Celtic Fire(71)

Aulus swayed from side to side, his ethereal body trembling, whispers of perspiration glistening on his brow. His eyes, almost black now, locked with Lucius’s as he shook his head. One trembling hand raised and pointed north.

Lucius looked toward the hills, then back at the grave, a dread suspicion forming in his gut.

“What are you telling me, brother?”



Dear Briga, what am I to do?

Rhiannon stood at the kitchen worktable, kneading dough. Or, more accurately, pounding it. She would have much preferred working in the courtyard garden, but heavy rains forbade that activity. Marcus, accompanied by Hercules, had plodded into the library after Demetrius had ignored the lad’s complaints of a headache. Not wanting to remain alone and idle above stairs, Rhiannon had offered her services in the kitchen.

Claudia, the cook, was by now recovered from the trauma of Hercules’s attentions. She hovered at the stove, fleshy arms bared, preparing pastries for the ovens. Alara sat on a stool by the door, cleaning peas. Bronwyn, like Rhiannon, stood at the worktable, kneading.

Rhiannon squeezed the soft wheat dough, so unlike the coarse barley mixture she was accustomed to preparing for Owein and Edmyg. As she worked, her mind wandered, seeking out dark memories of Lucius’s mouth and tongue on her body. The man had been shameless, licking her skin, tasting her everywhere. When he’d dipped his head between her thighs, she’d cried out so loudly it was a wonder the entire household hadn’t come running.

Heat rose at the thought, spreading up Rhiannon’s neck and into her cheeks. She bent her head and worked the dough harder, praying Bronwyn wouldn’t notice.

He’d taken her thrice last night and already she wanted more. What had come over her? She’d never before felt such a yearning to be with a man. Her muscles ached with the exertion of loving in ways she’d never dreamed were possible. Niall had always sank atop her, rutting swiftly, then rolling to the side. Lucius’s teasing voice and clever hands had stretched the night into eternity.

Now, when she walked, the soft skin on her inner thigh stung from the scrape of his morning beard. Each time she thrust the dough against the table, the sensitized peaks of her nipples brushed the fabric of her tunic, reminding her of her lover’s touch. The mere thought of Lucius’s heated gaze kindled an answering fire low in her belly. Her thighs grew damp, her breathing shallow, and she cursed herself as the worst of fools.

She lusted after a Roman. How could the daughter of queens have sunk so low?

But dear Briga, how he’d watched her! His eyes had glittered in the light of the hand lamps he’d placed around the bed. She’d been embarrassed, then aroused by his scrutiny. Then he’d touched her and she’d seen her own pleasure reflected on his face.

That a lover could take such satisfaction in a partner’s bliss was a new concept for Rhiannon. She’d come to understand it quickly enough, though, when she’d moved to stroke Lucius’s warrior’s body in ways she never before dreamed of touching a man. She’d felt his response in her heart. It was as if they inhabited one skin, shared one soul. A fanciful notion, but one Rhiannon couldn’t seem to shake.

Was this love?

Rhiannon punched the dough with the heel of her hand and folded the flattened mound in half with a vengeful twist. How had her situation become such a tangled mess? She could not love Lucius. She couldn’t love his harsh self-discipline and the glory she’d found when he’d lost it. She couldn’t love his crooked smile and the way laughter leaped to his eyes an instant before his lips curved. She couldn’t revel in the feel of his clean-shaven jaw, his unruly dark curls, the sinew and muscle that roped his shoulders and chest, his hands …

Dear Briga. She had to escape.

The door to the alley opened. Cormac waddled into the room, a sack of wheat from the fort granaries slung over his shoulder. He upended his burden into the bin near the oven, then surreptitiously swiped his finger through a bowl of cream at Claudia’s elbow. The cook pivoted as fast as her girth allowed, wooden spoon raised. The dwarf raised a brow and sucked suggestively on his finger. Claudia blushed crimson and giggled.

Rhiannon eyed her brother-in-law with amazement. Was here no woman in the house, save herself, that Cormac hadn’t taken?

He dipped his finger in the bowl a second time and lapped the froth with the tip of his tongue. This time the spoon did fall, on his head, but the blow was a mere tap.

“Take yourself away,” Claudia said, “or dinner won’t arrive at table this eve.”

Cormac flashed her a grin and sauntered to the worktable. “I’ve plover eggs from the village to bring in,” he said to Rhiannon. “I’m worrying they’ll be crushed if I lift them from the cart. Come help me, lass.”