Barbarian Slave

by Castel, Jayne

  Her gaze shifted to the injury on his right thigh, and all thought of discomfort flew from her mind. The puncture wound had soured; she could see that much. It was livid, swollen, and smelt vile.

  Choking back a gag, Lucrezia forced herself to step forward once more. “Do you have a fever?” she asked.

  Donnel shrugged, appearing bored by her question.

  Lucrezia reached out and placed the back of her hand upon his brow. “You do,” she said crisply, before kneeling down so she could take a closer look at the festering wound. This close the stink was overwhelming. Lucrezia clapped a hand over her mouth and retched.

  More laughter sounded behind them.

  “I hope that wasn’t a reaction to spying your pole,” one of them called out.

  Clenching her jaw, Lucrezia swiveled around, her gaze meeting Tarl’s. “Do you have a blade I can use?”

  Tarl nodded, drawing a sharp knife from his waist.

  “Put the blade in the fire,” she instructed, “to clean it.” She had seen healers do this before lancing a wound, although she was now feeling so sick at the thought that her hands were starting to tremble and she was sweating.

  Tarl did as bid, before passing her the knife.

  “Careful,” the female warrior who was still plucking the fowl called out. “Give her a knife and she’ll gut you with it.”

  Both Tarl and Lucrezia ignored her. Their gazes met and held. “Is it bad?” he asked softly, worry in his eyes.

  She nodded. “I told you … I’m no healer … but I know what a poisoned wound looks like.”

  Donnel was watching her under a furrowed brow as she turned back to him. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked, his boredom disappearing now that Lucrezia held a blade.

  “Not really,” she admitted, enjoying seeing alarm flare in his eyes. “Your brother told me to tend your wounds, and so I am.”

  Donnel cast a dark look in Tarl’s direction. “I give you my thanks, brother.”

  Chapter Nine

  After Dark

  “What do you plan to do?”

  Tarl’s question vexed Lucrezia. This had been his idea, not hers.

  “I will scrape away the dead skin and pus.” Her gorge rose as she said the words. “Then I will wash the wound with wine.”

  Tarl nodded. “Good.”

  “Good?” she snarled at him. Then, incensed, she swapped into her native tongue, Latin. “Since you’re so sure of this course of action, perhaps you’d like to lance the wound yourself?”

  His blank look enraged her further.

  “Careful,” Macum chortled from behind them. “She’ll go you with that knife, Tarl—mark my words.”

  “Get on with it then,” Tarl said, gesturing to Donnel. “Unpleasant tasks are best done quickly.”

  “My thanks once more, brother,” Donnel growled from behind him. “I just hope that she doesn’t slice my leg off in her haste.”

  “Confuto, both of you,” Lucrezia snapped, ordering them to keep quiet in Latin. Steeling herself, she turned back to the loathsome wound. Tarl was right—she just needed to get this over with. She inched closer, ignoring the acid taste of bile in the back of her throat. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Tarl once more. “You’d better hold him still.”

  It was a horrible exercise. The wound was worse up close, and as she scraped at it, pus spurted out at her. It was fortunate too that Tarl held his brother still, because Donnel gave a strangled cry and jerked back as Lucrezia cut away at the wound.

  She did her best to scrape away the putrid flesh, before reaching for a skin of wine. She poured it over the gaping wound, and Donnel yelped like a scalded cat. He kicked out on reflex, knocking Lucrezia back onto her behind.

  She glanced up and met his tear-filled but murderous gaze. “You enjoyed that?” he accused. He was even paler than earlier, his skin coated with sweat.

  “Stop whining.” Tarl slapped him on the back. “The lass has done well. Now let her bind your leg, and we’ll be done.”

  Tarl’s gaze met Lucrezia’s, and he grinned. “See, we’ll make a healer out of you yet.”

  Lucrezia’s answering glare gave him her response.

  Despite her hunger, Lucrezia had little appetite that evening. The stench of that wound seemed to linger in her nostrils, and the memory of it assailed her with every bite of water-fowl that she choked down.

  They sat around one of the four glowing fire pits in the center of the encampment. There were still a few of them traveling together, and as such it was cramped by the fire. Lucrezia sat, squeezed in between Tarl and Donnel.

  To her left, Tarl took a gulp of wine from a skin and offered it to Lucrezia. She shook her head and so he handed it to Donnel. Conversation ebbed and flowed around the hearth. Exhausted after the most grueling day yet, Lucrezia found herself nodding off. The warmth of the burning peat felt soporific, and she longed to stretch out inside the tent and sleep.

  After a while exhaustion dragged her down into its embrace. She tilted forward, and would have fallen headfirst into the fire, if Tarl had not reached out and pulled her back.

  The others around the fire hooted with laughter.

  “She’s not hardy like our women,” one of the female warriors called out. “She won’t last a season on The Winged Isle.”

  Blinking owl-like, Lucrezia looked around as the veil of sleep rolled back. Her body tensed as she realized they were all laughing at her.

  “She’s tougher than she looks,” Tarl replied. “I saw her fight Wurgest. She has a brave heart.”

  This drew some sniggers around the fire. Face burning with anger, Lucrezia glared down at her folded hands.

  She hated these people. How dare they laugh and mock her, as if they were superior to her.

  “Come,” Tarl whispered in her ear, his breath feathering across her skin. “Pay them no mind.”

  With that, he rose to his feet, scooped her up into his arms, and carried her away from the fire—toward his tent.

  Lucrezia was so shocked by his act that she did not fight him. One moment she had been kneeling at the fireside, the next she was pressed up against Tarl’s broad chest, his arms hooked under her knees and braced around her back.

  Laughter and catcalls followed them, and Lucrezia’s mortification rose further.

  They think he’s taking me away to claim me.

  She began to struggle, but Tarl held her fast in an iron grip.

  Yet by the time he ducked inside the tent, she was struggling like a fox caught in a trap, her fists beating against his chest.

  To her fury, she realized that Tarl was laughing as he set her down.

  Lucrezia rounded on him. “Bastardis!” she snarled in Latin. “How dare you! They’ll all think—”

  “What do I care what they think?” Tarl answered, still grinning. “It’ll be true soon enough anyway.”

  Lucrezia slapped him hard across the face. “No it won’t.”

  In answer, he pulled her against him and kissed her.

  The act was so sudden that she had no time to push him away, or to realize what was happening. Lucrezia had never experienced a kiss like it.

  Her marriage with Marcus had been largely chaste. He had kissed her on their wedding night—during their first, and only, attempt at coupling—but had never after that.

  She had no idea a kiss could be like this. So hot, wild, and brutal.

  Tarl kissed her hungrily; his lips parting hers a heartbeat after their joining, his tongue delving within her mouth.

  She should have been disgusted and repulsed at his act—for he was a barbarian, and even worse, her captor—but instead the taste and feel of him ignited something wild inside her.

  For a few moments she melted against him, her mouth opening under his. The feel of his lean hard body pressed against her softness, the male taste of him, affected her like the strongest wine.

  A deep longing rose within her; a need she had never before known that was so strong in its intensity t
hat it overwhelmed her.

  Sensing her reaction, Tarl pulled her hard against him. One hand slid through her hair to cup the back of her head, while the other ran down to the small of her back, spanning wide.

  The feel of his manhood—hard as a rod of iron against her belly—shattered the enchantment he had spun over her.

  Lucrezia yanked herself away, panting as she struggled to regain her breath. She stumbled back from him, and to her surprise Tarl let her go.

  They stood a couple of feet apart staring at each other.

  Lucrezia brought her fingers up to her lips, which felt swollen after the ferocity of his kiss. They ached for more, as did her traitorous body. The look he was giving her—one of melting lust—did not help either.

  “I did not give you leave to kiss me,” she rasped.

  Tarl gave her a slow infuriating smile. “You didn’t appear to mind it.”

  “Canis,” she spat the word at him. “Dog—come near me again and I’ll claw your eyes out.”

  His smile faded, and he cocked his head, studying her. “There’s no use denying it, Lucrezia,” he said gently. “You can hiss and spit all you like, but the fact remains you are mine.” His gaze lingered on her, raking her from head to toe and making her feel as if she stood before him naked. “Sooner or later you’ll have to accept that.”

  “Get out!” she snarled, looking around for something to hurl at him. She was near to tears now; near losing her temper completely.

  Tarl gave her one last lingering look before doing just that.

  “That didn’t take long?” Donnel favored Tarl with an arch look when he rejoined him at the fireside. “I know you don’t like to waste time with wenches, but I’ve never known you complete the deed as fast as that.”

  “Shut up,” Tarl growled, reaching for a skin of wine. He yanked off the stopper and took a deep draft. However, when he lowered it, he saw Donnel was grinning at him—evidently amused. “What?”

  “She sent you away, I take it?”

  Tarl nodded curtly. “She slapped me, I kissed her … and then she flew into a rage.”

  “I don’t know what you expected,” Donnel drawled, taking the skin from his brother. “You’ve just torn her away from her home, her life. She’s probably still grieving for her husband. You said she saw him fall.”

  Tarl went still. With the passing of the days he had forgotten that Lucrezia had been wedded. “She hardly seems the weeping widow,” he replied thoughtfully, remembering their kiss. He had never experienced the like before—the woman had burst into flames in his arms. He had not meant to kiss her, merely to carry her off to bed before the heckling around the fireside got worse. However, when she had slapped him, he had not been able to help himself.

  She was bewitching when enraged: her high cheekbones accentuated, her brown eyes almost black, those full-lips beckoning.

  “Some of us don’t wear our grief for others to see,” Donnel replied, his tone curt.

  Surprised, Tarl glanced askance at him. Since coming south to join them on their campaign to the wall, Donnel had barely mentioned his loss. He and his wife, Luana, had been incredibly happy together, and her death had altered Donnel utterly. Yet he never spoke of it.

  Now was the first time.

  Aware that any words of sympathy would not be welcomed, Tarl lapsed into silence for a few moments and mulled over his brother’s words. Tarl knew he could be bull-headed sometimes. He often forgot other people’s needs, instead focusing on his own.

  He had not imagined Lucrezia’s reaction to the kiss. Yet he knew that lust and willing were often separate things. He had not exactly given her a choice in the manner.

  “Perhaps I should go and apologize,” he said eventually.

  Donnel grunted, making it clear he had no wish to discuss the matter further. His few candid words appeared to have soured his mood.

  With a huff of defeat, Tarl rose from the fireside and retreated to the tent. He was not sure how he would apologize—both his brothers were better with words than he was. He had never been good at speaking to women; Lucrezia was not the first he had angered. He was too blunt, too insensitive.

  Still, he had to try. Donnel was right; the woman had recently lost her husband. She was here against her will, and although Tarl had now rightfully claimed her as his slave—something that was widely accepted amongst his people after battle—Lucrezia came from a different world. He imagined the Romans kept slaves, but a high born woman like his captive would struggle to accept her new existence.

  I will try to speak softly to her, he counselled himself. I will assure her that I will never force myself upon her.

  It was true—he had never felt the urge to rape a woman, and he was not about to start now.

  Tarl’s musing ceased the moment he drew open the flap to the tent.

  He had expected to see Lucrezia lying on the far side of the tent with her back to the fire pit. Although he had never seen her weep, he had imagined he would find her crying.

  Yet the tent was empty.

  Frozen in the entrance, Tarl’s gaze swept over the interior, resting upon the gap at the far end where someone had yanked two of the wooden pegs free.

  Fool.

  Too late, Tarl remembered that he had not bound her wrists as he usually did before leaving her alone in the tent. The kiss had distracted him, and Lucrezia had taken advantage of it the moment he had returned to the fireside.

  His slave had escaped.

  Chapter Ten

  All Hope is Gone

  LUCREZIA RAN BLINDLY through the darkness.

  Beyond the camp it was pitch-black; so dark she could not even see her hand in front of her face. Yet she ran on, stumbling and slipping on the dew-laden grass. Under normal circumstances such a flight would have scared her—she could be running headlong for a cliff or toward a deep mere—but at that moment she did not care.

  She would rather be dead than suffer one more moment of captivity.

  Even now, she could not believe her good fortune.

  She had watched Tarl leave the tent, her hands balled into tight fists, and had remained there for a few moments, certain he would return and try to kiss her again. Yet he had not.

  An instant later, the realization that he had departed without fastening her wrists dawned on her.

  Escaping the tent had been less complicated than she had anticipated. The pegs had pulled out of the peaty ground with ease, and then a heartbeat later she was free—fleeing into the night as if pursued by demons.

  She knew Tarl would realize his mistake soon enough, and would come after her. She had to ensure she was far from the camp when that happened.

  Where will I go?

  She pushed the question aside, wincing as her ankle rolled. She righted herself and hobbled on, clutching her cloak close. It did not matter where she went. She would run until her heart stopped, if that was what she must do. She did not hold out hope that she would be able to find her way back to the wall—for it lay too many days behind them now—yet she could lose herself in the wilderness all the same.

  Even so, the darkness was frightening. It wrapped around her like chill death itself—an endless void. A moon’s cycle had just ended and there was no silvery face to light her way. Even the stars cast no light over the landscape, as the sky was cloudy.

  She had twisted her ankle badly, and the pain slowed her down. Then she tripped over a rock and sprawled across the ground. The earth was chill beneath her hands, and she could feel a frost forming.

  Clenching her jaw, Lucrezia clambered to her feet and hurried on, her breath hissing through her teeth as the pain in her ankle worsened.

  Curse them all, but curse myself the most—I am useless.

  She was not like those bold warrior women of the north who accompanied their men into battle. She was a gentlewoman, bred for a life managing a villa and servants, hosting dinners, and bearing children.

  She was bungling this escape, and she knew it.

  Te
ars stung her eyes. It did not matter that they blurred her vision, for she could not see a thing anyway. All she knew was that she was running in the general direction they had been traveling from—south-east. The landscape was an endless series of craggy hills covered in gorse and heather.

  Somewhere in the distance, she heard the lonely, feral cry of a wolf. Fear prickled over her skin. In her haste to flee she had forgotten that there were other dangers in the night besides men.

  After a while her lungs started to feel as if they were on fire, and her feet felt bloody and bruised from colliding with rocks and bramble during her flight. She had grown fitter over the past few days of travel, but she was not hardy like her captors.

  She imagined Tarl chasing her, his long legs rapidly closing the distance between them. Unlike her, he would have a torch—and he would be much faster.

  The thought gave Lucrezia’s feet wings. She cast aside her fear and exhaustion, and sprinted down an incline, her feet flying over the stony ground.

  And then she tripped.

  One moment she had been running down a hillside shrouded in the darkness, and the next she was flying through the air.

  A heartbeat later, she knew no more.

  Lucrezia awoke with a throbbing pain in her forehead.

  Groaning, she slowly opened her eyes. For a moment she could not think where she was, or even who she was. She merely stared up at the stained hide roof of a tent, where long shadows stretched. Her limbs were chilled, although it was warm inside the tent.

  My head hurts.

  She swallowed, her mouth and throat dry, and turned her head right, away from the wall, in an effort to get her bearings.

  A man sat at her side: tall, with wavy brown hair that flopped over one eye and a rugged yet handsome face. He wore a sleeveless leather vest and plaid leggings. Upon his right bicep he bore the tattoo of an eagle.

  Lucrezia went rigid, as her memory rushed back. Her blissful state of confusion shattered.

  Tarl’s iron-grey gaze met hers, and he frowned. “That was foolish.”