Bryna would have followed suit, but Flavian stopped her with a raised hand. “I would speak with you.”
She froze, all of her senses instantly sharpened, wary, watchful.
Cuini
jumped to the floor and hissed at Flavian before disappearing behind the oven. Bryna braced herself. He was a Roman, she a barbarian—a slave.
Flavian seemed to sense her distress and assumed a more casual stance, bracing a hand on Esther’s worktable. “You know who I am?”
Bryna nodded slowly. “You are Jared’s father.”
Surprise flitted across his features. “So, he uses the name my Shifra gave him?” He smiled, but it was a smile laced with sadness. Sadness as deep as Jared’s. “Yes, I am Jared’s father, although when he lived in my house, we called him Lucien. I am Antonius Septimus Flavian. I would like it very much if you called me Flavian.”
“Your pardon, sir, but I am not use to calling a Roman anything but Master.” Bryna bit her lip, uncertain how to proceed.
Flavian nodded appreciatively. “You speak with honesty. That is good. Lucien,” he paused. “I mean Jared, has told me of the circumstances of your journey.”
Fear pricked at her, but she kept her gaze fixed on his, determined not to let it overwhelm her. “Then you know that I am a slave?”
“As is Jared.”
Apprehension gripped her. “But he is your son. Surely that would protect him from the authorities?”
“Sadly, no. In the eyes of Roman law, Jared is still a slave, legally bought, the property of his master.”
“He is a Roman citizen. Does that not safeguard his life?” She tried but couldn’t control the anxiety in her voice. As a barbarian, she had expected nothing from Rome, but she had taken comfort that Jared would be safe.
“I’m afraid not.” The lines around Flavian’s eyes deepened. He sighed and rubbed his hands together. “Many years ago my influence could have assured his safety. That was before I married a Hebrew woman.” He glanced up at her, his tawny eyes every bit as penetrating as his son’s. “He tells me you and he are married.”
She lifted her chin a notch. “Only as a ruse to avoid capture, but he insists it is binding since a priest of the Hebrews performed the rite. Surely you would protest your fine Roman son wedding a heathen?”
Flavian smiled ruefully. “At one time in my life I would have been appalled.” His gaze shifted out to the garden before returning to her. “Then you meet the one who is your destiny, the other half that makes you whole. The Greeks call them soul mates. And you know it makes no difference their origins.”
She wanted to point out that Jared held no tender feelings for her, but held her tongue. Her own safety might well rely on this Roman’s good wishes.
Flavian blinked, looked at her sheepishly. “Well, I only came to meet my new daughter-in-law, to welcome you to my home, to Lucien’s home.” He paused, looked over at her. “Lucien has been lost for a long time. He holds resentment and guilt close to his heart. Too close, perhaps, to see past it, to the possibilities of the future. I don’t want him to make the same mistakes I did.”
With that Flavian inclined his head in her direction and left Bryna wondering how two men could be so alike.
***
Bryna let out a huff of exasperation and swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was useless. She could not sleep and blamed Jared and his whole Roman world for it.
Flavian’s visit kept playing over and over in her head. The man was a patrician through and through, and there was every reason not to trust him. He could be lying about Jared’s being in danger despite his citizenship. After all, what good was it to a Roman if the law did not favor you? But underlying Flavian’s natural authority she had perceived the same intense desolation that plagued Jared.
She wound a woolen shawl tight around her shoulders in a futile effort to stop the chill that gripped her. Flavian’s implication that she could somehow impact his son’s cold heart was beyond belief. Her
husband
had not even shown himself at dinner, leaving her anxious and alone to face his father and the household. She was nothing more to him than a barbarian, a means to find the persons who had done him injury. And that hurt more than she wanted to admit. A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Mistress?” an anxious voice called through the door.
Bryna glanced warily at the portal.
“Mistress, it is Dionysius. Please, I need your help.”
Flavian’s doorkeeper needed her help?
“Please, Mistress. It is Master Lucien.”
A nervous skitter ran down her spine. She hurried to the door, lifted the latch. The little elderly man stood in the hall wringing his hands, his clouded eyes filled with anxiety.
She scanned the hallway before meeting his gaze. “What is this about Jared?”
Dionysius’ voice quivered. “Please come. Master Lucien needs help.”
Bryna’s heart clenched. “Then call his father.”
Dionysius shook his head. “No, Master Lucien would not want his father to see. Please come.”
Fear and worry won out over annoyance. “Take me to him.”
She followed Dionysius down the hallway, the feeble light from the servant’s lamp doing little to dispel the darkness or the growing unease knotting her stomach. He led the way into the kitchen, holding a gnarled finger to his lips as they eased around two sleeping servants then continued out into the courtyard. Having learned the lesson of treachery, she planted her feet at the beginning of the path and refused to move. “I will not go another step until you explain what this is about.”
Dionysius hobbled back, took her by the hand, clearly irritated. “Now, Mistress. The master hasn’t much time.”
Hadn’t much time for what? Pushing aside her doubts, she followed the servant to the rear of the garden.
Dionysius came to a stop next to a semi-circle of flowering shrubs. He bent over slightly, catching his breath. Bryna glanced around. “There is nothing here.”
Between wheezes, Dionysius pointed to a stone bench partially hidden along the wall. Bryna took the lamp from him and thrust it into the shadows.
***
Jared squinted against the flickering light, cursing as the wavering image of Bryna frowned down at him. What use was it to spend four hours enjoying his father’s vast store of wine and beer trying to forget the little barbarian witch only to be plagued with her apparition? Damn, even drunk he couldn’t escape the spirit, the fire in those ungodly beautiful emerald eyes.
“You’ve been drinking,” said the apparition in an accented voice that made him go hard despite his inebriation.
“Very astute observation,” he slurred. Shifting to relieve the pressure in his groin, he slipped off the edge of the bench, scraping his arm across the rough stone before landing with a thump onto his ass.
“Serves you right,” she said, resting her hands on her hips. Those wonderfully round, full hips attached to wonderfully shaped legs that he wanted to wind round his waist. Except that she would never deign to give herself to a
Roman
.
“Please, Mistress, we must get him inside before the household awakens. Before Master Flavian awakens,” Dionysius pleaded. “I cannot do it alone.”
“Don’t need help. Can do it myself,” he told them, “Wouldn’t want my father to be disappointed in his son.” Ignoring the dull throb between his eyes, and the ache in his chest, Jared concentrated and managed to stand up. The garden whirled by in a blur.
A slender arm slipped beneath his shoulder, steadied him. He laid his cheek against the top of Bryna’s head. Her hair was like silk against the roughness of his unshaven jaw. She smelled like flowers just opened in the dew of the morning. The tightness in his groin worsened.
“You are the most beautiful barbarian I’ve ever known.”
“I am the only barbarian you’ve ever known,” she retorted dryly.
He grinned and leaned heavily on her shoulder, nearly toppling them both with his larger bulk. She managed to hold onto his waist, guiding them toward the bedchambers while a fuzzy Dionysius scurried ahead of them, lighting the way.
He tried to walk straight, but judging from the muted curses and frustrated groans that penetrated the fog he was in, he would wager he wasn’t being too successful. He had intended to drink only a bit, enough to ease the pain of seeing his father. But then, prompted by the wine, his thoughts had jumped to the exasperating, challenging, absolutely intriguing enigma of Bryna. That’s when he’d lost count of the number of
amphorae
he’d drained.
“Someone is coming,” hissed Dionysius. “Quick, in here.”
“But that is my bedchamber,” protested Bryna. She pushed Jared against the wall, one small hand splayed against his chest in an effort to keep him from crumbling to the floor.
“Mistress, please.”
Bryna sliced Jared with a lethal look that caused laughter to bubble in his throat, but he wasn’t so out of his head as to give voice to it. Grabbing a handful of his tunic, she pulled him through the door. Jared staggered to the bed in the center of the room and fell face down on it.
“Good night to you Mistress,” said Dionysus bobbing his head and ducking out the doorway.
Bryna pressed her forehead against the closed door. Of all the things she had come to expect from Jared, losing control through inebriation hadn’t been one of them. She’d allow that, after their conversation about his relationship with his father, emotions could get the best of a man. But she’d not tolerate the habit, nor lose sleep because of it.
Turning, she found him sprawled across her bed. Shaking her head, she walked slowly to the bed, sat beside him on the pallet. She straightened his tunic, her hand lingering on the warm flesh of his muscled thigh. There was no denying the strength of the man. A warrior’s strength, body, mind and spirit. But there was such loneliness in this man.
A loud, sonorous breath escaped him and he mumbled something in his Hebrew tongue that she could not understand. She sighed, reached over to sweep a lock of midnight hair from his forehead. “Is this your legacy Jared? To lose yourself in oblivion lest you feel the hurt?”
He stirred restlessly, rolled onto his side, flopped a rock hard arm across her lap. She circled his wrist to remove his arm. Instead, he splayed his hand over her ribcage, began to knead her side.
Bryna sucked in her breath as warm swirls of pleasure spiraled their way through her core. His eyes still closed, Jared brought his other arm up, pulling her down until she lay stretched on top of him.
She pushed against the wide expanse of chest, but he held her pinned with his arms. She breathed in the scent of him and shivered when he nibbled at her ear. Soul deep need warred with the same unrelenting pride that always caused her trouble. She wanted him to need her as she needed him.
The thought stunned her. She did want him, wanted to feel him inside her, wanted to feel their souls touch. But not like this. Not when he had no idea what he was about and would most likely regret it in the morning.
“You are drunk, Roman.” Her voice quavered as his lips, sweet with wine, found hers, sucking softly on her bottom lip, taking small tastes before taking full possession. Bryna fell into the kiss, cupped his face. But common sense pricked at her conscience. Summoning every bit of willpower she still possessed, she broke away. “Jared, you do not want to do this.”
“Oh, but I do, my sweet barbarian.” Moonlight danced through the window, reflected the dark desire in Jared’s slitted gaze. It registered, then that his words were not nearly as slurred as they had been.
Grasping her arms, he raised her up so that she sat, straddling his hips. Beneath her, she could feel the tight, hard length of him. He slipped his hands beneath the sleeves of her dress stripping them from her arms, baring her to the waist.
There was no time to think as the callused tips of his hand brushed against her nipples. Bryna sucked in a breath as they grew taut beneath his touch. Jared drew her to him, captured one rosy tip in the heat of his mouth. She arched against his onslaught, dug her fingers into his arms. In one smooth motion, he rolled her onto her back.
“We both want things, Bryna.” He dipped his head, trailing searing kisses along the ridges of her sides. “Retribution. . . freedom. . .” He lifted the skirt of her gown. “...justice. He dipped his head, laved the tender bud buried in the curls of her woman’s folds.
Gods! He was doing wonderful things with his tongue. Heat and power surged through her, her belly contracted, her thoughts scattered. She couldn’t think, did not want to think, wanted only to feel. She wanted only him.
With deft movements uncharacteristic of a drunken man, he peeled away his tunic.
In the dim light, she soaked in the sight of him, the sleek plane of torso, arms and legs all corded muscle. Her gaze drifted slowly to the sharp angle of his jaw, past those rich, full lips, the straight nose to those incredible tawny eyes, pupils dilated with need.
“What do you want, Bryna?” he whispered hoarsely.
Her breath caught in her throat. Only a few months ago she wanted nothing more than to gain her freedom, find Bran and return to Eire. But now, now her heart demanded more.
“You,” she answered smoothing her hand down the crisp hair arrowing along the flat plane of his abdomen. “I want you.”
Hot passion swept over his features. In one smooth motion, he slid her dress from beneath her then with one hand, released the tie that held his loincloth. A dry gasp raked her throat at the evidence of his need. She was already hot and wet for him.
Jared claimed her mouth again, plunged into the soft moistness with his tongue at the same time he slid into her welcoming sheath.
Bryna sucked in a breath at the sweet sensation of his filling presence. Gods, he fit perfectly, as if they had been made for each other. She held onto his shoulders, drew him to her, desperate to be closer.
Jared started to move within her. Slow, too slow. Against her lips she felt his smile at her groan of protest. In answer, she raked her nails across the slick skin of his back, took her own pleasure at his growl. He broke their kiss and in the reflection of the lamplight, his eyes glowed like molten gold as he caught and held her gaze.