Celtic Fire Part 9

At length he turned and approached her. She tensed as he drew near, but he merely took up a bra.s.s handlamp from the table near the bed. Crouching at the brazier, he touched the wick to the coals and blew gently until the flame leapt to life.

He repositioned the lamp on the table with careful precision. His eyes were hard, his expression grim. When he reached for her with an abrupt motion, she flinched.

He frowned and drew back. Rhiannon struggled to remain calm. Would he force her now? Would it have been better to yield to his advances when his mood had been light?

"What manner of man do you belong to, Rhiannon?"

She drew a shaky breath. "None."

"Every woman belongs to a man. Have you a husband?" When she didn't answer, he added softly, "I won't hurt you as he did."

"What?"

"I won't beat you. You needn't fear my hands."

Dear Briga. How could Lucius know that Niall had indeed taken to striking out at her? Not often, and never in the company of others, but Rhiannon suspected that Owein had known. The fault was her own. If her womb had provided Niall with a living babe, he'd never have felt the urge to hit her. And Edmyg never would have gone to Glynis's pallet to seek a son. How could Lucius know that Niall had indeed taken to striking out at her? Not often, and never in the company of others, but Rhiannon suspected that Owein had known. The fault was her own. If her womb had provided Niall with a living babe, he'd never have felt the urge to hit her. And Edmyg never would have gone to Glynis's pallet to seek a son.

"He should be castrated." The compa.s.sion in Lucius's eyes was harder to bear than his anger. "Put your thoughts of him aside. I promise you will enjoy every moment in my bed."

"Your vanity is astounding," Rhiannon whispered.

He grinned suddenly, the dimple in his cheek deepening and his eyes taking on the impish glint of a lad. "Why not put my arrogance to the test? You may well find yourself begging for my conceit."

An unexpected laugh bubbled into her throat. "You are far too sure of yourself."

He touched her face, the roughened callus on the pad of his thumb curiously gentle on her cheekbone while his fingers caressed the sensitive skin behind her ear. Against her will, her eyelids fluttered shut.

Abruptly, he stepped back, leaving her bereft before she recalled she should be glad of his withdrawal.

"Please leave," she said, but the words held little force.

In answer, he lowered himself onto the bed and took her hand in his. He began a thorough kneading of her palm, first stroking with firm pressure, then tracing the skew of lines with a feathering touch. An aching response pulled low in Rhiannon's belly. The small smile tugging at one corner of Lucius's mouth told her that he was well aware of the effect of his touch.

Her face flamed and she s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand away. "Why do you woo me? You are a Roman defiler. You have only to spread my legs."

"I wish your pleasure."

"You seek your own."

His teeth bared in a smile that looked almost painful. "True enough. Yet I find I antic.i.p.ate your satisfaction even more." His voice dropped to an intimate whisper. "Would you care to know what I dreamed last night?"

She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "No."

Lucius rose and paced around the bed until he stood behind her, not touching, but close enough that the heat of his body seeped through the thin barrier of her tunic. "You came to me while I lay abed. You flowed over me like wine and I drank you in." The heat of his breath was on her neck, the musk of his sweat in her nostrils. "First, I savored your lips ..."

He paused on an inhale. Rhiannon licked her lips. They had gone suddenly dry.

"Then I moved to your b.r.e.a.s.t.s ..."

Her nipples tautened as if they'd been touched. She clutched her knees tighter, pressing them into her chest.

"Then your navel ..." Lucius's breathing was rougher now and his tone had taken on a sharp edge. "I circled it with the tip of my tongue." His voice dipped to a bare whisper. "The taste was sweet, but I knew there were hidden places that would taste sweeter still." Rhiannon eased back slightly, her grip on her legs loosening as she strained to catch his words. Her hands moved to the cus.h.i.+on to balance her weight.

"I followed the scent of your need." His low, vibrant voice stroked like a caress. "I drank honey from the cup of your womanhood." His breath fanned over her nape, but still he did not touch her. "No wine could compare."

Her breath grew ragged and the fire between her thighs flared hot and slick. She imagined Lucius's tongue there, lapping and probing in that forbidden place. She bit hard on her lower lip, stifling a moan.

"I lay back and you rose over me. You sank onto my shaft and rode me into a storm."

Rhiannon's knees fell apart. She leaned back, into his arms, her body pleading for that which her lips could not beg.

He tasted her at last, his mouth searing the hollow between her neck and collarbone. His tongue stroked over her in delicious waves. His scent, spiced and dangerous, filled her senses with the promise of dark ecstasy. She twisted, threading her fingers through his hair and drawing him close.

He made a sound of feral satisfaction. He surged onto the mattress, his weight pressing her to the cus.h.i.+ons as his tongue plunged and retreated. He delved into her mouth-a hot, wet promise of pleasures yet to come.

He eased back, kissing a line from the corner of her mouth to her earlobe. "Your past is gone. You belong to me now, Rhiannon."

His whispered words shattered the erotic fog hazing her brain, even as his shameless tongue sent another tremor of need coursing through her. She blinked and looked up at him. His eyes glittered down at her, alight with pure arrogance.

How many times had she seen the same expression on Niall's face?

She gave a sharp cry and struck him, throwing her full weight into the blow. Her fist connected with his jaw. His head whipped to the side and he lost his balance. He rolled over the edge of the mattress and struck the floor with a sickening smack. Rhiannon scrambled off the opposite side of the bed, putting its bulk between them as he leaped to his feet.

He rubbed the back of his head and glared at her. "By Pollux! Why did you do that?"

"I don't belong to you, Roman."

"You do." Anger radiated from his body with the force of a wildfire. Deliberately, he leaned across the narrow bed and caught her chin between his fingers. "Do not forget it. My patience is not infinite. You are mine and I mean to have you."

"Shall I lift my hem for you then, master?" She spat out the word as if it were dung. "A quick plunge should soften your temper. My wishes hardly signify. A Roman never shrinks from lands where he is not welcome."

"So you say. Yet I wonder-were I to slip my finger between your thighs, would I find myself unwanted?"

"Yes," she said, but she twisted her chin from his fingers and dropped her gaze.

He gave a short, harsh laugh. "Soon, Rhiannon, you'll beg me to conquer you. When I slip my sword into your sheath, you will writhe with the glory of it."

Dear Briga, what arrogance. Yet even as she condemned him, she feared his words might very well be true.

He half turned and when he spoke again, it was as if to himself. "Another man would have taken you so often he would have tired of you by now." He laughed again, and the brittle sound echoed off the walls. "Perhaps it is the final proof of my insanity that I intend to leave you untouched."

She dared not risk a response to that.

He strode to the door. "No doubt I'll see you in a dream again tonight." Another chilling burst of laughter. "By Pollux, it is sure to be a nightmare."

Chapter Five.

The following morning, Rhiannon entered the kitchen shortly after dawn, intent on tracking down her brother-in-law.

"Is Cormac about, Alara?" she asked the stout Celt woman who had tried to coax her appet.i.te the day before.

Alara looked up from the bread she was kneading and blinked in surprise. "Have ye discovered the man's talents already then?"

Rhiannon gave her a sharp glance. Did the woman suspect Cormac was more than he seemed? "Talents?"

Alara chuckled. "Yer a coy one, aren't ye? There's only one reason a la.s.s as fair as ye would be seeking that misshapen lout. His c.o.c.k's near as long as his legs."

Rhiannon's faced flamed scarlet, but she bit back the protest that sprang to her lips. Pretending a tryst with Cormac was perhaps the safest way to speak privately with him. "Aye," she said. "Bronwyn twittered so when she spoke of him. I mean to see for myself if her tales are true."

"Take a care, la.s.s, lest the new master find ye out. He doesna look to be a man to share his woman."

Rhiannon's face reddened even more. Was the entire household aware of Lucius's pursuit? No doubt they were casting lots as to the hour of his success. "The Roman's nay here," she informed the woman. "Do ye know where Cormac is?"

Alara upended a wooden bowl over her dough. "Gone with Claudia to the fort village," she said, nodding to the cook's empty place by the main oven. " 'Tis his job to haul her selections from the market."

The market. Cormac would be meeting his contact there, who surely would have word from Edmyg by now. Rhiannon lifted a winter apple from a basket on the floor and examined it thoughtfully. "When will he return?"

"Nay afore midday."

Rhiannon took a bite of the tart fruit and watched as Alara a.s.saulted a second mound of dough with the energy of a dog attacking a bone. It was hardly past dawn, but already the kitchen women were abuzz with preparations for the evening meal. She shook her head in amazement. The Roman kitchen contained easily as much s.p.a.ce as an entire Celt roundhouse. Long worktables marched down the center of the room, bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, and a row of stone ovens lined the outside wall.

She dropped her apple core in the garbage trough. "Will ye tell Cormac to seek me out?"

Alara gave her a disapproving look. "Aye, I'll tell him, but 'tis a dangerous game ye be playing, la.s.s."

It was indeed, Rhiannon reflected, but not for the reason Alara suspected. She wandered through the door to the courtyard and stared into a shroud of rain. No garden work would distract her this day. With her hands idle, her thoughts should have been consumed with the prospect of her imminent escape, but to her great shame they were not. Instead images of Lucius filled her mind.

Lucius, who had aroused her with dark whispers. Lucius, who had kindled forbidden fire in her loins. Lucius, who had left her untouched despite his obvious desire to share her bed.

A small part of Rhiannon wished he had ignored her protests. Dear Briga! She shook her head as if to shake the notion from her brain. She should be nothing but relieved that she had escaped his l.u.s.t for another night. If all went well, Cormac would smuggle her out of the fort today and by dark she would be lying on her own pallet.

Soon after, Edmyg would take Niall's place and lie there with her. A knot of dread tightened in her stomach. Edmyg wouldn't be pleased that she'd followed the raiders and put herself in danger. Her duty had been to remain in the dun, awaiting the injured. How many of her wounded kinsmen had died because she hadn't been there to heal them? And what of Owein? Edmyg would surely blame him for Rhiannon's capture. She stared into the rain. If she found he'd laid a hand on the lad ...

"What are you looking at?"

With an effort, Rhiannon pulled herself from her dark broodings. Marcus stood a few paces away, fingering his gold talisman.

"Am I to be feared this day?" she asked him.

He dropped the charm and flushed. "No. It's just-the expression on your face a moment ago. I might have thought you were staring into the jaws of a lion."

"A lion?"

"A great beast from the lands across the southern sea. Like a cat, only much larger. There's one done in mosaic on your bedchamber floor."

Rhiannon s.h.i.+vered, imagining such a creature sprung to life. She glanced behind her, as if half expecting the animal to be lying in wait. Marcus chuckled.

She narrowed her gaze at him, biting off a laugh at the mischief flas.h.i.+ng in his eyes. "Where is your tutor, miscreant?"

"Magister Demetrius went again to the hospital. Did you know there is no fort physician here? The last one choked on a boar's knuckle." He snickered.

"That hardly seems like a cause for mirth," Rhiannon pointed out.

The lad sobered. "I know. But I can't help laughing when I think of it. One of the slaves told me the physician was a great, fat man, with a red face and jowls that waved when he walked." He looked to the courtyard. "It's too wet for you to work in the garden today."

"Yes."

He sighed. "Aristotle, however, can be read in any weather."

"Are you s.h.i.+rking your studies again?"

Marcus shrugged. "Rain makes my mind wander."

"As does the sun, I imagine."

The lad grimaced. "Aristotle was an uncommonly dull man, and there's a whole shelf of him in the library. In the original Greek. Magister Demetrius will probably make me translate every scroll."

"You can read Greek runes?"

"Yes. Though I wish I didn't have to." He stared gloomily into the rain. "Will you come to the library? I'm sure my studies will go easier with you there."

"I very much doubt that," Rhiannon said, but she allowed Marcus to lead her to a small chamber near the entrance foyer.

She blinked at the fantastic scene that greeted her there. Shelves piled with slender bra.s.s tubes spanned the walls from floor to ceiling. A tall cupboard stood near the door. A large hanging lamp, sporting more flames than Rhiannon could count, threw its dancing light onto a long stone table. Ink pots and pens were scattered across its surface, along with a number of hinged wooden tablets.

Marcus sank down on a cus.h.i.+oned stool and scowled at an open scroll. Rhiannon had seen papyrus only once before, when a peddler had pa.s.sed through her village. That had been just a tiny sc.r.a.p compared to the wide roll that lay on the table, weighted with polished stones and scrawled with precise dark markings. So many more waited on the shelves. It was a treasure beyond imagining.

"Father will be terribly angry if I don't finish my lessons," Marcus said. He picked up a hinged wooden tablet and opened it. The inside surfaces were coated with wax.

"He wants the best for you, no doubt."

"So Magister Demetrius says. But Father's always angry with me for something, no matter what I do. What use is there in trying to please him?"

Rhiannon couldn't think of a reply to that, so she nodded toward the tablet in Marcus's hand. "May I see?"

Marcus handed it to her. Three scrawling lines of runes had been scratched into the wax.

"Are these Greek runes?"

"No," Marcus said. "This is the Latin. The Greek is there." He pointed to the scroll laid out on the table.

Rhiannon took the stool opposite Marcus and peered at the delicate papyrus. Black letters crawled across the creamy surface in neat rows like ants, offering their knowledge to any with the skill to decipher them. The concept amazed her-Celts carried their stories in their hearts. Madog had once told her that Romans and Greeks were possessed with brains softer than sand. Rather than exert the discipline needed to commit their sacred stories to memory, they scratched them in ink. Still, to Rhiannon's mind, writing seemed a wondrous thing.