Celtic Fire

by Joy Nash

  She shivered. He slid his palm to her shoulder for the briefest of caresses before breaking contact. When the second dish of pears was empty he rose from the couch and, leaning, once again lifted her into his arms.

  “I need no help,” she said, twisting in his grasp.

  “Perhaps not, but I wish to give it.”

  He stepped onto the path bordering the courtyard and strode toward the stairs. Once in the upper gallery, he paused and captured her gaze.

  “Shall I carry you to my chamber, nymph?”

  Rhiannon’s heart pounded so violently, she feared it would leap out of her chest. She went very still, hoping that a dearth of movement would calm it. It did not.

  Lucius’s arms tightened about her. His steady pulse beat against her breast, not so rapidly as her own but swift nonetheless. One hand cupped her buttocks. Its heat burned through her, feeding the torturous fire that had been kindled by their intimate supper.

  Lying on the Roman dining couch with Lucius had been far too much like lying abed. Every sip of wine had been flavored by his scent; every taste of honeyed fruit had been spiced by his touch. Rhiannon had eaten too little and drunk too much, and she had clung too tightly to Lucius’s shoulders as he’d ascended the stairs.

  His arousal had nudged her hip with every step and even now lay heavy between them. She struggled to remember that he was her clan’s enemy and that this blatant evidence of his lust should repulse, not tempt her. But floating as she was in the pleasant haze of the Roman wine, the thought held little meaning.

  Sweet fire raced through her veins, a desire so unfamiliar and fierce that it stole her breath. Lucius looked down at her, a splash of light from the courtyard playing about his face. His dark, exotic eyes gleamed.

  “Shall I carry you to my chamber?” he repeated. His voice, low and vibrant, cloaked her like a mantle of darkest midnight.

  Rhiannon wondered that he had asked at all. Certainly Niall would not have. The thought sliced through the wine-induced fog like an icy wind. Dear Briga. What manner of woman was she to lust after her clan’s foe?

  She went rigid in his arms. “No. I would pass the night alone.”

  Lucius swore under his breath. In two swift paces he was at her chamber door, shoving it open. Midnight shadows shrouded the small space, relieved only by the red glow of the coals in the brazier. He strode to the bed, footsteps harsh on the tile, movements rough. He deposited her on the narrow mattress so abruptly that she fell back into the cushions. He braced his arms on either side of her head and leaned over her. His breath bathed her face with heat. He inhaled deeply as if to imprint her scent on his memory.

  His lips parted, showing a glint of teeth. “I would stay with you.” His head dipped slowly, and in the taut, endless moment before his lips touched hers, Rhiannon could think only that she could not turn away even if her very life had hung in the balance.

  His kiss teased like the tantalizing flight of a butterfly. His possession eased, then advanced, a sensual assault both urgent and enticing. Desire flowed into Rhiannon’s loins. Lucius’s teeth nipped her lower lip, creating tiny darts of pleasure. His tongue soothed, then probed the slick lining, demanding more.

  Rhiannon trembled beneath him. Her mouth opened as if in welcome, her arms entwined his neck as if in need. His body came down on hers, the ridge of his arousal pressing against her thigh. The small part of her brain that had been protesting her surrender fell silent. She was a woman, he a man, and the night was dark.

  Yet even as the sweet ache in her breasts rose and the liquid heat pooled low in the hidden place between her thighs, the scornful whisper returned, taunting. How fitting that the granddaughter of Cartimandua should open her legs for her enemy.

  Shame seared her. She gave a sharp cry of protest. When Lucius gave no response, she slapped his chest with her palm. She tore her lips from his, twisting as she fought to free herself from his weight.

  He swore softly and shoved himself off the bed. His gait was angry as he strode to the window. He stood, unmoving, hands fisted at his sides and stared out into the black night. Rhiannon swallowed hard, her fingers knotting the edge of the coverlet. Had she gained another day’s reprieve? Or had she succeeded only in tapping his rage?

  At length he turned and approached her. She tensed as he drew near, but he merely took up a brass handlamp from the table near the bed. Crouching at the brazier, he touched the wick to the coals and blew gently until the flame leapt to life.

  He repositioned the lamp on the table with careful precision. His eyes were hard, his expression grim. When he reached for her with an abrupt motion, she flinched.

  He frowned and drew back. Rhiannon struggled to remain calm. Would he force her now? Would it have been better to yield to his advances when his mood had been light?

  “What manner of man do you belong to, Rhiannon?”

  She drew a shaky breath. “None.”

  “Every woman belongs to a man. Have you a husband?” When she didn’t answer, he added softly, “I won’t hurt you as he did.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t beat you. You needn’t fear my hands.”

  Dear Briga. How could Lucius know that Niall had indeed taken to striking out at her? Not often, and never in the company of others, but Rhiannon suspected that Owein had known. The fault was her own. If her womb had provided Niall with a living babe, he’d never have felt the urge to hit her. And Edmyg never would have gone to Glynis’s pallet to seek a son.

  “He should be castrated.” The compassion in Lucius’s eyes was harder to bear than his anger. “Put your thoughts of him aside. I promise you will enjoy every moment in my bed.”

  “Your vanity is astounding,” Rhiannon whispered.

  He grinned suddenly, the dimple in his cheek deepening and his eyes taking on the impish glint of a lad. “Why not put my arrogance to the test? You may well find yourself begging for my conceit.”

  An unexpected laugh bubbled into her throat. “You are far too sure of yourself.”

  He touched her face, the roughened callus on the pad of his thumb curiously gentle on her cheekbone while his fingers caressed the sensitive skin behind her ear. Against her will, her eyelids fluttered shut.

  Abruptly, he stepped back, leaving her bereft before she recalled she should be glad of his withdrawal.

  “Please leave,” she said, but the words held little force.

  In answer, he lowered himself onto the bed and took her hand in his. He began a thorough kneading of her palm, first stroking with firm pressure, then tracing the skew of lines with a feathering touch. An aching response pulled low in Rhiannon’s belly. The small smile tugging at one corner of Lucius’s mouth told her that he was well aware of the effect of his touch.

  Her face flamed and she snatched her hand away. “Why do you woo me? You are a Roman defiler. You have only to spread my legs.”

  “I wish your pleasure.”

  “You seek your own.”

  His teeth bared in a smile that looked almost painful. “True enough. Yet I find I anticipate your satisfaction even more.” His voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “Would you care to know what I dreamed last night?”

  She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “No.”

  Lucius rose and paced around the bed until he stood behind her, not touching, but close enough that the heat of his body seeped through the thin barrier of her tunic. “You came to me while I lay abed. You flowed over me like wine and I drank you in.” The heat of his breath was on her neck, the musk of his sweat in her nostrils. “First, I savored your lips …”

  He paused on an inhale. Rhiannon licked her lips. They had gone suddenly dry.

  “Then I moved to your breasts …”

  Her nipples tautened as if they’d been touched. She clutched her knees tighter, pressing them into her chest.

  “Then your navel …” Lucius’s breathing was rougher now and his tone had taken on a sharp edge. “I circled it with the tip of my to
ngue.” His voice dipped to a bare whisper. “The taste was sweet, but I knew there were hidden places that would taste sweeter still.” Rhiannon eased back slightly, her grip on her legs loosening as she strained to catch his words. Her hands moved to the cushion to balance her weight.

  “I followed the scent of your need.” His low, vibrant voice stroked like a caress. “I drank honey from the cup of your womanhood.” His breath fanned over her nape, but still he did not touch her. “No wine could compare.”

  Her breath grew ragged and the fire between her thighs flared hot and slick. She imagined Lucius’s tongue there, lapping and probing in that forbidden place. She bit hard on her lower lip, stifling a moan.

  “I lay back and you rose over me. You sank onto my shaft and rode me into a storm.”

  Rhiannon’s knees fell apart. She leaned back, into his arms, her body pleading for that which her lips could not beg.

  He tasted her at last, his mouth searing the hollow between her neck and collarbone. His tongue stroked over her in delicious waves. His scent, spiced and dangerous, filled her senses with the promise of dark ecstasy. She twisted, threading her fingers through his hair and drawing him close.

  He made a sound of feral satisfaction. He surged onto the mattress, his weight pressing her to the cushions as his tongue plunged and retreated. He delved into her mouth—a hot, wet promise of pleasures yet to come.

  He eased back, kissing a line from the corner of her mouth to her earlobe. “Your past is gone. You belong to me now, Rhiannon.”

  His whispered words shattered the erotic fog hazing her brain, even as his shameless tongue sent another tremor of need coursing through her. She blinked and looked up at him. His eyes glittered down at her, alight with pure arrogance.

  How many times had she seen the same expression on Niall’s face?

  She gave a sharp cry and struck him, throwing her full weight into the blow. Her fist connected with his jaw. His head whipped to the side and he lost his balance. He rolled over the edge of the mattress and struck the floor with a sickening smack. Rhiannon scrambled off the opposite side of the bed, putting its bulk between them as he leaped to his feet.

  He rubbed the back of his head and glared at her. “By Pollux! Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t belong to you, Roman.”

  “You do.” Anger radiated from his body with the force of a wildfire. Deliberately, he leaned across the narrow bed and caught her chin between his fingers. “Do not forget it. My patience is not infinite. You are mine and I mean to have you.”

  “Shall I lift my hem for you then, master?” She spat out the word as if it were dung. “A quick plunge should soften your temper. My wishes hardly signify. A Roman never shrinks from lands where he is not welcome.”

  “So you say. Yet I wonder—were I to slip my finger between your thighs, would I find myself unwanted?”

  “Yes,” she said, but she twisted her chin from his fingers and dropped her gaze.

  He gave a short, harsh laugh. “Soon, Rhiannon, you’ll beg me to conquer you. When I slip my sword into your sheath, you will writhe with the glory of it.”

  Dear Briga, what arrogance. Yet even as she condemned him, she feared his words might very well be true.

  He half turned and when he spoke again, it was as if to himself. “Another man would have taken you so often he would have tired of you by now.” He laughed again, and the brittle sound echoed off the walls. “Perhaps it is the final proof of my insanity that I intend to leave you untouched.”

  She dared not risk a response to that.

  He strode to the door. “No doubt I’ll see you in a dream again tonight.” Another chilling burst of laughter. “By Pollux, it is sure to be a nightmare.”

  Chapter Five

  The following morning, Rhiannon entered the kitchen shortly after dawn, intent on tracking down her brother-in-law.

  “Is Cormac about, Alara?” she asked the stout Celt woman who had tried to coax her appetite the day before.

  Alara looked up from the bread she was kneading and blinked in surprise. “Have ye discovered the man’s talents already then?”

  Rhiannon gave her a sharp glance. Did the woman suspect Cormac was more than he seemed? “Talents?”

  Alara chuckled. “Yer a coy one, aren’t ye? There’s only one reason a lass as fair as ye would be seeking that misshapen lout. His cock’s near as long as his legs.”

  Rhiannon’s faced flamed scarlet, but she bit back the protest that sprang to her lips. Pretending a tryst with Cormac was perhaps the safest way to speak privately with him. “Aye,” she said. “Bronwyn twittered so when she spoke of him. I mean to see for myself if her tales are true.”

  “Take a care, lass, lest the new master find ye out. He doesna look to be a man to share his woman.”

  Rhiannon’s face reddened even more. Was the entire household aware of Lucius’s pursuit? No doubt they were casting lots as to the hour of his success. “The Roman’s nay here,” she informed the woman. “Do ye know where Cormac is?”

  Alara upended a wooden bowl over her dough. “Gone with Claudia to the fort village,” she said, nodding to the cook’s empty place by the main oven. “ ’Tis his job to haul her selections from the market.”

  The market. Cormac would be meeting his contact there, who surely would have word from Edmyg by now. Rhiannon lifted a winter apple from a basket on the floor and examined it thoughtfully. “When will he return?”

  “Nay afore midday.”

  Rhiannon took a bite of the tart fruit and watched as Alara assaulted a second mound of dough with the energy of a dog attacking a bone. It was hardly past dawn, but already the kitchen women were abuzz with preparations for the evening meal. She shook her head in amazement. The Roman kitchen contained easily as much space as an entire Celt roundhouse. Long worktables marched down the center of the room, bundles of herbs hung from the rafters, and a row of stone ovens lined the outside wall.

  She dropped her apple core in the garbage trough. “Will ye tell Cormac to seek me out?”

  Alara gave her a disapproving look. “Aye, I’ll tell him, but ’tis a dangerous game ye be playing, lass.”

  It was indeed, Rhiannon reflected, but not for the reason Alara suspected. She wandered through the door to the courtyard and stared into a shroud of rain. No garden work would distract her this day. With her hands idle, her thoughts should have been consumed with the prospect of her imminent escape, but to her great shame they were not. Instead images of Lucius filled her mind.

  Lucius, who had aroused her with dark whispers. Lucius, who had kindled forbidden fire in her loins. Lucius, who had left her untouched despite his obvious desire to share her bed.

  A small part of Rhiannon wished he had ignored her protests. Dear Briga! She shook her head as if to shake the notion from her brain. She should be nothing but relieved that she had escaped his lust for another night. If all went well, Cormac would smuggle her out of the fort today and by dark she would be lying on her own pallet.

  Soon after, Edmyg would take Niall’s place and lie there with her. A knot of dread tightened in her stomach. Edmyg wouldn’t be pleased that she’d followed the raiders and put herself in danger. Her duty had been to remain in the dun, awaiting the injured. How many of her wounded kinsmen had died because she hadn’t been there to heal them? And what of Owein? Edmyg would surely blame him for Rhiannon’s capture. She stared into the rain. If she found he’d laid a hand on the lad …

  “What are you looking at?”

  With an effort, Rhiannon pulled herself from her dark broodings. Marcus stood a few paces away, fingering his gold talisman.

  “Am I to be feared this day?” she asked him.

  He dropped the charm and flushed. “No. It’s just—the expression on your face a moment ago. I might have thought you were staring into the jaws of a lion.”

  “A lion?”

  “A great beast from the lands across the southern sea. Like a cat, only much larger. There’s one
done in mosaic on your bedchamber floor.”

  Rhiannon shivered, imagining such a creature sprung to life. She glanced behind her, as if half expecting the animal to be lying in wait. Marcus chuckled.

  She narrowed her gaze at him, biting off a laugh at the mischief flashing in his eyes. “Where is your tutor, miscreant?”

  “Magister Demetrius went again to the hospital. Did you know there is no fort physician here? The last one choked on a boar’s knuckle.” He snickered.

  “That hardly seems like a cause for mirth,” Rhiannon pointed out.

  The lad sobered. “I know. But I can’t help laughing when I think of it. One of the slaves told me the physician was a great, fat man, with a red face and jowls that waved when he walked.” He looked to the courtyard. “It’s too wet for you to work in the garden today.”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed. “Aristotle, however, can be read in any weather.”

  “Are you shirking your studies again?”

  Marcus shrugged. “Rain makes my mind wander.”

  “As does the sun, I imagine.”

  The lad grimaced. “Aristotle was an uncommonly dull man, and there’s a whole shelf of him in the library. In the original Greek. Magister Demetrius will probably make me translate every scroll.”

  “You can read Greek runes?”

  “Yes. Though I wish I didn’t have to.” He stared gloomily into the rain. “Will you come to the library? I’m sure my studies will go easier with you there.”

  “I very much doubt that,” Rhiannon said, but she allowed Marcus to lead her to a small chamber near the entrance foyer.

  She blinked at the fantastic scene that greeted her there. Shelves piled with slender brass tubes spanned the walls from floor to ceiling. A tall cupboard stood near the door. A large hanging lamp, sporting more flames than Rhiannon could count, threw its dancing light onto a long stone table. Ink pots and pens were scattered across its surface, along with a number of hinged wooden tablets.

  Marcus sank down on a cushioned stool and scowled at an open scroll. Rhiannon had seen papyrus only once before, when a peddler had passed through her village. That had been just a tiny scrap compared to the wide roll that lay on the table, weighted with polished stones and scrawled with precise dark markings. So many more waited on the shelves. It was a treasure beyond imagining.