Celtic Fire(53)

“Ye are the woman the commander captured in battle,” the man replied. It was not a question.

She made no reply.

With a swift motion, he caught her chin in his hand. When Rhiannon tried to twist her head, his grip tightened.

“Let go!” She kicked, striking his knee.

“I enjoy a woman with some fire about her,” he said, unmoved by her struggle.

He caught her wrists and shoved her against the garden wall, pinning her arms above her head and trapping her lower body with his hips. His arousal, hot and hard beneath the leather strips of his war belt, pressed into her belly.

She gave a cry of dismay and tried to free herself, but his fingers only tightened. He gave her no quarter, transferring both her wrists to one of his powerful hands. The other found her breast and palmed it through the thin fabric of her tunic. His fingers tightened on her nipple and his hips jerked against hers with short, brutal thrusts.

His breath, sour with cervesia, came hot on Rhiannon’s neck. Her stomach lurched. She struggled again, then stilled when she realized her movements only increased his excitement. “Take your foul hands from me,” she said from between clenched teeth. “Or I will scream.”

In reply, he covered her mouth with his, thrusting his tongue deep. Rhiannon gagged and fought anew. When he withdrew for a breath, she clamped her teeth on his lower lip and bit as hard as her jaw allowed.

He jerked his head back and swore. His fingers squeezed her wrists with a punishing grip as he wiped the back of his free hand across his mouth, catching a trickle of blood. His lips curved in the parody of a smile. The expression chilled Rhiannon more than his anger had done.

“A firebrand,” he said, his cock hardening even more against her stomach. “Cormac told me as much. Yet I had to see for myself.”

“Cormac? What has he—”

The sound of voices cut off her words. Abruptly, the soldier released her and stepped away.

Demetrius and the fort medic appeared in the doorway. Upon sighting Rhiannon’s attacker, the medic came to attention and saluted. “Quartermaster. I did not know you were here. How may I help you?”

Rhiannon’s attacker nodded to the footsoldier. “At ease.” He turned to Demetrius. “Medicus. How fares your patient?”

Demetrius’s voice was grave. “Worse, and three more have fallen to the same illness. I will do my best to heal them, but the fever comes on like a Fury. I promise nothing.”

“I understand. Nevertheless, we are fortunate to have the benefit of your wisdom.” He turned to the medic. “Commander Aquila requests a full account of the garrison’s health status. Have your report in my office before the seventh hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

His gaze raked over Rhiannon with an air of carnal propriety, leaving her with an urge to scrub her skin until the memory of his touch faded. The brute nodded once more to Demetrius, then turned on his heel and strode from the garden. The medic trailed after him.

“Who is that man?” she asked Demetrius once he’d gone.

“Gaius Brennus, the fort’s quartermaster.”

“An officer?”

The healer nodded. “Lucius’s second-in-command.” His gaze narrowed. “Did he interfere with you?”

“No,” Rhiannon replied quickly. Cormac had spoken about her to the brute. That fact rankled, but she could not afford to accuse the foul-breathed officer of misconduct without knowing what sort of association he had with her brother-in-law.

“He is not Roman,” she said.

“Not a citizen, but he serves the Empire as his father did before him. He is a Gaul from Belgica, as are most of the soldiers stationed here.” He pointed to the first garden bed. “Shall we begin?”

Rhiannon spent the next few hours identifying the herbs in the hospital garden, hardly aware of the information she imparted. Her mind spun with the implications of Brennus’s acquaintance with Cormac. She’d thought the prospect of mutiny unlikely, but now doubt crept into her mind. Gaulish Celts manned Vindolanda. Perhaps, despite their allegiance to Rome, they had not forgotten their blood.





Chapter Ten


Night fell grudgingly in the northlands, coming late and creeping through the sky like a thief. Lucius rubbed one hand over his eyes as Candidus lit a lamp against the gathering gloom in the headquarters office. Aulus paced behind the secretary, the hem of his shredded toga trailing across the floor. The bruises on his face had turned a mottled purple over the white sheen of his skin. Lucius wished Rhiannon were here to banish him.

I’ll promise you tomorrow. His own words haunted him as thoroughly as Aulus did. Was Rhiannon waiting for him as night fell and the house grew still? If she was, why was Lucius dictating correspondence in the fort headquarters office in an effort to avoid her?