Celtic Fire

by Joy Nash

She shook her head and handed the treasure back to him. The lad returned it to the table; then, struck by sudden boldness, he edged closer to the bed. “I’m Marcus.”

  “Salve, Marcus.”

  He gave her a cautious smile. The hand at his throat loosened, revealing a gold ornament.

  “Have you a name as well?” he asked in a rush. “Or are your people like beasts that have no need of them?”

  She followed the rapid flow of his words with growing amusement. “I’m called Rhiannon.”

  “Rhiannon.” Marcus rolled her name on his tongue as if testing its flavor. “Rhiannon.” He frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a girl’s name.”

  She bit back a smile. Marcus’s expression was clear and guileless, much like Owein’s had been at that age. “It is, I assure you.” She let her gaze roam over the lad. His hands and feet were large, as if they had sprouted in advance of the rest of his frame. He would not grow to be so tall as Owein, she guessed, but one day his shoulders would be broader and his arms as strong.

  The smooth skin of his forehead puckered over his eyebrows. “What do you eat?” he asked, his eyes bright with anticipation. “Do you tear the flesh from a man’s bones and boil it in your cauldron?”

  Rhiannon did smile at that. “That’s a meal I’ve yet to try,” she said with mock gravity. “Do you suppose it tastes better than venison?”

  Marcus paled, his fingers tightening once again on the charm at his neck. “I’ve heard tell your women eat their children if they’re not good, then birth fairer ones from their bones. Uncle Aulus sent such a story to me in Rome. Is it true?”

  Rhiannon raised her brows. Marcus spoke of the crone Cerridwen, one of the many faces of the Great Mother. After eating one disobedient child, she birthed another of great beauty. Who was this lad’s uncle to have known such a story? “That story holds truth, but not in the way you mean,” she said. “My people love their children. We eat venison, boar, and grouse. Never babies.”

  “Oh.” Marcus looked relieved and disappointed at the same time. “But your blue warriors are fierce,” he said as if to console her. He shifted his gaze to the window, but not before Rhiannon saw a flash of terror in his eyes.

  All at once, she knew him. The Roman commander had fought like a madman to protect this lad during the battle, much as she had fought to protect Owein.

  He turned back to her. “Even so, Father says the blue men lack discipline. They cannot stand against the Roman army.”

  Of course. She should have known at once who he was. He looked so like his sire. And like another man, whose identity flitted about the corner of her memory like a swarm of midges, refusing to take form. A tendril of unease unfurled in her chest. She wished she could remember.

  Marcus was clenching and unclenching his fingers on the gold charm so fiercely that Rhiannon thought its thong might snap.

  “What do you wear about your neck?” she asked.

  The lad looked down at the ornament as if he’d never seen it before. “Oh.” His hand dropped away, revealing a golden ball. “It’s a bulla. It protects me from evil.”

  Rhiannon chuckled. “And you think you have need of it in my presence?”

  The lad had the good grace to blush. “I’ve worn it always, since before I can remember.” He forged on with painful honesty. “But you’re right, I thought perhaps I might need it here.” He grinned, showing a deep dimple in one cheek. “You’re much nicer than I thought you would be.”

  The hinges on the door groaned again, saving Rhiannon from a reply. Marcus gave a guilty start. An old man strode into the chamber with a sure step, a small wooden bowl nestled in his hands. Rhiannon recognized him as the healer, much improved in appearance, who had tended her wound the night before. His short gray beard had been washed and combed and his bloodied mantle replaced with a clean one. An ornate pin held the saffron fabric fast at one shoulder, drawing up the folds to reveal a floor-length striped tunic decorated with wide bands of embroidery at the neck, sleeves and hem. The incongruous scent of spring flowers clung to his wizened form.

  Rhiannon looked at Marcus and resisted the urge to laugh. The lad looked as if he would rather sink into the tiled floor and fight the cat-beast than face the old man.

  The healer turned a fierce eye on him. “Why are you here?”

  Marcus swallowed. “I’m … I’m talking to Father’s new slave, Magister Demetrius.”

  Slave. Rhiannon closed her eyes. Yesterday she’d been a queen.

  The healer spoke again, this time in a language Rhiannon didn’t understand. After a slight hesitation, Marcus answered in the same tongue.

  The old man snorted. “Your Greek is abysmal, young Marcus. Go to the library and take up your Aristotle. I will come to you when I am finished here.”

  “As you wish, Magister.” Marcus scooted past the healer and collided with a woman who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. Water sloshed up over the edge of the large clay bowl she carried and hit him in the face. He sputtered, ducked around her, and disappeared.

  The healer shook his head. “Zeus help me.”

  He moved to Rhiannon’s bedside, gesturing for the slave woman to enter the chamber. She advanced, setting her bowl of water on the low table near Rhiannon’s bed. A younger woman laden with linens followed in her wake, bare feet slapping on the wet floor.

  The first woman crossed the room and flung open the shutters. Light flooded the room, sending blessed illumination into the shadowed corners. Rhiannon drew a deep breath, feeling her courage strengthen. The second woman gave Rhiannon a shy smile and placed her bundles on the bed.

  Demetrius dismissed the slave women and they hurried from the room. Rhiannon watched the healer’s approach with wary eyes.

  “How fares your leg today?” Without waiting for an answer, the old man grasped the lower edge of Rhiannon’s makeshift cloak and pushed it to one side.

  She snatched the blanket’s hem from his fingers. Her fingers curled into a fist, ready to strike should he reach for her a second time.

  The healer spread his arms, palms up. “I mean no disrespect,” he said gently. “I must examine the injury. Surely you realize that.”

  Rhiannon’s shoulders hunched. His words were true enough. She knew only too well what became of wounds left untended. And no doubt both the healer and the commander had seen her unclothed the night before, when she lay unconscious. Her face flamed at the thought.

  “Very well.” Anchoring the top of her blanket about her throat, she drew back the lower portion with her free hand.

  “You must lie down, girl.”

  Rhiannon shook her head. She would not put herself in such a vulnerable position.

  “As you wish.” He slid his hands under her leg, straightened it at the knee, and unwound the bandage with practiced precision. To Rhiannon’s surprise, the gash was neatly closed with precise stitches, as if her skin were a length of fabric mended with the finest of needles.

  The healer took a clean cloth from the bundle on the bed and dipped it in the bowl of water the slave woman had left. He washed the last traces of blood from the wound, then smeared the contents of the smaller wooden bowl over his handiwork. The remedy soothed immediately.

  “The gash is not deep,” he said. “It should heal without causing a limp. Do not put undue weight on your leg for a full day at least.” He replaced the discarded bandage with a clean length of cloth, nodding toward the remaining linens as he worked. “Clothing, I believe—one of the women must have located something suitable for you.”

  When she did not answer, he clucked softly. “What has happened to your tongue, girl? It wagged freely enough yesterday.”

  “I find I have little to say this day.”

  He let out a barking laugh, showing a tooth encased in gold. “The gods be praised.”

  She glared at him, lips pressed together.

  His expression softened. “You are fearful now, of course, but you will adjust quickly enough to your new situation. You may ev
en find it preferable to the life you left.” He snorted. “And since Zeus knows this household is overrun with slaves, your duties are not likely to be taxing.”

  “Save for those I will perform on my back.”

  The healer’s grizzled eyebrows shot up. “So. The fire has not quite died.” He chuckled at some private amusement as he wiped his hands on a discarded cloth.

  A third slave woman arrived, her sturdy arms bearing a tray laden with enough food to feed Rhiannon and several others besides—savory pork roasted with nuts, two soft round loaves, winter apples, and a large clay mug. The woman set the tray on the table by the bed. She threw a wide smile in Rhiannon’s direction before collecting the soiled linens and exiting the chamber.

  “Eat, then, and rest your leg,” the healer said. “I will look in on you later.”

  When he had gone, Rhiannon slipped the blanket from her shoulders. She shook out the folded fabric on her bed and found a long tunic of the softest linen she’d ever held in her hands. It had been dyed an apple green and stitched so carefully that its seams were all but invisible. She slipped it quickly over her head, eager to cover herself. It slid over her skin like a caress. She belted it at her waist with a braided leather cord.

  Though clothing had been quite welcome, her stomach protested the smell of food. She suspected any nourishment she tried would not remain long in her stomach. The mug, however, was filled with cervesia, not wine. She could probably keep that down. She lifted it to her lips and took a cautious sip.

  Feeling somewhat fortified, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, balancing on her good leg. No matter what the healer instructed, she would not stay abed. Escape was her paramount goal and she could not achieve it lying on her back. Edmyg’s brother, Cormac, was somewhere in the fort. Did he know of her capture? Had he passed news of it to the clan? She would need to locate him this very day, if possible, while the Roman commander went about fort business. She dared not dwell on his return to her chamber or on what the night hours would bring.

  Grasping the raised end of the bed for balance, she eased her weight onto her uninjured limb. Her wounded leg throbbed, but she resolutely ignored it and took a step toward the window. She needed an idea of the fort’s layout before she could escape it.

  The first step on her wounded leg sent a shooting pain into her thigh. She gritted her teeth and stepped forward on her uninjured limb. On the third step her balance faltered. She landed on the hard tiles with a thump, her hand striking the tail of the glittering cat-beast. Pain exploded behind her eyes. She clutched her leg and forced back a cry as she waited for the sting to recede.

  The door opened at that precise moment. She peered under the bed frame, her heart pounding in her throat. A pair of masculine feet, encased in short leather boots, advanced a few steps into the chamber. Bronzed skin, sprinkled with dark hair, covered calves hard with muscle. The hem of a blood-red tunic fell above the knee, affording her a tantalizing glimpse of long thighs roped with sinew.

  The owner of the magnificent limbs moved unerringly in Rhiannon’s direction. She jerked herself upright, ignoring the fresh spurt of pain in her leg. She would not meet her captor while sprawled on her arse.

  The Roman commander rounded the bed and looked down at her, his dark brows drawn together in a disbelieving scowl. “Are you insane? You should be in bed.” Without waiting for a reply, he bent and scooped her into his arms.

  He lifted her easily, his arms flexing around her like a living cage, and for a moment Rhiannon forgot to breathe. Her fingers closed on his upper arms. His skin was smooth and golden, stretched taut over iron-hard muscles. Rhiannon willed her racing heart to slow and, as she filled her lungs with air, she thought she had succeeded. Then she looked up into his eyes.

  His steady gaze enveloped her like a fur cloak on a winter night. His frown softened, drawing her attention once again to his smooth chin. One corner of his mouth lifted with the promise of a smile. She shifted in his arms. His lips parted on a quick intake of breath, revealing a row of even white teeth.

  He smelled of the wind in the pines and of leather freshly cured. His powerful, blunt-fingered hand closed on her arm. His skin was dark against her fairer coloring, but his grip was not harsh. His fingernails were clean and trimmed short.

  Rhiannon’s heart set to pounding harder than before. She thought perhaps she should be afraid, but, oddly, she was not. When his callused warrior’s hands lowered her to the bed, she thought only that this Roman’s touch was softer than Edmyg’s had ever been.

  He straightened, the frown returning to his eyes. He swiveled his head to the right and left—searching, it seemed, but for what, Rhiannon couldn’t imagine. He hunted, prowling to the window, then back to the door. He bent to inspect the underside of the long table against the wall.

  “Gone again,” he said, his tone abrupt. He turned on her with a swift movement. “Could it be you?”

  Rhiannon’s confusion grew. “What do you mean? Who is gone? The healer?”

  He didn’t answer. His shoulders slumped and his hand passed over his eyes as if to wipe away some unwanted vision. She’d seen only his strength when he had first entered the chamber, but now, looking closer, she noted the weariness in his stance, the slight tremble of his hand as it curled into a fist. After a long moment, he raised his head and met her gaze. Again recognition sparked in Rhiannon’s heart, along with an overwhelming desire to ease the raw pain that showed so clearly in his soft, dark eyes. Eyes she was certain she’d looked upon before. Then, suddenly, she knew.

  The Roman commander bore an uncanny resemblance to the young officer Madog had slaughtered at Samhain. The man whose soul had cried out to Rhiannon at the moment of his death. Was the new fort commander kin to the murdered man, come to avenge his death? A sound of distress escaped her lips.

  Her captor’s features smoothed, as if he’d exerted a sudden effort to wipe them clean. “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said. Then, a heartbeat later, “You shouldn’t walk. I’m sure Demetrius told you.”

  “He did.”

  “But you thought to try anyway.”

  “Yes.”

  The smile returned to his eyes. “My esteemed physician will not be pleased to find you think so little of his advice.”

  “Then he should refrain from giving it.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted, first one side, then the other. The result was a lopsided smile and a dimple that was identical to his son’s. One dark curl fell over his forehead. He brushed it aside only to have it fall back again.

  “Forgive me if I don’t relay that sentiment to Demetrius. I know from hard experience he wouldn’t take it kindly.” He took a step toward her. His hand came to rest on the bed, very close to her arm.

  She inched in the opposite direction. Did he think after a bit of light banter she would welcome him into her bed? If so, he was to be disappointed. At the same time, she wondered why he bothered with polite pretenses at all. He’d claimed her as a battle prize. He could take her whenever he wished and there was precious little she could do to stop him.

  “Rhiannon,” he said. “A beautiful name.”

  She looked up to find him watching her. “How did you— Oh. The lad told you.”

  He nodded. “My son.”

  “Marcus.”

  “Yes.” He paused. “You may call me Lucius.”

  Lucius. It fit him. A bold name, but not a rough one. Rhiannon was drawn to the sound of it in spite of a fierce wish to snap the thread of fate that joined her soul to his. She shifted backward on the bed, away from him. No matter what he was called, no matter what connection his kinsman’s blood had forged between them, he was her enemy.

  The heat in his gaze told Rhiannon that he desired her and the knowledge of it filled her with dread. Her captor was above all a man, and like all men he would take what he wanted. But she would not yield easily.

  She kept her expression neutral. “How is your arse, Lucius, where it was struck by
my arrow?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Improving.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  He snorted, but to her relief moved away to the window. Supporting his weight with one hand on the frame, he peered through the opening as if contemplating the scenery. Beyond his dark head, Rhiannon caught a glimpse of the green hills she called home. How simple her escape could be if she had the wings of a bird.

  “Where did you learn to speak the language of Rome?” Lucius asked without turning.

  She bit her lip, thinking belatedly that perhaps she should have feigned ignorance. She could hardly reveal the truth—that she had been taught by a Druid master so as to better understand her enemies. Druidry had been banned by Roman law well before her birth.

  “Many of my people speak Latin,” she hedged.

  He turned and fixed her with a piercing gaze. “A few words, perhaps. Enough to trade in the fort village.”

  “My grandparents had dealings with the Romans.” That, at least, was no lie. Cartimandua had been an ally of Rome. “I learned your language as a child.”

  To her relief, he didn’t press further. But his next question proved even more disturbing. “Who was the young warrior you protected on the battlefield?”

  Rhiannon didn’t answer.

  “Too old for a son, too young for a lover. A brother, perhaps?”

  She shrugged.

  “He owes you his life. If not for your arrows, I would have killed him.”

  “A pity none of my shots pierced your neck.”

  That brought a smile to his lips. He moved from the window, closing the distance between them with two quick strides. “You are a brave woman.” He lifted his hand and grazed her cheek with one finger. Just a feather touch, but it conveyed a wealth of honest esteem.

  An odd spark jumped in Rhiannon’s belly. It took all her strength not to lean into his caress.

  “Such a beautiful nymph,” he said. “You’re mine now.”

  Rhiannon stiffened. “Your bed-slave?”

  His soft eyes glittered like a wash of stars in the winter sky. “If you wish it.”

  “A slave has little choice as to her duties.”