Marcus. Did he live?
She could just make out his motionless form nestled on the bed at his father’s side, but from her vantage point on the floor she couldn’t tell if he breathed or not. Lucius lay stretched on his back, his arms flung over his head. Sleep softened the hard angles of his face, giving Rhiannon a glimpse of how he might have looked as a youth.
She flung aside her hasty pallet of blankets and forced herself to her feet. Dreading what she might find, she inched toward the bed, steeling herself for the worst. Halting by Marcus’s side, she looked down at the lad.
Her heart slammed into her chest. The lad slept. Not the fitful rest of the last days, but a deep, natural slumber. The heat and flush of his skin had receded and his breathing had eased. Rhiannon gripped the bed frame in a dizzying flood of relief.
Marcus would live.
At least until Edmyg laid siege to the fort.
The summer moon was but one night away. Rhiannon harbored no illusions that any Roman, no matter how young, would be spared her kinsmen’s vengeance. And whether she watched the Celt warriors approach or stood behind their battle surge, she could only be a part of the losing side. There would be no winners in this war unless she could stop the fight entirely.
Could she escape Vindolanda a third time? She turned to the window as if she would find the answer somewhere in the lane below or the hills beyond the perimeter walls. She’d thrown open the shutters during the night, hoping to relieve the stench of the sickroom despite Demetrius’s disapproval. Now she saw that the glow of dawn lay low on the horizon. The day would be clear. If only her heart were as well.
“My son lives. Thanks to you.”
She spun around. Lucius had eased himself to a sitting position in the bed, his son nestled close to him. The sight of them together filled her heart to bursting.
The dark stubble on Lucius’s chin gave him the look of some wild Roman god. His face was haggard, but his eyes spoke gentle whispers, dark and warm like a summer night. Truly, he was a king among men—strong and proud, with a heart that loved deeply and true.
She turned away.
A soft, bitter laugh reached her ears. “I deserve your disgust after my conduct in the forest, I am quite sure of that.”
“No,” she said, her voice breaking. “I could never hate you, Lucius.”
She heard him rise, heard the sound of Marcus being shifted from his arms. She turned to see Lucius drawing a blanket over his son. Bending low, he placed a kiss on the lad’s forehead.
He approached her slowly as if he thought she would bolt if he dared to get too close. “You have every right to despise me, yet you repay my harsh treatment by trading your freedom for my son’s life.”
“I love the lad,” she said simply.
Lucius’s eyes glittered like dark, brittle stars. “I envy him that. I would give much to hear you say the same of me.”
An ache rose in Rhiannon’s breast. She would give anything to say those words, but she dared not. Once said, there would be no going back to her people. No going back to Owein.
Lucius touched his finger to her chin and lifted it. There was heat in his gaze now, fused with another, deeper emotion. One that frightened her even more than his anger had done on the day he’d prevented her escape. She blinked, trying to quell the rise of her emotions before they caused her heart to break.
She caught his wrist. “I’m not what you think, Lucius.”
“Do you know what I’m thinking?” He took her hand in his and turned it over, tracing circles on her palm with the tip of his forefinger. “Surely you do not. If you could look into my mind at this moment, you would not be standing so calmly before me.”
She trembled as sweet sparks shot from his touch directly to her loins. Her tears began in earnest, streaming down her cheeks. Lucius bent his head and caught one on his tongue. “Why do you weep, my nymph?” He pulled back and looked into her eyes, his hands steady and warm on her shoulders.
She knew she should turn away. Knew she should step back and shatter the intimacy of his touch. But when she searched his gaze and read a note of uncertainty there, her limbs went weak. She could no more turn away from him than water could refuse to rush over the falls.
Slowly, she moved her palms up his torso, over the taut muscles of his stomach and the sleek strength of his chest. She explored the breadth of his shoulders. He stood motionless, neither inviting nor rejecting her advances. She stroked the column of his throat, finding the steady pulse there. Then she entwined her arms about his neck and pressed her body into his comforting heat.
Only then did he dip his head. His mouth took hers in a sweet, almost chaste kiss. His second kiss delved only a fraction deeper. He lingered on her lips, coaxing, teasing, for endless aching moments.