Authors: Morgan O'Neill
Love, Eternally
| Love, Eternally |
| Roman Time Travel [1] |
| Morgan O'Neill |
| Crimson Romance (2012) |
A witch's ancient curse propels talented flutist Gigi Perrin back to A.D. 408, to the court of the depraved Roman Emperor Honorius and his admirable sister, Princess Galla Placidia. There, Gigi grapples with her disbelief about what has happened, and with the strange, new world of violent politics, social upheaval, and Visigoth barbarians straining at the very gates of an empire.
Through it all, she must struggle with her powerful attraction to a pagan senator and military commander, Quintus Magnus, a man exotically different from anyone she has ever known. On the brink of a dark and war-torn age, Gigi joins forces with Magnus, battling to save a princess and her people, and ultimately finding love amid the chaos, before the fall of Rome.
"Sensuality Level: Sensual"
Morgan O'Neill: Two authors writing as one, Cary Morgan Frates and Deborah O'Neill Cordes invite the reader on a journey to worlds of ancient splendor and abiding love.
Book One of the Roman Time Travel Series
Morgan O’Neill
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2012 by Cary Morgan Frates and Deborah O’Neill Cordes
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5152-9
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5152-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5132-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5132-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com/© gekaskr, Elnur Amikishiyev, istockphoto.com/© Jeff Chiasson
To my family, for those who are gone, and those who remain.
Cary Morgan Frates
For my husband, with love and thanks.
Deborah O’Neill Cordes
Be glad of life because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play
And to look up at the stars.
— Henry Van Dyke, 1852–1933
Prologue
Easter Sunday,
A.D.
402, Pollentia, Italy
For the first time in his life, he knew fear before battle.
Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus fought his demons and searched the distance. The Visigoths waited there, with their foul witch.
She rode a white horse at the helm of the barbarian forces, weaving back and forth, exhorting her troops to victory. Clad in a snow-white gown. Silver shield, blinding in the sun. A vision of purity, idolized by her people — yet black of heart, to any Roman.
Randegund, the Witch of Rocesthes, drew rein and pointed skyward. Her king, Alaric, fell back with his men. Her pale-blond hair lifted, snaking the wind. The air hushed, but her hair continued to writhe, and men on both sides gaped, still as stone. The omen of evil was not lost on him, but Magnus saw past the conjurer’s cheap trick.
Medusa be damned!
He raised his sword.
“Nemesis, dark-faced Goddess of Justice, hear me now,” she cried out. “Winged Avenger, Bringer of Doom, may you damn the Roman filth to the deepest realm of Hades!”
The air suddenly whirled black. Thick, acrid smoke from nowhere. A bedlam of men swearing, horses screaming. Magnus swiped at his burning eyes. Coughing, he spotted the witch riding forward, the smoke parting before her, as if swept aside by ungodly breath. The Visigoths followed her in a wedge formation, banging their swords and spears on their shields.
Her eyes glinted ice blue, beckoning a nameless fear.
She must be stopped!
“Soldiers of Rome, unleash hell!” Magnus rode into battle at full gallop, his men following in his wake, shouting their fury. He swung his sword, slashing through a sea of bearded faces. Howls of pain. Grunts. Shrieks. Enemy blood sprayed everywhere and he spit against the vile tang. His warhorse battled, too, trampling men. The Visigoth line broke. Magnus heard wailing and the crunch of bones.
Smoke still whirled, choking him, but he could see banners denoting Alaric’s position. The witch was close, too, so close. Magnus bellowed, his dread abandoned, the rush of anticipation spurring him on.
“Magnus, beware!”
He paid no heed. Visigoths surged in and he cut them down. With each stroke, red sparks leapt from his garnet ring, which bore the likeness of the Goddess of Victory, his patron goddess. With Victoria as his shield, he hacked his way toward his target. Good against evil, goddess against witch.
Driving his horse forward, Magnus pierced the enemy flank. His men followed, attacking in every direction. Ahead, he could see Alaric. The king shouted something to his soldiers, but the furor of battle buried his words.
“Death — death to the enemy!” A roar went up around him, and Magnus drove his mount even harder. “Victoria strengthens this arm — ”
Suddenly, Magnus and his men were surrounded by the enemy, as though ...
He glanced about, searching for Stilicho, but his general’s colors were lost in the chaos. A scream snapped Magnus back, and the Visigoths surged as one toward him, the glint of the sun off their curved throw-swords blinding. A second enemy line tightened behind, like teeth closing on a morsel of food. He and his men were cut off. The Pincer! He knew the tactic by heart, had done it himself many times. Barbarians fell on them from all sides, launching their throw-swords. Screams erupted as the weapons hit Roman flesh and bone. The Visigoths knew they held victory in their hands; Magnus could read it plainly in their eyes.
“Fight, men — ”
Pain exploded in Magnus’s head, and he fell into the wailing darkness.
• • •
Magnus squinted, attempting to make sense of where he was, but the sun blinded him. He needed to block the glare, but could not make his arm obey. The stench of fresh blood, of spilt entrails, the horrible cries of the wounded surrounded him. In agony, he shut his eyes and cursed, realizing he lay back to back atop a dying man crying out for his mother.
Flies swarmed over his face.
O, ye Gods!
Such an ignoble end for one thought great, fawned over by his emperor. How he wished a mighty blow had provided him a glorious end, instead of leaving his body limp, unable to fend off the plague of flies.
He passed in and out of consciousness, the man beneath him finally still. Horrible screeches brought him fully awake. Vultures soared overhead, raging at the people below. Visigoth women pulled valuables off bodies as their men killed the wounded.
Cursed scavengers.
He struggled against the deadness in his limbs. “I command this legion,” he croaked through parched lips. “Emperor Honorius will pay for our ransom. Do not kill my men!”
Faces loomed over Magnus, blessedly blocking the sun. Rough hands seized him, and blood seeped into his eyes as he was slung over a pack mule. He blinked to clear his sight. His arms hung limp, and his gaze traveled their bloody length, wondering where he had been wounded. Magnus had seen men in this condition before. They rarely lived long enough to see the dawn, but an unfortunate few survived, trapped within lifeless bodies. Would this be his fate?
Mighty Victoria, have mercy upon me. Take me now.
As his captors led the mule away, he looked at the battlefield. Another knife thrust, another Roman killed.
“No, spare my men!”
Helpless, Magnus averted his gaze and saw his lifeless hands, not wishing to look upon the truth of his vanity any longer. He sucked in his breath. His right forefinger was bare! He desperately scanned the ground for his ring, but all he saw was a muddy mix of gore and corpses.
His most treasured possession, the touchstone of his fate. Gone. He closed his eyes, sick with grief. He’d received both the ring and his honorific name, Magnus, from the last emperor, Theodosius, after victory at the Battle of the River Frigidus. He was so proud of that ring, and now it was lost. Victoria had indeed withdrawn her favor.
Blinded by shame, Magnus hung his head. If he did survive, if he were ransomed back to Rome, he was finished. He imagined the sneer on Honorius’s face, then looked up to see King Alaric astride his horse, grinning ear to ear.
The Witch of Rocesthes moved her horse forward. Magnus glared into her formidable blue eyes. “Kill me and be done with it.”
She shook her head, her lips thinly drawn in bitterness, the smile as cold as her eyes. “That would be a mercy, and you shall have none from me. Fortune has abandoned you, Roman.”
His vision blurred red and he struggled to move, wanting to rip out her throat, but he could do nothing.
Chapter 1
Present Day, Italy
She looks at the world through bitch-colored glasses.
Gigi Perrin put the newspaper down.
Bitch?
She hated the word, even as she admitted grudging admiration for the music critic’s nimble play on words. Cheap shot, though. Funny thing, the guy had been really pleasant during the interview. So, why had he blindsided her, claiming she was self-absorbed, caring little for the world beyond her music?
Drumming her fingers on the armrest, Gigi pressed her forehead against the window of the private jet and stared out at the clouds.
Okay, okay, one miserable review out of a hundred. Stuff happens.
As the pilot began his descent, she caught glimpses of the Apennines poking through thinning clouds. Undoing her ponytail, Gigi let her strawberry blond curls fall loose on her shoulders, then took the last sip of her mimosa. Welcoming the slight buzz, she gave the empty glass to the flight attendant.
A glimmer drew Gigi’s eye. The yellow diamond gracing her right hand caught the light. It was the first big purchase she’d made with her money, a “way to go, girl” gift. She glanced at her empty left hand and shook her head. She wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.
But what about Yves? Gigi sighed. Handsome, a lifelong sailor. They’d met a few months earlier in Marseille, and he was such an improvement over her previous dating disasters. Since she’d been discovered at the Festival d’Avignon and her debut album had skyrocketed to number one, famous men weren’t exactly breaking down her door for dates, and normal guys were either petrified by her celebrity or tried to take advantage of her. Yves, however, was utterly unaffected by anything to do with fame or money. Nice, sweet, fun to be with. Then again, she couldn’t imagine him as anything more than a boyfriend.
Gigi knew she should be on top of the world, but something was missing, and it wasn’t a man. Despite her success, she didn’t know where her life was headed, and she worried the bad review hit closer to home than she wanted to accept. She needed to inspire people, not just entertain them, but wasn’t sure how.
She looked out the window at Forli Airport. When the plane’s wheels touched down, she picked up her flute case and purse and slung both straps over her shoulder. As the jet came to a stop, a black, full-sized Mercedes sedan eased alongside.