Defy the Eagle

by Lynn Bartlett

  Jilana reclined in the pool, her head resting upon the cool marble edge while the water lapped against her neck. As Caddaric had warned, the water bordered on cool, but it was heavenly just to be able to stretch out full length and feel the water invade her every pore. The caldarium door opened and so did Jilana’s eyes, but they shut just as quickly when she realized Caddaric was nude. The door closed and Jilana turned her head aside, assuring Caddaric of complete privacy even though they would share the pool. She had deliberately chosen the far end of the pool for the same reason. The bath was twenty feet long, half as wide, and four feet in depth; once Caddaric was safely submerged, and as long as she did not stand up and they both kept to their separate ends of the pool, they should be able to share the bath without embarrassment. Embarrassment or curiosity? a silent voice mocked, and Jilana quickly brought a hand to her cheek to cool the blush there. Aye, she was curious. She had tended Caddaric often enough to be aware of the differences in their bodies and to wonder at them, and this afternoon had only heightened her curiosity. She wondered what would have happened if Artair had not interrupted them, and then pushed the thought away. ‘Twas unseemly. But still, the memory of Caddaric’s flesh beneath her hands sent a pang through her loins.

  “Wicca.”

  The voice, so near, startled Jilana and her eyes flew open. He was beside her in the water, one arm stretched out along the marble edge behind her head. The water swirled as he shifted position, his leg grazed her hip, and Jilana realized that Caddaric had joined her on the submerged ledge carved out of the walls of the pool. Suddenly wary, she slid away but Caddaric did nothing other than tip his own head back against the edge and close his eyes. Jilana watched him for several minutes, every muscle tensed and ready should he try to repeat his earlier advances. Caddaric remained where he was, occasionally moving to cup water in one large hand and lave it over his chest. Intrigued in spite of herself, Jilana watched as the circular motion of his hand disturbed the pattern of his chest hair and then drifted lower, below the water line. She was seized by the urge to duplicate his movements, to allow her hands to drift across his chest…..

  Her fingers curled involuntarily and the sting of her nails biting into her palms brought Jilana to her senses. Striving for an air of indifference, Jilana forced herself to recline once more against the wall and close her eyes. She should be concerned for her modesty, Jilana reminded herself; for propriety’s sake she should move further away, ideally to the opposite end of the pool. The water in the bath was clear and every line and curve of her body would be revealed to Caddaric if he chose to look, as would his to her. She found that thought disturbing, but not offensive. In truth, Caddaric had seen her nude so often she doubted her body held any secrets for him, but his, on the other hand… Jilana firmly suppressed such wayward thinking. They were enemies; she was his slave. She had been strictly raised in the belief that she would go to her marriage bed a virgin; this wanton, reckless curiosity about Caddaric would simply have to cease. Jilana sank lower into the bath, raised her hands to her burning face and then trickled water over her exposed shoulders. The shocks of the past week must have been too much for her, she decided, and she was now succumbing to the strain and becoming ill. Why else would the water suddenly feel so very warm?

  Cautiously, Caddaric opened his eyes and turned his head toward Jilana. Her eyes were closed, her neck delicately arched over the edge of the bath in a manner that seemed to invite his caress. The red-gold braid of hair was coiled around her head, but in several places wisps of hair had escaped the pins and now curled damply against her cheeks and nape of her neck: Did she know what a tempting sight she was? How the brush of his thigh against her hip had sent his heart hammering so heavily in his chest that he had been certain the ribs would crack? Nay, Caddaric decided as he watched Jilana’s slender hands trail water across her shoulders, she did not. For a beautiful woman she seemed supremely indifferent to the reactions she produced in men. Caddaric regretted, fleetingly, the forces that had decreed Jilana should be his slave, but he shrugged the regret aside. How else would she have come to be his? Without Boadicea’s rebellion Jilana would have married Lucius, and even if she had not, her family would certainly never have allowed her to be courted by an Iceni warrior whose only relationship with Rome was that he had deserted one of its legions in order to buy his father’s freedom from a Roman general. A bitter smile touched his mouth as he thought of Jilana and her family. Aye, the fates had not been kind to Jilana, but they had brought her to Caddaric and he would not cavil with that outcome.

  The bitter smile faded as Caddaric studied Jilana’s profile, and had she been watching, Jilana would have been astounded by the softening of his features. When had it all changed? Caddaric wondered. Until this afternoon he would have sworn that all he wanted from Jilana was her body and the possible product of their physical union. A week ago he would have been content with her unresisting compliance in his bed but now, having tasted her passion, Caddaric knew that would no longer suffice. He wanted all of Jilana, willing and passionate or strong and defiant. Above all, he wanted to end completely the hate that had lain between them. He wanted her trust.

  Caddaric turned his gaze from Jilana to his hands. Large and square, with long, thick, blunt fingers, they were the hands of a warrior, not a patrician, and they seemed to accentuate the differences between himself and Jilana. Women, especially Roman women, liked to be wooed and courted with words, an art at which he was far from skilled. In all his life, Caddaric realized, he had never truly conversed with a woman such as Jilana. He had talked to his mother, of course, and his sisters, but he had been a child then. The women he had known during his time with the legion had been more interested in his coin than his conversation. And then there was Ede, a warrior maid with whom he could discuss the quality of a blade during the day and take to his pallet at night without the ploy of pretty, meaningless words. Jilana was different from his previous women: he could not take her like some common camp follower and he could not treat her with the casual indifference which had been Ede’s. In order to make Jilana truly his, he would have to have her mind as well as her body, and that would mean sharing a part of himself which he had kept inviolate since the invasion of Claudius. A feeling of sick dread settled in Caddaric’s stomach; compared to Lucius he was clumsy and vulgar, a barbarian. ‘Twould no doubt be amusing to Jilana to watch him struggle to string three words together in order to converse with her. Still, he had to try.

  For what seemed an eternity, Caddaric searched for something to say and when, at last, he had found a subject he thought might interest Jilana, he carefully planned his sentence. Thus prepared, he turned toward her and, in what he hoped was a casual manner, said, “This bath reminds me of the public bath I visited in Rome.” At his first word, Jilana had looked at him and the rest of what he had planned to say was lost in the depths of her violet gaze.

  Jilana waited hopefully in the silence that descended once again, as anxious as Caddaric to put an end to the strange tension that seemed to hum between them, but for a different reason. There was safety in conversation. “Does it?” she asked helpfully. “I have never been to Rome.”

  Caddaric hurriedly pulled his thoughts together, thankful for her question. “There are differences. The hypocaust was working so the caldarium and laconicum were boiling hot, as they are supposed to be. I remember there were senators present, discussing Nero’s obsession with his Greeks and his singing while the sweat poured from their bodies.” He found it amusing, the memory of those senators gravely discussing Nero and his excesses as if they were holding forth in the Senate, and tried to share the humor with Jilana through a faint smile. She watched him expectantly, finding nothing odd in the senators’ behavior. It was the Roman way of things; her father had routinely conducted business in his own caldarium. Caddaric nervously cleared his throat and returned to the subject at hand. “There was a frigidarium, of course, but I had done too much freezing when I was stationed along the Rhine
to enjoy it.” He stopped abruptly, remembering the bitter Rhine winter, and, following that, the transfer to the desert furnace called Judea. His time in the desert had ended with his brothers’ deaths and his own desertion.

  “Claudia often spoke of the baths,” Jilana said quietly. She sensed his withdrawal, more marked now because of the effort he had made to establish a link between them.

  Caddaric roused himself with an effort. “Claudia?”

  “My sister.” Jilana’s lips trembled over the words and she looked quickly away. “Claudia went to Rome, with my mother, when she was thirteen. They had intended only a short stay, but Claudia fell in love with the city and its way of life. When Mother returned, Claudia stayed behind with an aunt. She was gone for three years and when she came back she was changed, different from the sister I remembered.” Jilana sighed and trailed a hand through the water. “She ridiculed our bath; compared to the magnificent ones she had visited in Rome and Pompeii, I suppose this did seem inferior.” Tears flooded her eyes as she realized the disloyalty of her words. In her sister’s defense, Jilana added, “Claudia was not suited for life here. She was too delicate to endure the hardships of a frontier settlement.”

  Caddaric snorted his disbelief. “I saw her the day the Queen was flogged. She was not too delicate to scream for Boadicea’s blood or relish the sight of it when the lash laid her back open.” He fingered the scar on his cheek. “No doubt she relished the gladiatorial combats to be found in Rome.”

  “You know nothing,” Jilana hissed. “Nothing!” But what he said was true; Claudia had described the gladiators and their contests with an excitement Jilana had not been able to fathom. That Caddaric dared to criticise Claudia was maddening—that he dared to be correct was intolerable. Tears, so long unshed, spilled over her cheeks.

  but Jilana no longer cared. “She was my sister! How dare you—” Her voice broke and Jilana reached out blindly for the side of the pool, intending to run from this barbarian and his hateful truths.

  “Jilana, nay.”

  Strong hands captured her wrists and dragged her through the water to the warm, hard cushion of his chest. Immediately her wrists were released and his arms gathered her close so that her head rested in the hollow of his shoulder. “I hate you!” But the sobs that tore through Jilana’s chest drained the venom from her words.

  “Aye, I know.” Caddaric stroked a gentling hand over her hair.

  “She was my sister,” Jilana repeated brokenly.

  Her sorrow tore at him, opening fresh wounds in his heart. “I know.” Caddaric held her fiercely, protectively, waiting out the storm. “I know what it is like to lose a loved one. My two brothers fell in battle while I watched, unable to help them. They were Iceni and they died fighting for the Roman legion that had been sent to quell an uprising in Judea. When it was over I took their bodies and washed and prepared them as best I could. There were no sacred oak groves, no Druids, and though I had money, no legion priest would allow me to purchase a sacrifice which would smooth their way to Annwn.” Annwn, the Celtic land of the dead. The name sent a shiver through Jilana and Caddaric wrapped her closer in his arms. “I buried them beneath the sands of the desert—buried them deep, so that the jackals and hyenas could not unearth them and feed upon their flesh.” Jilana’ s arms went around his neck, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, sharing his pain as he shared hers, returning a measure of the comfort she had received. “My mother and sisters had been killed when Claudius invaded our island; now my brothers were dead. My father was a slave to General Aulus Plautus. My family was no more.”

  Jilana’s breath caught at the hollowness of his voice. “How you must hate Rome and me.” She sought to move out of his arms, but Caddaric held her still.

  “I bear no love for Rome, but you, little wicca…” Caddaric brought one hand to her chin and tilted her face toward his. “Nay, I do not hate you.” Slowly, Caddaric lowered his head and brushed his lips across Jilana’s.

  Jilana stared at him, aware of the frisson of pleasure that curled through her at the touch of his mouth. There was tenderness in his touch, a gentleness which belied the dispassionate shell which was his armor. And there was pain—a pain Jilana recognized because it matched her own—and, incredibly, she wanted nothing more than to take away all the pain inflicted upon Caddaric by her countrymen and give him in its place… peace. The same peace Caddaric had offered this afternoon in her bedchamber. Was this what he had been feeling when he had taken her in his arms? Had he wanted, beyond all else, to give her comfort? Between them lay something of immense power; it shimmered in the depths of Caddaric’s blue eyes, challenging her, daring her to reach out and risk being consumed in its depths. The unknown might consume, them both, for Caddaric, too, seemed oddly reluctant to grasp what the moment afforded; yet Jilana knew, through some age-old wisdom in her heart, that this strange power also held the balm for their wounds. And much, much more.

  Without conscious thought, Jilana’s hands slid from Caddaric’s neck to the damp curls on his head. Slowly, half-afraid, half-intrigued, her fingers tunneled into his hair and brought his head downward. His breath fell . across her lips and Jilana closed her eyes. Their mouths met, gently, and the exquisite sensations produced by the joining elicited a soft sound of pleasure from her throat.

  His mouth flowed over hers, softening the flesh, heating it; Caddaric’s arms tightened, bringing Jilana’s breasts teasingly against the dark mat of hair covering his chest. Her hands fell to his shoulders as Caddaric’s tongue traced the outline of her lips and then explored their fullness. She wanted to move closer, to be absorbed by the strength and heat of his body, but Caddaric kept her at that same, teasing distance while his tongue seduced its way into her mouth. Caddaric deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking hers for a controlled, sensual meeting that made Jilana sink her nails into his shoulders.

  The kiss grew in power, causing a riot of sensation within Jilana. Her breasts tingled and deep within her core an ache flared to life. At the small, unexpected pain she caught her breath, and as she did so her tongue withdrew and grazed the length of Caddaric’s. This time ‘twas Caddaric who gasped, and Jilana felt the powerful muscles beneath her fingers contract one by one until he seemed carved from sun-warmed marble. The pressure against her lips eased, as did the heady persuasion of his tongue, but the rhythmic throbbing of her blood left Jilana giddy. Caddaric’s arms around her back and beneath her knees held her securely, but Jilana felt strangely weightless. Confused, she opened her eyes and looked at Caddaric. The blue of his eyes was dark, almost hidden by his half-closed lids, but pinpoints of light glittered in their depths. The arm at her back tightened, lifted, and Jilana knew the sensual abrasion of his chest hair against the side of her breast.

  It dawned on her then that they were no longer in the pool. Her weightlessness had been caused by Caddaric carrying her through the water and up to the steps. Now there was no longer even the pretense of a bath with which to assuage her conscience’s demand for modesty. Reality descended with the wrath of an avenging god and tripped Jilana’s heartbeat. This is wrong, she tried to tell herself.

  “Nay, Jilana.” Caddaric sensed her retreat and spoke quietly, but the words vibrated through his chest and into hers. He brushed his mouth over Jilana’s and a flame instantly surged through them both. If she refused him now… “‘Tis meant for us, wicca. Fight me if you must; I will understand and do my best not to hurt you.”

  Jilana swallowed, aware of the drumming of her pulse. ‘You will rape me?”

  A smile, sadly amused, touched his mouth and was gone. “Nay, Jilana, I will not rape you. I will not have to. Your pride, your strength, will exhaust themselves and then I will have only to kiss you, caress you, and you will be mine.”

  What Caddaric said was true and his blunt words, while not kind, were more welcome to Jilana than sugar-coated lies. He could easily have lied and perhaps she would have believed him in order to pacify the rigid Roman morality with which she
had been raised. But his honesty touched her and took away the guilt and shame. Her life was different now, she was different. She must make her own rules for her new life, even as she sensed Caddaric had made his. He was a hard man, but an honest one. She could trust him. Reaching out, she traced his mouth with a forefinger. “I will not fight you,” Jilana said in a soft but steady voice. His fingers dug painfully into her ribcage and she gasped. “You promised not to hurt me, Caddaric.” Immediately the pressure eased and she smiled gratefully.

  “I will try to take more care with you,” Caddaric murmured as he bent his head toward her once again. He carried Jilana further around the pool until they reached the discarded towels and then removed the arm supporting her knees. Her arm slid around his neck and when her legs brushed against his, Caddaric tightened the arm around her back while his free hand smoothed over her buttock and cupped into the resilient flesh. Jilana was suspended several inches above the floor, her breasts and abdomen molded enchantingly against the iron planes of his body. A shudder ran through Caddaric and he reluctantly lowered her to the floor. She swayed for a moment and when Caddaric reached out to steady her, he was nearly undone by the silken feel of her beneath his callused hands. “Jilana.” She looked at him squarely then, those incredible purple eyes wide and unfocused with passion, and seemed to regain her balance. Trembling himself, Caddaric knelt and made short work of spreading the towels on the floor as a pallet.