When he looked back at Rhiannon, he saw her pale face had gone even whiter. “You say you see your brother everywhere. What do you mean?”
“A witch may call spirits. Can she banish them as well?”
“I …”
He braced his hands on the edge of the bed frame and leaned over her, close enough to smell the aroma of her fear. “What spell sends a spirit to its rest?”
Rhiannon drew in a breath and met his gaze. “You’ve been visited by your brother’s ghost?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Since the Kalends of November.” If she thought him mad, so be it. Perhaps it was true.
But she didn’t seem to doubt his words. Her gaze flicked into the shadows. “Do you see him now?”
“No,” he said. “He flees your presence.”
“Dear Briga,” she breathed and shut her eyes.
“I ask again. Are you a witch?”
“I know only healing spells. None that would banish a ghost. My gift touches only the living.”
His laughter echoed off the ceiling. “Your foul power touches my brother and he is dead enough.” He reached for her again and this time managed to snare her wrist. “Send him to his rest.”
“I tell you, I cannot.”
His grip tightened. “You must. I order you to make it so. For six months Aulus has shadowed my existence, turning it into a waking nightmare. Now he’s invaded my dreams. I can stand it no longer. I wake and stroke the edge of my sword. I imagine its kiss on my flesh.”
“You must not speak so.”
His fingers pressed still deeper into her white flesh, but if his touch pained her, she gave no sign of it. “The dream stag gored Aulus. I watched—watched!—unable to help him. Then the beast vanished and the scene changed. I stood in a cavern split by a dark river. Roman soldiers roamed the banks calling for the boatman, but Charon gave them no notice. Aulus was among them.”
“Lucius, let go. You’re hurting me.”
He looked down at his hand, surprised to see Rhiannon’s wrist nearly crushed in his grasp. His fingers uncurled slowly. “My apologies,” he said stiffly. He moved away to the table set before the mural of Cupid and Psyche. The image of the lovers blurred as he fumbled for the handle of the wine pitcher. Red liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass goblet and spilled like blood on the silver tray.
“Your brother’s ghost comes to you often?”
He drained the wine. “He’s with me always,” he said without turning. “Save when I’m with you. What power do you wield over him?”
She inhaled sharply. “None.”
He spun about and hurled the goblet across the room.
The delicate glass exploded with brittle fury against the far wall. Rhiannon gave a cry and dove under the blanket.
He strode toward the bed. “Do not lie to me,” he snarled. He snatched up the coverlet and flung it to the ground.
She straightened and glared at him. “I speak the truth.”
“I do not believe you.” But when his gaze swept over her, he found he hardly cared. With her chest heaving and her red hair tumbling about her shoulders, she glowed like fire and life, a beacon of hope in the dark night that had become his existence.
He ached for her then, wanting nothing so much as to bury himself in her heat and forget the haunting specter that waited outside her door. His rod responded to the wish. Her gaze flicked downward, then back to his face, and her eyes widened.
He caught a handful of her hair in his fist. Breathing harshly, he wound the tresses slowly around his wrist, forcing her closer. “Truth or not,” he said, “I can only wonder—if I take you here, make you a part of me, will Aulus vanish for good?”
Rhiannon’s eyes closed and her lips parted. She made a mewling sound in her throat. A moan born of desire, or fear, or equal measures of both? The murmur shattered Lucius’s thin control. He pressed her against his naked body and took her mouth, devouring its sweetness. He drew her down into the bed cushions.
She braced her hands on his chest, not protesting yet not welcoming either. Lucius gentled his assault, stroking her lips, kissing the line of her jaw.
His tongue found her ear and swirled into it. His arousal settled between her thighs. Rhiannon’s hips shifted against him in a hint of welcome. He fisted her tunic in his hand and drew the hem upward, baring her legs to his touch. Her arms snaked around his neck. His fingers stroked a path up her thigh.
She stilled beneath him even as she clung to him. “No, Lucius, please, I …”
“Hush, little one,” he whispered, his fury sputtering like a dying flame. “There’s nothing to fear. I would never hurt you.” He hoped it was true.