Celtic Fire(8)

The strong angle of his jaw fascinated Rhiannon most.

She had never known a grown man to be beardless. Hesitantly, she lifted one finger and touched his naked skin. The bare chin conspired with the unruly curls to present an illusion of youth, yet this was no boy. A few strands of silver were visible in his dark mane. Fine wrinkles crimped the corners of his eyes.

Those eyes gleamed rich and brown, the color of stones washed by a stream, but soft, like the summer coat of an otter. Some emotion stirred deep in her breast. She caught her bottom lip with her teeth. She’d seen this man before; she was sure of it. But how? She didn’t know him. Her gaze drifted lower to the glint of metal at his chest.

Roman armor, dark with stains that looked like blood.

Terror crashed through the fog in her brain. With it came the memory of the battle. She’d followed the men, but had arrived too late to prevent Owein’s mad attack on the Roman commander. She’d aided her brother with her bow, only to have the Roman’s sword fall on her. She flung herself back, but there was no escape. One strong palm caught her shoulder, the other her stomach.

“Quies,” he said again.

She kicked and pain shot through her leg. “Filth!” she snarled in the Roman’s own tongue, glad for the first time that Madog had taught her the foul language. “Take your hands from me.” She tore at his face.

The Roman swore. Catching her wrists in his hands, he pinned them on either side of her head and shifted his torso over her. The sharp edges of his armor cut into her breast. She lay beneath him, chest heaving, caught like a mountain hare in a trap. The thought enraged her. Dear Briga, if only her arrow had pierced his neck instead of his arse! She writhed, cursing, but his hold was sure and his body as steady as an oak.

Her captor looked down at her, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. The dog dared to mock her? She gathered what moisture she could on her tongue and spat in his face.

His smile vanished into an oath to some Roman god. He hauled her wrists over her head and held them with one hand. He used the other to wipe the spittle from his cheek. His dark eyes never left her face.

“Hurry,” he said.

Rhiannon understood, but couldn’t guess his meaning. Hurry? How, when she lay trapped? Then a second man’s voice emerged from behind the Roman and she realized her captor’s command had not been meant for her.

Hands grasped her wounded leg, bringing a spike of pain so vivid that lights burst in her vision. She gasped, trying to catch enough air to breathe. The Roman barked another word and swung his head to the side.

The sudden movement sent the room spinning.



Lucius gazed at the barbarian woman’s pale face, a stark contrast to the wild flame of her hair. He’d thought her a girl, but now, as he examined his prize more closely, he saw her figure was that of a woman. A sylvan nymph, born of fire and mist.

“She’s fainted,” he said, as if Demetrius didn’t have eyes and ears of his own.

“So I see,” the old Greek replied. With professional precision, he tore the woman’s checkered tunic from waist to hem, completing the rip from the neckline Lucius had begun.

Her breasts were small and exquisite, her navel a gentle dip in the curve of her belly. Lucius’s gaze touched the coppery thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs, but didn’t linger. At the moment, the ugly gash on her leg was a much more compelling sight.

Demetrius dipped a length of linen into the basin of warm water and wine at his elbow. “Thank the gods she’s quiet at last. Now, perhaps, I can attend to my labor in peace.” He wiped the cloth over the wound, clearing the worst of the blood.

Lucius stood, his gaze probing the shadows at the corners of the chamber. Aulus hadn’t reappeared after the battle. Where in Hades had he gone? The irony of Lucius’s reaction didn’t escape him. For half a year he’d sought to banish his brother’s ghost. Now, perversely, Aulus’s absence left him wary.

He rubbed the pounding pulse in his right temple. “Will she live?” he asked, trying not to care.

The physician shrugged without looking up from his task. “She seems strong enough and the cut is not deep.” He drew apart the edges of the wound. A trickle of fresh blood stained his hands.

“Stitch it and be done, then.”

“The wound must be cleared of debris, else it will corrupt. As well you know.” Demetrius’s grizzled eyebrows arched above his hawklike nose as he probed the gash with his fingers.

More blood oozed, streaking over the nymph’s pale skin like veins through marble. Lucius was no stranger to battle injuries, but to see such a wound on a woman …

He looked away.