Feeling somewhat fortified, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, balancing on her good leg. No matter what the healer instructed, she would not stay abed. Escape was her paramount goal and she could not achieve it lying on her back. Edmyg’s brother, Cormac, was somewhere in the fort. Did he know of her capture? Had he passed news of it to the clan? She would need to locate him this very day, if possible, while the Roman commander went about fort business. She dared not dwell on his return to her chamber or on what the night hours would bring.
Grasping the raised end of the bed for balance, she eased her weight onto her uninjured limb. Her wounded leg throbbed, but she resolutely ignored it and took a step toward the window. She needed an idea of the fort’s layout before she could escape it.
The first step on her wounded leg sent a shooting pain into her thigh. She gritted her teeth and stepped forward on her uninjured limb. On the third step her balance faltered. She landed on the hard tiles with a thump, her hand striking the tail of the glittering cat-beast. Pain exploded behind her eyes. She clutched her leg and forced back a cry as she waited for the sting to recede.
The door opened at that precise moment. She peered under the bed frame, her heart pounding in her throat. A pair of masculine feet, encased in short leather boots, advanced a few steps into the chamber. Bronzed skin, sprinkled with dark hair, covered calves hard with muscle. The hem of a blood-red tunic fell above the knee, affording her a tantalizing glimpse of long thighs roped with sinew.
The owner of the magnificent limbs moved unerringly in Rhiannon’s direction. She jerked herself upright, ignoring the fresh spurt of pain in her leg. She would not meet her captor while sprawled on her arse.
The Roman commander rounded the bed and looked down at her, his dark brows drawn together in a disbelieving scowl. “Are you insane? You should be in bed.” Without waiting for a reply, he bent and scooped her into his arms.
He lifted her easily, his arms flexing around her like a living cage, and for a moment Rhiannon forgot to breathe. Her fingers closed on his upper arms. His skin was smooth and golden, stretched taut over iron-hard muscles. Rhiannon willed her racing heart to slow and, as she filled her lungs with air, she thought she had succeeded. Then she looked up into his eyes.
His steady gaze enveloped her like a fur cloak on a winter night. His frown softened, drawing her attention once again to his smooth chin. One corner of his mouth lifted with the promise of a smile. She shifted in his arms. His lips parted on a quick intake of breath, revealing a row of even white teeth.
He smelled of the wind in the pines and of leather freshly cured. His powerful, blunt-fingered hand closed on her arm. His skin was dark against her fairer coloring, but his grip was not harsh. His fingernails were clean and trimmed short.
Rhiannon’s heart set to pounding harder than before. She thought perhaps she should be afraid, but, oddly, she was not. When his callused warrior’s hands lowered her to the bed, she thought only that this Roman’s touch was softer than Edmyg’s had ever been.
He straightened, the frown returning to his eyes. He swiveled his head to the right and left—searching, it seemed, but for what, Rhiannon couldn’t imagine. He hunted, prowling to the window, then back to the door. He bent to inspect the underside of the long table against the wall.
“Gone again,” he said, his tone abrupt. He turned on her with a swift movement. “Could it be you?”
Rhiannon’s confusion grew. “What do you mean? Who is gone? The healer?”
He didn’t answer. His shoulders slumped and his hand passed over his eyes as if to wipe away some unwanted vision. She’d seen only his strength when he had first entered the chamber, but now, looking closer, she noted the weariness in his stance, the slight tremble of his hand as it curled into a fist. After a long moment, he raised his head and met her gaze. Again recognition sparked in Rhiannon’s heart, along with an overwhelming desire to ease the raw pain that showed so clearly in his soft, dark eyes. Eyes she was certain she’d looked upon before. Then, suddenly, she knew.
The Roman commander bore an uncanny resemblance to the young officer Madog had slaughtered at Samhain. The man whose soul had cried out to Rhiannon at the moment of his death. Was the new fort commander kin to the murdered man, come to avenge his death? A sound of distress escaped her lips.
Her captor’s features smoothed, as if he’d exerted a sudden effort to wipe them clean. “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said. Then, a heartbeat later, “You shouldn’t walk. I’m sure Demetrius told you.”
“He did.”