Celtic Fire(34)

Alara chuckled. “Yer a coy one, aren’t ye? There’s only one reason a lass as fair as ye would be seeking that misshapen lout. His cock’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, lass, 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 assaulted 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 space 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, lass.”

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 lust 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 shivered, 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 flashing 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.”