Celtic Fire(31)

Clad only in his tunic, Lucius settled himself to Rhiannon’s left, not touching, but close enough to wrap his arm around her waist if he so chose. “Your presence will enhance my own pleasure,” he whispered in her ear.

As if in response, Rhiannon’s stomach growled loudly. Lucius chuckled. “Your appetite seems to have recovered,” he said, drawing close.

“It seems so,” she said faintly, moving away.

The female slave stepped forward to fill their goblets. “Leave us for now,” Lucius commanded. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

He reached over the bolster and used a flat knife to transfer various selections from the platters to a shared plate. When he’d finished, he lifted a plump morsel of fish with his thumb and forefinger and raised it to Rhiannon’s lips. He held it just slightly out of reach.

She caught the offering on her tongue, laving the pad of Lucius’s thumb as she drew the succulent fish into her mouth. Fire shot through his loins. He shifted on the cushions until he felt the whisper of her body along the length of his own.

He chose another small piece from the plate, but before he could present it, Rhiannon made a sound of distress. She snatched a goblet from the table and downed a hefty draught of wine.

“Dear Briga!” She swiped the back of her hand across her tearing eyes.

Lucius rubbed her back. “Have you never tasted fish?”

“None that swim in fire,” she replied. Lucius chuckled and ate from his own dish while Rhiannon nibbled at the bread and ate a small portion of egg. At length, the slave woman returned bearing a platter of roasted boar’s meat.

“Perhaps you will find the second course more to your liking,” Lucius said. His finger brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek.

She went very still. “I’ve never been fond of boar’s meat.”

Lucius ordered the woman to take away the platter and bring the final course. Rhiannon’s eyes widened when a bowl of poached pears soaked in honey and wine appeared before her. She dipped her spoon into the confection and did not stop until it was gone. She closed her eyes as she brought the final taste to her mouth. Lucius watched the pink tip of her tongue move over her lips to catch the last drop of syrup.

His arm brushed Rhiannon’s shoulder as he nudged his own untouched plate in front of her. Her eyes flew open. He placed the palm of his hand on her nape. “I’m glad you found a dish to your liking at last,” he said, his lips close to her ear.

She shivered. He slid his palm to her shoulder for the briefest of caresses before breaking contact. When the second dish of pears was empty he rose from the couch and, leaning, once again lifted her into his arms.

“I need no help,” she said, twisting in his grasp.

“Perhaps not, but I wish to give it.”

He stepped onto the path bordering the courtyard and strode toward the stairs. Once in the upper gallery, he paused and captured her gaze.

“Shall I carry you to my chamber, nymph?”



Rhiannon’s heart pounded so violently, she feared it would leap out of her chest. She went very still, hoping that a dearth of movement would calm it. It did not.

Lucius’s arms tightened about her. His steady pulse beat against her breast, not so rapidly as her own but swift nonetheless. One hand cupped her buttocks. Its heat burned through her, feeding the torturous fire that had been kindled by their intimate supper.

Lying on the Roman dining couch with Lucius had been far too much like lying abed. Every sip of wine had been flavored by his scent; every taste of honeyed fruit had been spiced by his touch. Rhiannon had eaten too little and drunk too much, and she had clung too tightly to Lucius’s shoulders as he’d ascended the stairs.

His arousal had nudged her hip with every step and even now lay heavy between them. She struggled to remember that he was her clan’s enemy and that this blatant evidence of his lust should repulse, not tempt her. But floating as she was in the pleasant haze of the Roman wine, the thought held little meaning.

Sweet fire raced through her veins, a desire so unfamiliar and fierce that it stole her breath. Lucius looked down at her, a splash of light from the courtyard playing about his face. His dark, exotic eyes gleamed.

“Shall I carry you to my chamber?” he repeated. His voice, low and vibrant, cloaked her like a mantle of darkest midnight.

Rhiannon wondered that he had asked at all. Certainly Niall would not have. The thought sliced through the wine-induced fog like an icy wind. Dear Briga. What manner of woman was she to lust after her clan’s foe?

She went rigid in his arms. “No. I would pass the night alone.”

Lucius swore under his breath. In two swift paces he was at her chamber door, shoving it open. Midnight shadows shrouded the small space, relieved only by the red glow of the coals in the brazier. He strode to the bed, footsteps harsh on the tile, movements rough. He deposited her on the narrow mattress so abruptly that she fell back into the cushions. He braced his arms on either side of her head and leaned over her. His breath bathed her face with heat. He inhaled deeply as if to imprint her scent on his memory.