“This is it? This is your place?”
“Yes…yes, I think it is.”
“There are happier places,” Alaric pointed out. “More comfortable places,” he added.
“Perhaps. But I would not be in charge of my own fate in those places. I would have to obey another.”
“Ahhhhh,” Alaric breathed, as the information shifted and fell into a new pattern.
At his soft exclamation, Diana dropped her head and poked a twig at a crack in the stones by her hip, concentrating fiercely on the small task.
Clearly she had not intended to reveal so much to him and now regretted it. Alaric understood why too. The idea of autonomy for a woman was scandalous among Romans. It was also illegal under Roman law, he suspected, but would be careful not to inquire into that side of it in the future.
He kept his voice casual. “My great-grandmother on my father’s side was a great matriarch too. She controlled the reins of the family with an unforgiving fist—literally, more often than not. Her reputation as a shrewd trader and tough leader was known throughout Wales.”
Diana’s head came up quickly and he was pinned by her direct, interrogating gaze. “Your ancestress led her family?”
“Certainly.”
Confusion shadowed her face.
“Besides, you have surely heard the legends of Boadiccea?”
“Whispers only,” Diana admitted. “My mother would not allow repetition of those stories. She said that Boadiccea was wicked and a sinner in the eyes of god.”
“I think your mother was probably more concerned with Boadiccea’s long line of companions, and her death—which is not sanctified by your god.” Alaric suppressed the grin that wanted to form at the idea of Boadiccea being considered “wicked”. She had been a heroine in most people’s eyes.
Diana looked up at him, her frown deepening with suspicion. Then the frown cleared and she added casually, “Of course it had nothing to do with the fact that she led a revolution against us Romans.”
It took Alaric a moment to realize that Diana was teasing him. Teasing him.
Hastily, he took another swallow of wine, before his astonishment revealed itself. His reaction under control, he responded with the same casualness as Diana.
“I wouldn’t know. Vanquished foes are quickly forgotten.”
Diana’s jaw sagged a little. “What?” she breathed. “But…”
Alaric lifted his brow in query.
Her eyes narrowed speculatively. “Of course, in the end the Roman legions were victorious. Or we would not be in this place at this time, resting upon structures well over one hundred years old. Structures built by Romans.”
He nodded agreement and lifted one foot to lean it on the step above—the step Diana sat upon. He rested his forearm upon his knee, learning down a little.
“In the country to the south stands a monument built by Britons…nearly four hundred years ago. It will still be standing when these buildings are naught but dust.”
Diana smiled. “You mean the standing stones by Amesbury?”
“Yes.”
“The ones that Merlin was forced to rebuild because they had collapsed?” she asked sweetly.
“Where did you hear about that?”
She laughed. “You had not planned on me knowing that.”
“I had assumed that Merlin’s feats, even those that use nothing more outlandish than clever engineering, would not be a common subject. Merlin is only slightly less loved than Arthur here.”
“If they speak his name at all, it is usually preceded by a curse.”
“So how do you know about the hanging stones? Did Felecius tell you?”
“Rhys did. He worked on them, did you know? Just after Ambrosius died.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Alaric admitted. He studied her, surprised. “And Rhys told you?”
“You are one of only a few who detest Romans so much you cannot bear to talk to them.”
“Rhys counts among those few.”
“No longer,” she responded. “Not since he took Octavia to his bed, unless he counts hypocrisy among his sins?”
“Not Rhys,” Alaric countered automatically, his mind busy with this news. He didn’t know Octavia but suspected it was the gentle woman with large eyes and quiet manners he had seen serving watered wine to the men in the field.
Why hadn’t he heard of this before? Why had he learned of it from Diana, of all people?
The answer supplied itself. Because Diana was a natural leader and ensured she knew a little about her people’s private affairs. It was strategically useful in dealing with trouble as it brewed. She had spent mealtimes watching and listening. If he had done the same, he might have seen those things Diana had seen.
“You seek to point out my inadequacies as a leader, woman?” he growled and was surprised that his anger was only partly in jest.
“You read insult into the acquisition of knowledge, warrior?” Diana’s brows rushed together. “If the collecting of information is such a crime, it is no wonder that your people have remained the vanquished foe!”
“Vanquished, perhaps. But we have not been forgotten!”
Diana scrambled up onto her feet. “Only because Romans can read and record their victories, instead of spinning them into tales of magic and marvels only children care to repeat.”
“Songs that will pass on down through the generations long after your precious books have turned to dust,” Alaric responded, stung to the quick by her sharp observations. It didn’t help that her words had the ring of truth. “It may be that our songs and stories are the only word that will survive.”
Diana stood with her feet planted apart and her hands on her hips. Her chest was heaving rapidly. She was unmistakably furious. “Don’t be utterly ridiculous!” she responded.
Abruptly, Alaric knew he wanted to kiss her. Standing on the higher step, her head only just reached above his and he could see every plane of her face, could see it work with anger. Her breasts were rising and falling with each panted breath. The feral kitten had returned.
“You can do better than that,” he said softly, deliberately baiting her. He clenched his fists against the almost overwhelming urge to slide a hand behind her head and draw her face down to his.
“I would expend the effort for anyone else but you, warrior,” Diana responded and her voice was husky with anger.
Or was it anger at all?
He studied her anew, exploring the possibility that it was something other than anger that distorted her voice in such a way. He could feel the reverberations down his spine, all the way to the base, where it started a familiar throb.
There were no obvious signs. She was genuinely angry. But was her face was more flushed than usual?
His heart began to beat a little harder in anticipation and he cautioned himself to be very sure he was not projecting his own needs onto her. Was there something in her eyes? Had something changed? Her awareness?
God and Mithras combined…let it be so, Alaric pleaded silently to deities in the off-chance they were listening.
* * * * *
Diana could barely breathe. Anger was stealing much of the air from her lungs but the fast, furious rush of energy the anger was injecting was blanketed by a more powerful lethargy that stole into her senses and slowed her mind while it sensitized her body.
She was keenly aware of Alaric’s knee thrust horizontally next to her own. She had only to lift her hand a little and she would be able to rest it against his thigh. If she swayed to the right she would push up against it.
The very idea was intoxicating. She could think of nothing else but the attraction of feeling his thigh against her. It would press against her body and perhaps relieve the unusual sensations.
She was restless and knew now that the restlessness could only be cured by the man standing before her. But he was furious. His eyes were glittering with his fury and as she watched with hushed breath and heart, his hand snaked up to capture her head a
gainst the palm of his hand.
“You…” he growled, drawing her head down so their eyes were level. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. Suddenly too, a wash of his scent rolled over her. Male smells. Good ones. Clean, appealing—she had no idea how she knew the difference, or why his scent was good, except that it seemed to move something deep inside her she had never experienced before. It rolled over, she could feel it move. A whole range of new feelings struck her. She could not sort them out—not now—but they felt wonderful. They forced a tiny gasp from her—little more than a quickly in-drawn breath. They drained her of strength. She reached out to steady herself against his shoulders.
His skin was hot under the tunic. His shoulders were wider than Diana had known, her hands were miniscule against them. The urge to move her hands, to feel more, was strong.
He was watching every emotion appear on her face. At the sound of her gasp, his anger drained from his face just as her own strength had drained away.
“You…” he whispered again. His gaze fell to her lips.
Diana could not speak. His hand still held her head. Was he going to kiss her? Please—her mind whispered. Please, do what you will with me. Do it now. Now! Her entire body tried to reach toward him, to will him to take the kiss he was contemplating and more. Even her heart stopped.
Please, she silently begged.
“Is this man bothering you, my dear?”
The voice intruded loudly and there was enough familiarity about it for Diana to drag her focus back to the present moment, an internal alarm alerting her.
Alaric released his hold on her and Diana found herself falling back a step in reaction to the sudden cessation of pressure. Had he been drawing her closer still?
While trying to overcome the physical wrench the interruption caused, Diana stepped to one side so that she could see beyond Alaric’s bulk down to the lower tiers.
Alaric had already whirled to face the intruder. Diana suspected his speed of response was a result of his fighting skills. His hand was actually resting on the hilt of his knife.
Standing two tiers below Alaric was the Bishop of Eboracum. His face held a pleasant, inquiring smile, emphasized by almost non-existent brows drawn high upon the hairless dome of his head. His protruding eyes grew rounder when his gaze fell upon Diana.
“Why, Mistress Diana. My lady, I would not have recognized you from farther away. You have…” His gaze swept across her attire. “Changed,” he concluded, his voice dry.
“Thank you,” she replied. She merely intended to annoy the Bishop but then she realized how little she truly cared for his good opinion of her.
But the Bishop was turning to face Alaric, Diana’s presence already forgotten. The speed of his dismissal told her that the Bishop had wanted all along to confront Alaric. Perhaps his surprise at seeing her had even been genuine. Perhaps he had seen Alaric from afar and crossed the forum to this sunny deserted end to deal with him.
Eboracus had picked poor ground, though. He stood an arm’s length lower than Alaric and even the two armed guards that flanked him did not offset the advantage of height their relative positions gave Alaric.
“Well, well,” Eboracus said pleasantly, his voice smooth and polite. “The Celt. The Pendragon’s man.”
“Eboracus,” Alaric acknowledge briefly.
To a man like Eboracus, used to the trappings and formalities of the church, the absence of rank or title in Alaric’s acknowledgment was like a slap in the face. Eboracus’ eyes narrowed. He did not like it. “You are not welcome here, remember?”
The Bishop’s steadiness in the face of opposition was renowned. What had happened between these two men in the past that could drive Eboracus to the attack so fast?
“Alaric came to the city as my escort,” Diana told the Bishop.
His glance barely strayed in her direction. Had he even heard her?
Her body, already shaky from the sudden halt to the flow of energy that had been surging through her seconds ago, now began to cramp down into itself. There was nothing pleasant or exciting about this tension.
Eboracus smiled at Alaric, a smile full of perverted pleasure. “So, a hired hand.” He almost drooled. “You break your allegiance to your beloved Pendragon so easily, Celt?”
Diana noticed how tightly Alaric’s shoulder muscles were flexed. He was clenching his fist. As she looked, the muscles rippled again.
“I know where my loyalty lies, Christian. I do what I must.” Alaric’s tone implied that Eboracus did not push his duty as far.
“You do what you must? Tarrying in dalliance with a Roman woman?”
“He was not—” Diana began hotly, starting to step around Alaric. But she halted, Alaric’s hand against her legs like a barring gate. Her astonishment was enough to silence her. Alaric didn’t glance at her.
Eboracus’ penetrating gaze settled on Diana. “It has apparently been far too long since I paid my respects to your family, my lady. Far, far too long. I was saddened to hear of the death of your father.”
He made no mention of the deaths of Diana’s mother and sister. Diana knew that even if he had heard of their passing it would have meant less than nothing to him because they were women. The thought caused a tight sad congestion in her chest. Had their lives meant so little to others too?
“You must pass on my compliments to your brother Verus. Tell him that I look forward to his visit to my chambers. Will you do that for me?”
Responses sprang to her mind. I can’t. I won’t. I will. Go away. She stared at him, wondering what she should say. Uppermost in her mind was pure annoyance, a product of her sadness and an infant sense of her own power that had been incubated over the last year and born just moments before. It was really nothing to do with Eboracus that her brother was no longer at the estate.
But caution stayed her tongue. This was the Bishop of Eboracum and his influence in this town was extensive. She had heard whispers about the fate of those who opposed him too openly.
“Yes, your Excellency,” Diana said stiffly. “I will pass on your message when next I see him.”
Eboracus’ eyes narrowed a little. “Good, good,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“My lady, the hour grows late,” Alaric said.
Diana nodded. “Yes. I must leave now, or it will be dark before I arrive home.”
“Then I will delay you not,” the Bishop agreed jovially and stepped down to the last tier. “Good day to you both.” He climbed down to the forum floor and walked away, his guards bracketing him perfectly. He didn’t look back but that did not reassure Diana.
She shivered. It was as if the sun had slipped behind a cloud. All the good feelings of the day had evaporated, leaving her achy and empty. There was a niggling sense of impending doom.
“I want to go home,” she said, staring after the Bishop.
“Yes,” Alaric agreed, his voice flat. “It’s well past time we left.”
* * * * *
They walked back to the stable where they had left their horses for the day, barely exchanging a word. That suited Alaric completely.
He had been about to kiss Diana when Eboracus had appeared. He didn’t know if he should thank fate for that timely interruption, or not.
Eboracus was a dangerous man and Alaric disliked him for more than his Roman heritage but he could not deny Eboracus’ observations had been accurate.
“You break your allegiance to your beloved Pendragon so easily, Celt?…Tarrying in dalliance with a Roman woman?”
It was an unappetizing truth.
How had he strayed so far from his simple task of doing Arthur’s bidding? It had started with a solitary step, a simple desire to help Diana and had ended—had nearly ended—in disaster.
Having Diana and remaining loyal to Arthur were conflicting ambitions. He could see that now. The closer he got to Diana, the farther he moved from his duty to Arthur. Choosing between them was not possible, for Alaric had already sworn his allegiance, his lif
e, to making Arthur’s future a fact.
Eboracus’ observation had been a cold bucket of water to his good sense. Alaric felt as if he had been roused and snatched from a seductive, dangerous dream. He was awake now. He would not let his sight drift away from his duty again.
Chapter Thirteen
Diana had assumed that the compulsion to go home stemmed from a desire to escape the unpleasant situation in the forum, to get away from the Bishop’s domain of influence. She hadn’t dreamed that there might really be something seriously amiss at the estate, yet there was.
Diana and Alaric heard the strident voices as they rode into the courtyard and by unspoken consent they dismounted and tethered the horses to a low branch of the oak tree and hurried to the dining room, from where the voices issued.
It was not yet supper time and no food stood upon the tables, yet every person on the estate had assembled in the room. They were all standing, facing toward the large family table at the end of the room, where Diana usually sat. Diana could see nothing but broad backs when she entered and she pushed her way through.
“Let me pass.”
They stepped aside and made room for her. The voices fell to a murmur. Diana could at last see the big table. Sosia, Griffin and Rhys stood there, along with Rowena and Evadne.
Everyone was angry, Diana realized. Everyone except Rowena.
The flaxen-haired woman had been crying. Her face was marred by unpretty red blotches and her eyes were pink and swollen. She sat at the table, surrounded by the others and as Diana’s glance fell upon her, Rowena’s chin quivered, heralding more tears.
Rhys was armed.
Diana pushed her way to the table and the room fell silent. “What goes on here?” she demanded.
Alaric silently took up place beside Rhys and crossed his arms.
Evadne spoke. “Sosia caught Rowena stealing food from the supply room.”
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