“That must cause you substantial pain, then, for you have not been engaged in any of the three in recent weeks.” Torin grinned.
“A discomfort resulting in far more dips in cold lakes than I care to number, good brother. I hope that the general’s impending retirement does not mean that his Roman hospitality wanes as well.”
Torin shook his head. In the throes of battles that seemed to have lasted for years, there had been no time to think of such things as warm, soft flesh, scented like the flowers and rain. His body tightened at the thought, but his fleshly thoughts were overturned by the memory of the countless lives lost to the cruelty of the Saxon king. He had a deep hatred for Lord Aeglech, stemming from the fact that Aeglech’s men had killed the only family he’d ever known, as well as the village he’d been raised in. After he was released from his duties to his Roman captain, it did not take Torin long to decide to return to his native people and see what he could do to save them from the barbarians attempting to swallow Britannia whole.
The aftereffect of losing their family however was different for Dryston. Equal in battle to Torin, he was fearless, but was prone to taking risks, without careful thought to their outcome. He was insistent on using his cunning and brawn to forge his way through obstacles. Often Torin wondered if Dryston was tempting fate, challenging the powers that had taken his family from him, seeking revenge for their senseless deaths.
Of course, his penchant for risk-taking, he supposed, is what ended up saving Torin’s hide. Dryston had been hunting alone, only a boy, in truth, when he stumbled upon Torin, half-frozen and mute from cold and fear, hiding in a hollow log. Not only had Dryston saved him from a bitter winter death, but he had also faced a hungry wolf in the process—or so he’d told Torin the story countless times of the great white wolf encountered that day. The truth of that day, what and how it occurred, Torin had no choice but to believe all that Dryston told him. So much of his childhood before that was a dark abyss. Torin could remember very little until the day he came upon a giant oak, its thick branches, spreading its arms wide, lifting upward to the sky. Something about it struck a familiar chord and without reason, he heard his name in the rustle of the leaves. From the shadows of his obliterated past came a name—Torin.
That was all of his memory that was jarred loose. The rest remained locked tight somewhere in his mind, but his stepmother, a druid, practicing in secret, believed that Torin had suffered an event so great that the gods in their kindness had blocked it from his mind. “Until you are ready to accept the truth, Torin, then your memory will be restored and you will see your purpose,” she said in her wisdom.
From the night Dryston had carried him home from the frozen woods of winter, Torin had been plagued with nightmares—shadowy faces, angry sounds and crying—though he could not discern who they were or what their anguish. In time, however, with the love and hard work supplied by his new family, those anguished dreams regressed further into his mind, until they were but a dull ache—a hurt that would not heal. Eventually Torin accepted that he might never know the truth of his past. Perhaps that is why he felt such empathy to the plight of the Celtic survivors. Whatever his reason, he wanted to see Lord Aeglech’s reign of terror end and the fact that the powers in Rome had pulled out their troops when Britannia needed them most only fueled Torin’s desire. When General Ambrosius, a well-known sympathizer to the Rom-Celts, sent word that he wished to meet, it strengthened Torin’s conviction that he was not alone. With the great leader’s skill and a combined militia, together perhaps it would be enough to stage a successful assault on the Saxon horde.
“Be watchful. We’ve no way of knowing where Aeglech might have his spies. Even wrapped in soft flesh and alluring features,” Torin cautioned.
Dryston chuckled. “Duly noted, but he has already lost if he sends a female spy. It would take but one night to turn her to our side.”
“Your humility astounds me,” Torin joked.
“Yet another attribute that I exceed you in.”
A loud gurgle emitted from Dryston’s stomach. They had munched on goat cheese and brown bread much earlier in the day.
“I am famished,” Dryston remarked, rubbing his stomach and searching the horizon. “You didn’t tell me that he lived in the middle of nowhere.” They’d ridden for miles through dense groves at the base of the hill country.
“Food and women, some warrior you are,” Torin laughed.
Dryston raised an eyebrow. “Do I hear a challenge?”
Torin glanced at Dryston, knowing that his swaggering confidence was the result of being the youngest sibling of two bossy older sisters. That alone would challenge any boy to survive those conditions as Torin, a lost soul himself, soon discovered after they took him in and welcomed him, teaching him the importance of family, of his heritage. And while, to this day, he still did not know where he came from, he knew the people he would lay down his life for. And one of the foremost rode at his side. “Unless, of course, you are too tired from your journey,” he chided his older brother. He received a wry grin in return.
Ahead a scout signaled to indicate he’d spotted the villa. Torin made out the white tendrils of smoke curling up from what he hoped was a caldarium. It had been a stressful journey, traveling at the edge of what was now Saxon territory. Once, long ago, it had been the place he and Dryston created great adventures, exploring the mountains, caves and hidden lagoons. The thought never occurring to them that one day they would have to fight in reality what were then only imaginary foes.
At the top of the hill, they paused a moment to take in the luxurious villa before them. Made of brilliant white limestone, it spread out in a maze of rooms, with ornate sculptures, trees and flower gardens. From the crest of the hill you could see the Baddon, a tiny village where the Romans had created one of the greatest temples to the goddess Minerva in all of Britannia. Along the hillside servants tended to their work and near the general’s villa, a young woman was busy hanging wash on the ropes that stretched across the side of the house.
A loud shout preceded the rush of several men in simple clothing toward them. Torin’s hand went immediately to the scabbard at his side as a precautionary reaction that this was not an assault by the Saxon. Men could be bought for a price. Torin had seen it many times, even among Roman generals. His concerns eased, as their purpose was to lead his men to the stable area, where their horses would be tended.
Torin glanced at the woman hanging the wash as they drew close. He noted first her fiery red hair and when she glanced up at him, the beautiful deep green of her eyes captured him, making him forget all else. A jolt of awareness curled in his gut. She boldly held his gaze. He was transfixed. Was that his imagination, or had he seen her smile? Torin barely missed hanging his neck on a stretch of rope ahead, swerving his horse just in time, so as not to look like an idiot in front of Dryston and the others.
Or so he thought.
“She is a lovely lass. Wouldn’t you agree? Celt most likely,” Dryston commented as he dismounted. He stretched his arms overhead and waited for Torin to slide from his horse.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Torin lied, wanting to look back at the red-haired beauty, but not wishing to prove Dryston’s assessment correct. Still, no woman had caused such an immediate and powerful reaction by his body in some time.
Dryston laughed as he drew off his satchel, which contained his few belongings, and relinquished his horse to the generals’ servants. “I have a feeling you will soon enough, little brother. Come on, I need a bath before cena. I don’t wish to offend our good hosts.”
“You think a bath will do the trick?” Torin grinned and offered Dryston a quick look, briefly checking to see if the woman was still watching. The courtyard, however, was empty.
Oiled from head to toe and dusted with fine dirt, and wearing only thongs around their waists, Torin and Dryston relaxed in the heat of the early afternoon sun. After a round or two of friendly wrestling and lifting of weights to work up a good swe
at, they lay stretched out on slabs of stone, soaking in the heat of the day, before heading inside to the caldarium for a hot soaking bath. Torin took a deep breath, letting out a sigh as his skin warmed to the sun, his muscles growing more pliant and relaxed.
“With any luck, Torin, she’ll be part of the entertainment tonight,” Dryston said, his face turned to the sky, his eyes closed.
“What makes you think I am interested?”
“You aren’t?”
“I cannot afford to be interested in anything but what I came here to do, Dryston,” Torin replied, adjusting his arms so that they supported his head.
“And you needn’t be distracted to the point of not being able to understand your reasons for being here. There is nothing wrong, Torin, in allowing yourself to be vulnerable to some things,” Dryston said.
Torin had always kept his emotions closely guarded, unsure if he were to allow them any freedom, where the road might lead him. Perhaps it was a fear of finding out about his past, or simply upholding the image of the man he wanted himself to be—strong, unyielding to his view. The thought of letting someone see what he tried to forget, worse to make him face it, did not settle well. “You call flitting from woman to woman allowing yourself to be vulnerable?” Torin challenged in return, defending his own inability to pursue an intimate relationship.
“Well, at least I’m not afraid,” his brother remarked.
“Of all the things you could use as weaponry to justify your point, Dryston, fear is not one of them.” Torin grew irritated with his brother’s nagging. Just because he was not of the mind to sleep with every woman within a five-mile radius did not make him afraid of intimacy.
“Of course,” Dryston responded, not holding back a blithe tone.
“I’m going to get a massage,” Torin muttered. He pushed from the stone bench and ambled into the dark shadows of the preparation room, where a servant used an instrument to scrape off the mud and sweat before he took a bath in the tepidarium. The cool waters in the small windowless room eased the tensions that Dryston had aroused with his taunting about women. Torin was not a virgin, far from. Rome had its share of women who loved to offer their favors to willing soldiers who were passing through before heading out to the next battle. But for Torin, the appeasement was temporal, welcoming a stranger’s attention to his carnal needs and the sensual feeling of a set of warm legs wrapped around him. But life in battle had left him with a yearning for more and he grew frustrated with what the gods had in mind for his life, even as he found himself looking at once more going into battle.
Torin lay face down on the table as the heels of the servants’ hands pressed into the tight muscles of his lower back. Torin sucked in a deep breath, letting a soft groan escape his lips. The man’s hands were strong, seasoned from practice, he surmised. Torin clenched his teeth between the pleasure and the pain afforded from the servant’s ministrations, heaving a great sigh when the muscle relaxed. Unlike Dryston, Torin preferred the solitude. This dark room, with no one speaking to him, left him free to ponder his thoughts, weighing them from all angles, instead of laying them out on the table for all to see and dissect. Foremost on his mind was the plight of his people. The Saxons had been eating up much of Britannia, and many of the survivors had not at first trusted him because he wore a Roman cloak, claiming that the Romans had abandoned them. And they were correct in that as far as he was concerned. When at last he was able to convince them that he and his few men would help them, they seemed to arrive at his temporary camp on a daily basis—a single family one day, an entire village the next, wandering nomads, seeking a leader to help reclaim what was taken from them. They’d kept them in the safety of the mountains, teaching them the fighting skills they would need to know. In return they became loyal followers, trusting Torin to do whatever he asked of them. They had enormous drive and heart, but Torin wondered if heart would be adequate against the battle-savvy Saxons.
“Hurry with your task, you should not be here.” The servant slapped Torin’s back, bringing his head up in time to see the young woman duck her head and bend down to stuff fresh towels into the warming cubicles. It was the red-haired beauty he’d seen earlier. She worked silently and swiftly, and was graceful in her movement. His cock twitched when she bent, her tunic stretching tight across her curves. Her skin was radiant, kissed by the sun. To get a better look, he rested his chin on his hands, watching, willing her to look at him. Just one glance to prove the spark he thought he’d seen when their eyes met. The male servant barked out another order in the ancient language, causing the woman to move in haste from the room. She did not raise her eyes from the floor. Disappointed, again, Torin cradled his head in his arms, his eyes on the door she’d quietly shut behind her. He had no inkling of what it was about this woman that made him curious about her. Maybe Torin was right. Maybe he needed to lie with a woman to release his tensions. But Torin sensed that this woman, whether part of tonight’s entertainment or not, would not be so easily won. He shut his eyes and let his mind conjure how beautiful her hair would be out of the confinement of that braid. How luxurious to slip his fingers through it, to have it sweep across his chest as she sat astride him, riding him like a wild steed.
Two slaps on his arm brought Torin from his reverie. He sat up, careful to draw the towel over his semi hardened state from his recent wicked thoughts. He waited for the servant to gather his things and leave, before wrapping the towel around himself. He held the thin fabric fisted in one hand and made his way to the tepidarium, where the cool water was a welcome relief to his current state. He found the stone bench beneath the water’s surface and sat down, spreading his legs apart to alleviate the throbbing ache between his thighs. He leaned his head back against the cool tile, his mind swirling with pent-up stresses of every kind—the Saxons, the training, the lost look on the faces of displaced villagers melded into the woman in the yard, pushing the fiery tendril of hair from her forehead as she looked up at him. Allowing himself the need for release, to quell at least part of his tension, he closed his eyes, sliding his hand down his length as he pictured her in his mind, a lovely wood nymph dancing naked under the stars. His body grew tight as she danced around him in his mind, her full breasts bobbing as she swayed in time to the thrumming that was his heart beating against his ribs. Torin’s head hit the tiles with the intensity of his release, his body quaking in the aftermath. He opened his eyes and saw the shadow of a figure slipping through the door. Too relieved to care if a servant had seen him, he leaned his head back, the stress of war pushed aside for a moment, replaced by an increasing desire for the red-haired woman.
Chapter Two
Alyson sensed his dark eyes watching, following her with each platter of food that she brought to the table. She tried to keep her hands steady, tried not allow herself to be affected by his unwavering gaze. There was no doubt in her mind that he was interested, it was the why that concerned her. All evening it was clear that Tulia had been vying for his attention. A small gasp blurted from her throat as the wine pitcher in her hands faltered, splashing a drop of wine to the pristine tile floor.
“Foolish girl,” Tulia snapped, grabbing the pitcher from Alyson’s hands. “Pay heed to what you are doing!” Her sharp tongue sliced through Alyson’s pride and she quickly bowed her head, hoping to receive her grace. No stain had touched Tulia’s beautiful royal blue garment that so perfectly matched her painted eyes. Eyes that now turned to Alyson, her point to show her power. Alyson dropped to her knees in submission to admit silently to her disgrace. One of the Roman guests, a man called Dryston with soft green eyes, spoke.
“Apologies, milady, should be mine, for I believe I moved my foot and rendered your poor servant her imbalance, causing the accident, I’m afraid. For that I am deeply apologetic.”
“Arise!” Tulia barked.
Alyson did as instructed, keeping her eyes lowered.
“You are dismissed and be advised. I will deal with you later.”
Alyson nod
ded. Not even the general himself had ever spoken to his servants in such a manner. Ambrosius sat at the head of the table, his niece at his side, the guests, stretched out on their sides, positioned so that Alyson, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment, had to walk past each of them. She knew the general would not humiliate his niece in front of his guests. She kept her eyes cast to the ground as she picked her way through the group of now silent musicians and dancers, awaiting word for their performance to resume. She heard two smart claps behind her and the music began anew. She bolted then for the garden at the other end of the hallway. With the moon lighting her path, she skirted quickly around the potted fruit trees and statutes to the small pool honoring the goddess, Sulis Minerva. She knelt by the shallow waters, watching the moon’s glow ripple across the dark water. Safely alone, Alyson allowed her tears to flow. She wondered how much longer her people would be at the mercy of others’ rule. First Rome and then the Saxons—would Britannia ever belong to the people that once lived and nurtured it, or were they a people destined to become only a memory, a story told around a fire on a cold winter night?
“It is far too beautiful a night for tears.”
Startled, Alyson sprang to her feet, swiping her cheeks in haste. She lowered her head. “Milord, I did not wish to disturb anyone.” She knew without looking that it was him, the dark-eyed man who’d caught her eye when he rode in today. His presence was becoming both an allure to her and a hazard to her safety and that of her family.
“I fear, good woman, that I am, in part, responsible for your weeping. It seems I cannot keep from looking at you.”
She was taken aback by his considerate tone. For a warrior so talked about for his strength and skills, he seemed a most gentle man. There was, however, no reason for him to apologize. She darted him a quick glance. “No, milord, it was my clumsiness.” She began to edge her way around him, careful not to get too close. She would surely be whipped by Tulia were she found with him. Already that possibility hung over her head, depending on Tulia’s mood when she saw her next.
Forbidden Pleasures Page 2
