction of seeing her jolt upright at that insult.

After a somewhat uncomfortable pause, clearly wishing that Melania would speak for herself, Theras said, "She can weave and dye and fashion jewelry."

None of that sounded too strenuous. "Acceptable." Wulfred nodded and then commanded, "Go." He looked at Melania as he said it. Melania looked back at him and, when she stood alone facing him, when he understood that she left of her own inclination, she sauntered off.

The group drifted back into the shadows of the night until the two torches lit only the dust of the courtyard ground. Wulfred and his men went into the triclinium to begin the light evening meal that ended their day.

"Well, that will hardly kill her" —Cenred laughed— "unless she manages to throw herself into the path of the shuttle in her weaving."

"No, she will live long enough to give Wulfred his revenge, now that he understands her deviousness," Cynric said.

"What weapon does a woman have beyond her deviousness?" Cuthred said tersely.

"A woman has an arsenal of weapons" —Balduff chuckled— "but this one is too stupid to use them."

"Stupid?" Ceolmund asked. "Or proud?"

"What pride is there in trying to work yourself to death doing menial labor?" Cynric said.

"What pride in meekly waiting for the ax to drop?" Ceolmund countered.

"Come," Cenred said, "what pride in dyeing linen? This talk of pride in a woman is foolish."

"She could well be proud of her hair," Balduff murmured into his cup.

"Her hair?" Cynric said. "That snarled and dusty mess? It is as appealing as a swarm of flies over meat."

"Just because you do not like black hair…" Balduff huffed.

"If pride is a word you will not ascribe to her, then what of valor?" Ceolmund persisted. He had not spoken so much at one time in ten years.

"What valor in chopping wood?" Cenred smiled.

"No," Cuthred said slowly, "there is valor in her fight against us. All that she has, and it is not much, she throws against us. She has courage." It was his highest praise.

"It is true," Cenred admitted, "that I did not expect such a fight from a Roman woman. There is more to her than first appears." Stroking his chin, he smiled ruefully. "She is a determined adversary."

"No."

Wulfred had been listening to their talk, surprised by most of it, content to let the conversation drift until it died naturally. But he would not allow them to talk themselves into attributing valor to the little Roman.

"It is not valor that drives her," he said into the sudden silence. "It is desperation. As her desperation grows, so will her frenzy." Looking at each man lingeringly, he said, "She must be watched carefully."

"She is being watched, Wulfred," Cynric said.

"Yes, she is being watched," Wulfred repeated, "but she must be made to suffer that which she fears most: a world ruled by Saxons."

Wulfred's eyes blazed vivid blue from the yellow tangle of his hair before he turned to his gaze to his cup. In his eyes they saw what drove him to vengeance and they did not question it. They understood his motivation and supported it, to a man. Yet...

"It is unfortunate that we did not stop in another valley."

Balduff looked askance at Ceolmund, considering his comrade's whispered words.

"Does your heart grow soft for her, this small Roman slave?"

Ceolmund shook his shaggy head, the ends of his dark blond hair brushing against the crease of his elbow, and said softly, "I am concerned for Wulfred. This vengeance against a girl barely into womanhood will not sit well with him in years to come."

Balduff lifted his cup for a long swallow before answering. "I admit to not being overly fond of it now. It is no secret that I like women and, no matter what is argued, she is more valorous than most."

"She is determined," Ceolmund said.

"She is desperate, according to Wulfred," Balduff responded. "Time will prove what she is."

They sat in silence, the two of them, ignoring the ribald conversation of their brothers in arms as they drank cup after cup of good Roman wine. In time, Wulfred rose from the floor and left them, his step steady. He had consumed but one cup, as was his practice. Balduff watched him go and, without turning to Ceolmund, who sat quietly at his side, murmured, "Whatever she is, she is set against Wulfred." Sighing deeply, he added, "It is a hopeless defiance; she has no chance of besting him."

Ceolmund could not disagree.

* * *

"I shall outsmart him," Melania said almost lethargically three days later. "I wish I could take more pride in it, but it is too easily done."

"In what way will you outsmart him, Melania?" Theras asked over the productive din of meal preparation.

The Saxons ate lightly after dark, a point on which to be grateful. Still, the warmly lit kitchen hummed with purposeful activity and Theras closed the distance to Melania so as to hear her better. Though he dared not expect that he would be cheered by her words; she had that stubborn gleam again. Even Finn, not known for his intelligence, had learned that when Melania carried herself just so and when her smile was as cold as three-day ash, it boded ill. Theras wondered if Wulfred understood as much about her yet.

"He is such an oaf," she went on, "a league behind me in tactics and incapable of reason. He shall be so easy to best; when I lie dead he will but begin to understand how I have outmaneuvered him." Sighing and brushing her loose hair back behind her ears, she finished, "Stupid barbari."

"What do you plan, Melania?" Theras asked again, suspicious at her refusal to answer directly.

"Plan?" she answered with innocence. "Why, certainly not to work until I drop. Does he not have me set at the very tasks I have always done and always loved? And in my own home?" Shaking her head, she said with a little smile, "Ridiculous and pathetic barbari."

"You must not take your own life, Melania," Theras urged.

"Suicide?" Her eyes glittered as she thought of swords and cliffs. "Never. But he will not win in this game of wills against me. I will best him. And he will know it."

"There are other ways to win," Theras said slowly, eyeing her carefully as he continued, "less aggressive ways." When she did not flare in fury, he continued. "He is a powerful man..."

"Yes, I am sure his life of killing has led him to believe that."

"...and not unattractive..."

"He is as attractive as a boar in the mud, except the boar has finer teeth."

"...and he does not seem... that is, I think he could be attracted to you..."

"Attracted to me?"
She sprang to her feet, knocking the stool over. "I would that you had continued in comparing him to a muddy boar and the wandering murderer that you know he is.
Attracted
to me!" she spat out, her hair flying like a black war banner behind her as she paced in front of him. "He is attracted only to the idea of making me suffer, and I would sooner die than give him the pleasure, so speak to me no more of his being attracted to me. My stomach is heaving at the thought. If I so much as believed what you... Why, I would carve his eyes out of his head and feed them to the ravens, and then I would cut off his hands and stick them on the wall in eternal farewell to his hellish comrades, and then I would—"

"Melania!" Theras interrupted her tirade, which was growing hotter with every breath she took. "Your course is most unwise. You are a slave now. You cannot fight him and you cannot win, not this way."

At that, she stopped both her wild pacing and her diatribe against the Saxon. Facing Theras, Melania said with icy control, "I am not a slave. I will never see myself as a slave. And I will fight. And win."

Theras watched her leave the kitchen and walk away across the courtyard. "But Wulfred sees you as a slave," he said. "His slave."

She heard him, but it didn't matter. She was no one's slave.

Stalking away from Theras's unpleasant speculations had felt wonderful, but she suddenly realized that she did not have a destination. For the first time in days she had nothing to do. Melania slowed her pace and considered her options.

The triclinium was occupied by the oaf and his band of bloodthirsty arsonists, and she had spent too much time already in the little room where she had slept away her head start at beating the Saxon. The kitchen, where she had found herself more and more since the coming of the salivating horde, was not a wise choice, given her recent decision and the steps she'd taken to implement it. She had not been to the baths and the exercise room that comprised one arm of the villa since the Saxons' arrival. It was a likely destination since
they
would certainly have no inclination to visit the baths.

The caldarium was at the rear of the wing, closest to the furnace. Next to it was the tepidarium and then the frigidarium, each open to the other by a narrow doorway, and at the farthest end was the exercise room. It was a fairly elaborate affair for a country villa, but her family had always prided itself on staying fit.