Celtic Fire(62)

“Yes,” he said and she colored even more.

Marcus let out a whoop. “Oh, thank you, Father. I promise Hercules won’t be any trouble.”

The cook’s eyes bulged. Something akin to a growl issued from her throat, along with a string of profanity as foul as any Lucius had heard during his entire military service. She halted abruptly when he raised his eyebrows at her. With a huff of annoyance, the woman climbed from the bench and maneuvered her bulk toward the kitchens. Her assistants trailed behind, all but cowering in the wake of her fury.

“No doubt tonight’s dinner will not be worth the effort of eating it,” Demetrius commented.

The dog’s wet nose touched Lucius’s palm. He bent and scratched its head. The beast collapsed on the ground and offered him its belly. He snorted. “Hercules? Whatever possessed you to call him that, Marcus? This overgrown rag has little hope of honoring his namesake.”

“I don’t know about that,” his son replied with a cheeky grin. He glanced toward the kitchen. “He’s already vanquished the Erymanthian Boar.”

Lucius threw back his head and laughed out loud. The cook did indeed bear more than a passing resemblance to one of the legendary hero’s larger foes. He chuckled again and then, without thinking, placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and gave an affectionate squeeze.

Marcus stiffened, but didn’t pull away. Color crept into his cheeks. Lucius removed his hand abruptly, feeling suddenly foolish. Marcus looked up at him and grinned, his dark eyes glowing with adoration. His expression was a mirror of the one Lucius had so often seen shining forth from Aulus’s face.

Suddenly it was very difficult to breathe.

“Just make sure our hero stays out of the kitchen,” he muttered. “Else we may find ourselves on barley rations.”

“Oh, I will, Father,” Marcus said fervently.

“Now then. Magister Demetrius has already returned to the library. No doubt you and Hercules should join him.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcus led his dubious companion out of the courtyard. Lucius looked about. Candidus had dispersed the remainder of the household. Even Vetus had disappeared—Lucius had caught a glimpse of the tribune retreating to his bath some moments before.

He stood alone in the garden with Rhiannon. She met his gaze, her golden eyes glowing with approval. “Thank you,” she said. “Your kindness meant so much to Marcus.”

“It’s but a dog,” Lucius replied. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I wasn’t speaking of Hercules,” she said softly.

Lucius frowned. “What then?”

“The embrace you gave your son.”

His face heated. “I didn’t stop to consider it.”

“That’s only how it should be! Did you not see how Marcus reacted to your touch?”

“Yes. He was embarrassed.”

“Less so than his father,” Rhiannon said in a teasing tone. Her lilting laughter wrapped around his heart, causing a heady lightness he hadn’t felt in what seemed like an eternity.

It was happiness, he realized.

Rhiannon turned toward the kitchen. Without thinking, Lucius put out his hand and stopped her with a touch on her arm. Once she disappeared through the doorway, Aulus would return, and he didn’t think he had the strength to bear it.

“Don’t go.”

She gestured to the ruined flower bed. “I thought to find a trowel.”

“There’s no need. One of the other women will attend to it.” His voice sounded strangely hoarse.

He stepped close enough to catch her scent. Forest mist, mysterious and eternal. Her coppery lashes swept upward. Her eyes locked with his and he searched the clear depths of her gaze, seeking refuge.

His hand still rested on her arm. He slid it to her shoulder and kneaded the muscles there, turning her and drawing her in until her breasts flattened against his breastplate. Despite the mud that spattered his armor, she leaned into him, her lips parting in a soft gasp.

He bent his head and kissed her. She tasted of fruit forbidden by the gods, so tantalizing that a man would gladly offer his life for just one morsel of it. He suckled her lower lip, drinking her sweetness. She returned his ardor, opening her mouth to his questing tongue. He plunged deep, taking what she offered and more.

A shudder passed through her body. In the next instant she turned to flame in his arms, searing him with her kisses, tangling her fingers into the hair at his nape and tugging so hard he wondered that the strands did not pull from his scalp. His rod, already hard, grew stiffer. He cupped her buttocks in his palms and pulled her hips flush against him, cursing the barrier of his war belt.

Need gripped him like a fever. In the dim recesses of his mind he heard a voice warning caution, but he gave it no heed. At that moment he no longer cared if his sanity shattered or if his soul was lost forever. He only wondered why he’d fought so hard to keep it.