Without Love: Love and Warfare series book 4

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  The sensations enveloped her, and she could hear their voices, the voice of every man who’d ever touched her. Coarse words, rough words, seductive words spoken in the heat of desire as the men used her only to walk away afterward. She clenched her fingers until her knuckles whitened.

  Wryn met her gaze, a puzzled look in his eyes as if he worked on solving a riddle. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  She gulped. She glanced over the crowd of people, all waiting. The voices rose louder in her head, shutting out the people with the darkness of infamia. Through the haze of dark nights at taverns and the stench of soiled bedding, she made out Wryn’s face.

  He waited.

  “You do it.” The long gone taste of grease and sweat choked her.

  Wryn looked at her clenched hands. A low groan slid through his teeth. Then, he moved his gaze to her face and smiled at her. “No, I’ll wait until you want it too.” Arm still around her, Wryn looked back at the elder.

  Stillness hovered over the broad courtyard. The crowd cast curious glances at Wryn. The elder arched one eyebrow.

  Libya dropped her voice. “I’m sorry. I’ll kiss you now.” Summer blossoms surrounded them, yet she smelled the stench of tavern ale and sour sheets. She reached for Wryn.

  “You don’t want to.” Wryn held tightly to her hand.

  Why did he have to be the kind that wanted her to ask for his touch, revel in his embraces, beg for more — like Victor? The memories wouldn’t torture her half as long if she only got this over with swiftly. She slid her hand around his neck.

  Wryn stopped her, voice a whisper. “I’ll wait until you want it too.”

  Wait until then? Ha. If there even was a then. “No need.” The crowd still stared at them. Her skin burned with the sensations from years gone by. If she could get the kiss over with, the memories would subside, like last night. She reached for his kiss.

  He shook his head. “Until you want to.”

  She should have kissed him when he asked, by Jove. “You’ll never know the difference.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Splendid, now he not only wanted her to fake enjoyment, but seduce him into believing her words before he ended the torture of these memories by getting the kiss over with? Even Victor hadn’t expected that good acting. She respected Wryn, which made her hate the deceit so much more.

  The elder pronounced them joined together. The crowd erupted in cheers, filling the space with noise, yet even their shouts didn’t overpower the sensations crawling through her.

  “What do you feel when I touch you?” Wryn traced his finger down her cheek.

  The pawing hands of so many, many men. “Please don’t make me lie to you.” She could act a lie if she didn’t have to say it.

  “I don’t want lies. I want the truth.”

  She opened her mouth to beg for his kisses.

  “Truth, Libya. It’s a sin to lie.”

  Truth? Her sandals rooted to the grass. “The truth is I love you, and it’s not your fault. It’s like this every time.” She bit her lip, perhaps this was a bit more truth than he could handle. He had adopted her son.

  “It won’t be with me because I’m going to wait.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. I’ve been infamia for ten years. That doesn’t disappear in an hour, or a day, or a month.” Or ten years. A single tear formed in her eye. She blinked it away. “I promise, after this conversation, you’ll never know the difference.” She could still taste grease, feel the sticky heat of a bed soiled fifty times in a night, hear the voices. Forcing a laugh, she slid her hand up his arm.

  “I’ll have you know, my wife,” Wryn parted his mouth in the strangest of smiles, “that my familia have been Stoics for the past three hundred years. You have not yet scratched the surface of Paterculi persistence.”

  She stared at him. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  She searched his gaze. The smell of taverns faded. She could see the blossoming trees, hear the festive noise of feasting wedding-goers, see Wryn’s calm breathing move his chest in and out. Her mouth gaped.

  He touched her waist. A warm feeling surrounded her. He pulled her closer to him. Her, her mind, her soul, her thoughts, not just the part of her that every other man had wanted. He wanted her. She leaned her head against his shoulder. Peace swept over her. “I love you.”

  His tunic scraped her cheek as he circled his arm tightly around her waist. “Love’s too weak a word. I want a new word to describe the way I feel about you, Libya Paterculi.”

  EPILOGUE

  Three Months Later

  Libya looked over the silver and gold sprinkled liberally across the room. Silks and fine leather filled the candlelit space. Only a small dinner party, but the first she received an invitation to.

  Women swiveled condemning glances toward her, gossiping voices rising all too loudly. Libya’s chiton slipped around her shoulders. She tugged at the sleeve. Legally, she couldn’t wear the marriage stola, the mark of a respectable woman.

  Wryn stood across the room in conversation with his father and his twin brother, who was passing through Rome on his way to Britannia.

  Likely she only received this invitation because Consul Aquilus Paterculi had arrived in town from Egypt. When a consul said he wished his entire familia invited, hosts didn’t refuse.

  The host’s wife, Hermina, Gwen had called the woman, stood a pace to the right. The woman sniffed. “Felix Paterculi isn’t old enough to have a concubine. Should have married and had heirs first.”

  “A woman of infamia too. Imagine.” A pink-clad woman rolled her eyes.

  “They don’t like me much either.” Wryn’s brother’s wife, Cara, nudged her shoulder. The woman’s linen stola draped around her body, her brown hair pinned tidily around her warm face.

  Libya blinked. “Why?”

  “I’m a plebeian. Didn’t you hear the slur that woman just made about blacksmiths’ daughters?” Cara nodded to an angular woman. “The decorations are beautiful, though, aren’t they? I think that tapestry came from the Orient.” She pointed to a vibrant red cloth decorated with camels.

  “They’ve always hated me.” A new voice spoke. Wryn’s mother, Ness, stepped between them, her hair as gold as the decorations at this dinner, her eyes blue as mountain lakes.

  Libya cocked her head. “You’re the matron of the Paterculi family, married to a consul.”

  “I’m a Celt, a barbarian to them.” Ness parted her lips in that same wry grin that she’d seen shine on Wryn’s face many a time. “The consul part only makes Roman women more convinced I’m unworthy of my husband.”

  Cara moved her brown-eyed gaze to her mother-by-marriage. A single tear shone in Cara’s eyes. “Does it bother you less as the years go by? I don’t notice it so much in Britannia, but the last six-month in Greece, everywhere we went Eric received askance glances because of me. I wish I could have brought him the prestige of patricians instead of censure.”

  “My dear, the day askance glances bother my son, men will fly like eagles. You should have seen Eric as a lad. I wished my askance glances would have done aught to temper his impetuousness.” Ness patted Cara’s shoulder as her gaze circled the room of gossiping women and stiff-necked men. “I have a glorious idea.” She grabbed Libya’s and Cara’s hands.

  With the air of a conspirator, Ness ducked through a curtain into a small room. “Who would like to turn the tables on these dinner guests? Embarrass them for once?”

  Cara gasped.

  “There’s not a single politically prestigious person on the guest list tonight. I checked first.” Laughter danced in Ness’ eyes.

  “Likely why I was invited.” Libya pushed a tendril of hair back into her bound hairstyle.

  “All we’ll do is start gossip, not ruin anyone’s political post,” Ness said.

  Doubt played on Cara’s face.

  In the main room, Gwen moved from one patrician knot to another, at home with grea
t ladies as the Paterculi daughter though they despised her Celtic mother.

  Libya smiled. Though she’d always be an outcast at events like this, one day Rome would accept her children that same way, accept Horus, accept others yet to be.

  “We need you, Gwen.” Ness beckoned her.

  Gwen entered through the parted curtain with a swish of silk skirts.

  An impish smile played across Ness’ face as she explained the plan. Gwen laughed, the same spark in her black eyes that illuminated Ness’ blue ones.

  Cara toyed with the hem of her sleeve. “I don’t know that we should.”

  “Oh, Cara, you know Eric will enjoy the jest immensely.” Gwen smiled. “He’ll relish the look on Wryn’s face too.”

  Pink blushed up Cara’s cheeks. “The host’s wife did call me a profligate plebe.”

  Gwen glowered in Hermina’s direction.

  “What about you, Libya?” Ness pushed a strand of fallen hair behind her light ear. “I fear I can grant you no assurances that Wryn will see the entertaining value.”

  Gwen groaned. “Wryn’s going to lose his wits, even more than Father.”

  Libya flicked her gaze to Wryn’s face, so serious now, yet she’d seen that strong jaw part in room-lighting smiles. She laughed. “Ecce, then we truly must do this.”

  “I’m ready.” Ness gestured to the milling dinner guests. “Now, you three must give me askance glances and embellish the tale.”

  “Marcellus will help me spread the rumor. He’s very good at that sort of thing.” Gwen slid through the curtain. Turning back, her gaze connected with her mother. Her kohl-tinted eyes radiated laughter. “We should have done this years ago.”

  Libya watched as the Paterculi women spread through the room. Ness looked like some druid priestess as she moved, her Celtic hair contrasting with her blue stola. Gwen grabbed Marcellus’ arm, her mouth moving so fast the eagerness showed even from this distance. Cara’s entire face reddened as she circled the crowd, kindness in her deep eyes.

  Warmth spread through Libya. She liked this familia.

  A woman with the broad border of wealth on her stola nudged Libya. “What’s your mother-by-marriage doing?” She fingered the gold rings bedecking her hand.

  Another woman, hair piled half a pace higher than her head, elbowed the other. “Why are you speaking with that prostitute? She must have used some love potion to blind the tribune into taking up with her.”

  “I want to know what Ness Paterculi is doing.” The woman wearing gold rings stood on tiptoes as she peered at Ness, who waved her hand over the wine pitchers while speaking Celtic words.

  “I couldn’t say for sure, but she told me she’s casting a barbaric spell for boils over the wine.” Libya forced the laughter in her heart not to make her eyes shine. “See there.” She pointed to where Wryn stood, back turned in conversation with his father and brother, oblivious. “The Paterculi men haven’t touched the wine.”

  The woman gasped. “I must warn my husband at once.” She pounded off.

  All around the room, men started to glance into goblets. Women examined their husbands’ arms. Shoving aside servants’ offering wine, men started to scratch at their skin.

  Soon Wryn would have to notice. Suppressing a smile, Libya slid left toward him. Half a pace from him, she leaned back on a waist-high glazed urn and waited.

  Across the room, Hermina turned a rich shade of purple and started waving orders.

  Ness and the others approached as every eye in the room turned to them.

  A man with a broad-bordered tunic jogged Consul Aquilus Paterculi’s arm. “You must insist your wife unwork the spell. I can already feel the boils popping on my skin.”

  Aquilus’ eyes bulged. He glanced to Ness. Eyes sparkling, she lifted her bare shoulders in the tiniest of shrugs.

  Eric’s laugh rang out. He reached for Cara. “Did you see the look on that pompous Aedile’s face? He dumped an entire goblet of wine in a flower vase.”

  Cara’s eyes glistened.

  Libya closed the space between her and Wryn.

  His mouth turning down, Wryn swung his perturbed gaze to her. “Gwen put you up to this.”

  Libya slid her hand across the muscles of his arm. “Actually, your mother’s the culprit.”

  “Mother. Truly?” Wryn’s brown eyes radiated objection.

  “I didn’t even get an invitation to my eldest son’s wedding.” Ness’ stola swished as she moved closer. “One must find other amusement where one can.”

  The slightest tint of red rose across Wryn’s cheekbones. “Things happened swiftly.”

  “What?” Ness’ eyes laughed. “The timing of falling in love wasn’t under your control? I thought you could control everything, Tribune.”

  “Praetor. Father just succeeded in securing me the post. It’s in Germania, so not the best location,” Wryn looked at Marcellus and coughed, “but a praetor post nevertheless.”

  “Well done, Wryn. You’ve worked hard.” His mother touched his arm.

  “Praetor?” Libya swept her eyelashes up.

  Wryn switched his gaze to her. “Yes. We’re moving next week. Just learned an hour ago. Hadn’t gotten a chance to tell you. Mea culpa.”

  Germania. Libya nodded. A new province to explore.

  “You accepted a praetorship, agreed to move eight hundred miles and told us before you even thought to mention this to Libya?” Gwen raised her voice.

  Marcellus leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. She erupted in titters. Leaning back, she whispered to Marcellus. They started to laugh, peal after peal of laughter. Marcellus wrapped his arms around Gwen’s waist. She twisted and looked up into his eyes as if she’d kiss him, but her chest shook with too much laughter.

  Wryn narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  Gwen tossed her head back, shaking her black curls. “You wouldn’t appreciate the jest. It’s at your expense.”

  Wryn rolled his eyes.

  Aquilus groaned and turned to his wife. “You do realize Senator Porcii just entered this dinner.” He nodded across the sea of staring faces. Accusation shone in every stare as men, and even some women, scratched their arms and legs.

  A hint of pink flushed Ness’ cheeks. “Mea culpa. I missed his name on the guest list.”

  Aquilus heaved a long sigh. He took Ness’ hand. “Who cares anyway? He wouldn’t even give Wryn a praetor post.”

  “I am sorry.” Ness touched her husband’s arm. “I checked carefully to see no important names were in attendance so I wouldn’t damage your political connections.”

  “I guess I should count myself fortunate no minotaur vases ended up broken.” Aquilus moved his hands around Ness’ waist, a smile in his eyes.

  She tugged back, touching his arm as her gaze slid up to him. “I truly didn’t mean to insult a senator.”

  “You don’t have to mean to. You’re Ness.” Aquilus moved his hand around his wife’s. He whispered something in her ear. She smiled.

  Another groan slid through Wryn’s teeth. “This family acts like Celtic barbarians.”

  Laughter rose inside her as she glanced to the dozens of still staring and scratching guests. Wryn did, in fact, have a point. Though he could scarcely count himself innocent. He rejected a well-esteemed patrician marriage to adopt a slave boy and take a woman of infamia into his home.

  Aquilus sighed. “There’s a point where you have to accept that and move past it on to happiness, son.”

  Hand on her husband’s arm, Ness flaunted her shoulders at him. “Celts enjoy life much more than stolid Romans.”

  Aquilus grinned as he flicked his gaze across the circle of faces. “Not to worry, the Paterculis are now anything but stolid.”

  “Distinguished, though.” Ness pursed her lips. “Still very distinguished. You’ve worked hard for all you’ve accomplished, Aquilus.”

  Candlelight shone on Gwen’s black curls. “Eric and Cara are stolid.”

  Eric’s hand fell from Cara as he b
roke off their whispered conversation. “We are not stolid.”

  “You never even fight.” Gwen rolled her eyes.

  “That’s because Eric’s perfect.” Cara’s low voice had a dreamlike quality.

  Wryn raised his hand. “Perfect? I grew up with him. I swear I couldn’t make it a week without bruises from his pummeling.”

  A smile on her lips, Gwen shrugged her bare shoulders up. “You deserved it, Wryn.”

  Eric’s brown eyes, so similar to Wryn’s, yet so different too, lit. “If you hadn’t lost, you wouldn’t have had bruises.”

  “Only thing I ever lost at.” Wryn scowled. “I beat you in sums, military strategy, rhetoric —”

  A grin split Marcellus’ mouth as he rested his hand on Gwen’s waist. “I think he still deserves it.”

  “I rescued your sorry hide,” Wryn said.

  “Sorry.” A sheepish expression stretched Marcellus’ face.

  “Yea, I’m sorry I rescued you.”

  Across the circle, Ness tsked. “Three children married and I only get invited to the wedding of one of them.”

  Cara dropped her gaze to the colorful tiles. “That awkward affair was nothing you’d wish to attend.”

  “Precisely,” Ness said.

  Aquilus looked to Eric. “Your wedding was nice.”

  “It was not nice. It was ghastly.” Eric clasped Cara’s hand. She nodded.

  Aquilus sought his son’s gaze. “Well, you’ve done well with it.

  Your merchant venture is flourishing. I’m proud of you.”

  “Gratias,” Eric said.

  The slightest hint of tension hung in that statement, yet Eric and his father seemed at peace now. Libya moved her gaze from Aquilus, to Eric, then to Cara. Leaning her head against Wryn’s shoulder, she looked up into his eyes. Someday she must ask him to tell her the story of how his brother married a blacksmith’s daughter.

  Wryn squeezed his hand around hers as his gaze lingered on her. A warm feeling rose in Libya’s chest.

  “Why, the two of you look ready for a wedding at this very moment.” Ness’ blue eyes sparkled. “Kiss her, Wryn. We missed your betrothal, wedding, whatever-the-Romans-decided-to-call-it ceremony.”