She stopped, the sun spilling down on her uncovered hair, which, despite Eric’s thoughts on the matter, Conan considered lovely. “You calling kissing me a vice?”
“No! I – ” Instead of focusing on her, Eric swept his gaze out to the hills. “It’s that Victor never ceases with haranguing about girls.”
His gaze might not focus on her ill-favored face, but she fixed hers on him. He had the chiseled features of one of those Greek gods at the temple, the height of a warrior, and he was a patrician. “You’ve really never kissed a girl?”
“You, too? Going to harp on this?” He shot his hand forward and grabbed her at the waist. Yanking her toward him, he touched his lips to hers. His hand fell from her.
It lasted for all of one moment. The merest brush, not even a kiss, but perhaps Eric didn’t think her ill-favored. She looked at him.
“Mea culpa, I shouldn’t have kissed you.” He slumped back against the structure.
“You shouldn’t have kissed me without asking.” She swept her eyelashes up. “Besides, you call that a kiss?”
“I – ” He met her gaze now. He dug his teeth into his lower lip.
“It’s supposed to go like this.” Grabbing his hand, she stepped into his space. Her body almost touched his bare chest.
He looked down, interested.
Sweat built on her hands as her arms tingled. Pruella said he wouldn’t respect her if she kissed him first. Gaze falling to the weeds, Cara stepped back. “Never mind.”
Eric didn’t release her hand. “No, show me.”
Heat rushed across her cheeks. He stood so tall, so unclothed, a patrician. “Well.” She ran her tongue over her lips.
His gaze locked on those lips. If she did this, she was wanton, but he didn’t look like he’d lose respect for her.
“First, you do it slowly.” Her dress touched his skin as she slid her arm up around his neck. “Hold me while you do it.”
He moved both his arms around her waist, his big hands pressing against the fabric of her dress.
Her heart pounded in her throat, her palms slick. “Keep eye contact. Barely brush my lips first, before deepening, and – ”
He bent his head as he touched his mouth to hers. He tasted of sweat and dust with the faintest tinge of something exotic. A spice? Import from Rome? She felt his chest move in and out. He cradled her in his arms.
Then he pulled away. “Like that?”
She pressed her lips together, evaluating. “Almost. Stronger on the pressure. Not overpowering, but act like you want it.”
“I do want it.” His eyes laughed at her.
Even her fingers flushed.
His other arm around the crook of her waist, Eric pulled her back. His mouth met hers as his breath touched her cheeks. A glow rose through her, and it didn’t feel wanton. She closed her eyes.
Objectively, Conan kissed better, but Conan’s kisses had never felt this tender. Eric’s long fingers, hot on her waist, touched so gently, his lips caressing her. Cara stood to her tiptoes, reaching for more.
“Behold, I told you that you could kiss a girl.” Victor rounded the corner of the shed. “Now to try more than one.”
Hands dropping, Eric jerked away from her.
Cara slapped her hand across her lips. She could still feel Eric’s kiss on them.
“Finally ready to run that race?” Eric struck his fist against Victor’s shoulder and he sprinted off.
She pressed her fingers back against the rough wood behind her as she watched Eric disappear. The white linen covering his thighs marked him as a patrician. Someday, half a decade in the future, he would pursue a betrothal to a pubescent patrician girl with a generous dowry and a politically-connected familia, bringing honor to the Paterculi name.
Kicking forward, she smashed her boot against a broken javelin. The already splintered wood broke. If only she’d been born a patrician.
A mosaic of Hercules completing his twelve labors stretched across the bedroom walls. Fading sunlight poured in the low window, illuminating discuses piled on top of the yew dresser.
Rolling over to his stomach, Eric rolled the scroll further down. The Hebrew letters merged into words as he concentrated on the foreign symbols.
The Shulamite woman met King Solomon in a field. The Shulamite seemed enamored of Solomon, begging him to kiss her with the kisses of his mouth.
A girl had kissed him in a field today. A village girl who had no business kissing patrician men. Her kisses had felt like fire, setting everything in their path alight.
She had the deepest brown eyes, but her eyelashes had swept shut over them as she kissed him, outlining the perfect curve of her cheek and so much else, which he really shouldn’t have looked at today. He wouldn’t have kissed her if he’d known how hot a blaze one kiss could light.
“Eric.” Gwen bounced into the room and jerked the table drawer open. She pulled out a string of pearls, a Paterculi heirloom he’d taken when they’d cleaned out an Italian villa last year. “I want them for the political dinner tonight.”
“You already got the golden amulets from grandfather’s villa.”
“Yes, but what are you going to do with pearls?” Gwen rested her hands on her hips. “Have a girl to give them to?”
“You can’t have them. They’re mine.”
“You’re selfish and greedy. Hurry before you’re late again.” The pearls slid through Gwen’s fingers and she swept out the door.
Eric skimmed his gaze down the scroll. Now the Shulamite compared Solomon to cedar trees and started using vineyard metaphors for shedding clothes.
He should probably start reading Job or Lamentations before he did something stulte, like kiss a girl again.
What if this Cara kissed him first? Then would it still be immoral to kiss her back?
An hour later, he arrived, on time, for another political dinner. Beautiful silks caught the candlelight as servants bent with the weight of heaping platters. Eric looked out into the dark gardens and wished himself anywhere but here.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Father. “What’s this I hear about you disturbing the peace? A fisherman’s wife said you injured three of her goats and destroyed their pen.”
With a groan, Eric turned to Father. He and Victor had raced chariots beside the river by the full moon, and when he’d curved around a boulder, that birch-wood pen had come out of nowhere. The goats lunged forward, mahhing, and Victor’s chariot wheels ran the poor creatures over. He’d come back the next day and paid the woman.
“She complained to the garrison and it got back to me.” Father directed a pointed glare at him.
If Wryn killed a goat, Father wouldn’t glare at him.
“There was another report of a docked fishing boat cracked through by a chariot wheel. Was that you, too?”
Eric shook his head. “No, that was Victor.”
“Good. Though, why are you always with Victor Ocelli?”
Eric shrugged. “He’s my friend.” He had invited Wryn first, but his brother refused to do aught beyond garrison work even into the late stretches of the night.
“The Ocellis are an unscrupulous, self-serving lot, and Victor’s a drunken lecher. Why is he your friend?”
Because, unlike Father, Victor didn’t think discussing the Macedonian legion’s role in invading Dacia a light conversation. Eric rotated toward the gardens. “I’m training for the pentathlon with him.”
“Very well, train with the man, but I don’t want to hear any more reports about you and late night misadventures, or gambling and drinking.”
A few dead goats, which he’d fully compensated the querulous fisherman’s wife for, one never-to-be repeated afternoon where he imbibed strong drink, and some gambling. He had the cleanest record of any patrician’s son in the province, but did Father see that? No. Father complained about goats.
“Balbinus Maximus’ ship sails for Moesia in eleven days. The evening before, he’s hosting a lecture at an inn near the port.”
“Do I truly have to waste two months of my life on the Danube outside Dacia?” Eric stretched the foot he’d landed on wrong in this afternoon’s javelin competition. Kelwyn learned fast, which was good since he got a distinct impression the lad’s life aspirations consisted of learning to swindle better. He’d bet an aureus the boy had stolen the meat pasty he gobbled down this noonday.
“You had better not waste it. I want you to learn about Dacia and the methods of province warfare.” Father’s voice had a harsh quality.
“Let Wryn go. He actually wants to.” Maybe he should tell Kelwyn to become a legionary. As egregious as that fate was – twenty years of no homeland, no marriage, bad food, and worse pay – it would keep Kelwyn from getting executed.
Father straightened to his full height. “Wryn already does well. I’m giving you this opportunity because you’ve failed at every chance I’ve given you in Britannia.”
Wryn again, the favored son. “Opportunity? More like imprisonment.” The words whipped out like a sword thrust. Eric swallowed. He shouldn’t have said that.
“Eric.” Father raised his hand, anger behind his eyes. “I don’t want to hear it from you.”
Even though he stood almost a head taller than Father now, the man could still make his feet quake in his sandals. Eric muttered, “Because you’d rather have a political cog than an actual son.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, sir.” After he proved himself to Father by completing this exile to Dacia and winning the Londinium pentathlon, then he’d ask for his training school loan.
Tilting his wine goblet, Victor drank deeply, but the heady rush of wine gave him no pleasure. Behind him, the lights and noise of the political event continued on, yet he glared out the arched window.
Father, in another evening rage, had called him a craven for losing more shipments to patrolling legionaries. As if he could stop the legate of the province from being competent?
He still breathed down his neck about Eric, too. As if Eric knew anything. Also, why, by Jove, was Eric so happy? Not only did he eschew opportunities for wealth and power, but the man had stoic standards with women.
Eric should be miserable. Victor glared into the swirling red depths of his goblet. Instead, Eric acted like one kiss with Cara, who was pleasing enough to look at but certainly not dazzling, gave him more pleasure than the many girls he, the master seducer, had bedded this month. Eric always treated Cara with so much respect, as if she was a virtuous girl at risk of getting hurt.
Victor scowled. Cara might be an innocent, but she would not linger at the training grounds, or have attended his party, if she was a virtuous girl. See if Eric would still act so accursedly happy if he proved that to the man.
“So.”
Victor startled at the voice.
“Ready to include me in your plans?” Marcellus’ dark eyes had a shifty quality.
“I told you already, the Paterculis are friends.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t interest you to know, then, that the River Colne’s detachment is moving tomorrow night, leaving the bank open for smuggled goods.”
Victor searched Marcellus’ face. Visage as unchanging as a mask, only the man’s eyes moved. “The Ocellis are legitimate traders, not smugglers.”
“Include me in your plans, and I’ll aid you. Cut me out and,” Marcellus twirled his knife, “I could bring some things I’ve noticed to the attention of Legate Paterculi.”
Victor bore his teeth into his lip. Father would never make a stranger privy to their plans, but they couldn’t afford more confiscated shipments. Not with the Viri demanding payment for their protection. Considering the Viri hadn’t stopped the legate’s raids, it was rather wretched protection, but those who got on the wrong side of the Viri died.
“Am I included?”
Victor nodded. He needn’t tell Father.
“What do you need from me?”
Moving closer, Victor lowered his voice. “Get close to the Paterculis. Find out if they suspect us.”
“If they do?”
Father would want them killed. Victor shivered.
Fifth inane political event this week alone. Eric glanced out at the rising moon as the speakers droned on. Emperor Trajan honoring accolades, something about an increase in piracy on the channel, and a lot about Dacia. Ten more days until Father exiled him to those Dacian shores.
He’d found the perfect spot to build his training school, a plot of ground two miles north of the garrison. The soldiers would come. He already had connections with the patricians training for tribune rank, and he’d let some of the street boys like Kelwyn in without charge. It would keep them out of the garrison jail at least.
Then he’d have his independence, stop this Father-enforced farce of feigning interest in politics, and work on something he could succeed at.
Light spilled out through the arches. The clash of political talk and men making allies while women inspired allegiance to their husbands’ causes, all faded as Eric walked into the garden. Hedges closed in around him, moonflowers opening up their delicate blossoms to the stars above.
A hedgerow ahead, two figures stood on a marble terrace. The moonlight silhouetted them, revealing a male shadow and a female shadow. A fountain bubbled behind them and two moonlit statues guarded their exit.
Eric halted before he burst upon their seclusion. Would Father lend him the money for the training school if he won the pentathlon? Or would Father insist he serve five years as a tribune first, as this Dacia misadventure was obviously intended to prepare him for?
Ahead, the female figure turned, exposing her face to moonlight. His sister. Her movement revealed the man’s face. Marcellus.
Gwen leaned back against the hedge, playing with a bit of vine with her fingers. “They tell me you have an appalling reputation.”
“Excuse them. I fought bravely in Dacia.” Marcellus swept his hand forward.
Plucking a leaf, Gwen giggled in that completely irrational way girls have. “No, in your personal life.”
“Now that I shan’t deny.”
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Gwen swept her painted eyelashes up.
“You’d blush to hear it.” Marcellus’ voice was low, too low. Gwen shouldn’t have come out here with him.
Gwen tossed her shoulders. “I bet you’d blush to hear the worst thing I’ve done. Once, when we sailed down the Danube, Eric and I took a knife up the rigging, and then we cut down the main – ”
Eric shoved through the hedge. “I was ten. Leave it be, sis.”
Marcellus startled. Gwen didn’t.
Instead, she raised her one bare shoulder, lips arching. “Leave Marcellus’ curiosity unsated?”
“Yea, we can leave a lot of Marcellus unsated,” Eric muttered.
“Gwen,” a girlish voice called from the courtyard within.
“Oh, pardon. I nearly forgot I’d promised Aulia I’d hear her news.” Turning, Gwen sprinted away.
Marcellus watched Gwen leave. Her sandals hit the cobblestones, tunica flapping up as she ran. “Your sister’s astute.”
“She’s also beyond bounds.”
Marcellus grinned. “To hear her talk, sounds like I’m the least of her problems.” Then he turned and moved through the shrubbery, silent as a shadow.
Eric stared out at the Britannia moon. Only ten more days to enjoy it, and a sea voyage would do nothing to aid his speed. He still needed to gain at least ten paces on Victor.
“Where’s Marcellus?” Gwen shook his arm.
With a groan, Eric turned to her. “Left, just.”
“Oh.” Gwen’s face drooped.
Turning on the cobblestones, Eric walked between the hedges.
“Where are you off to?”
“Got to get up early tomorrow to run. The pentathlon’s in three months.”
“I’d say you’re sure to win, but I’m still furious at you,” Gwen said.
“I don’t need you
r well-wishes to win. And you do know Marcellus is a lecher, right?”
“He knows about Dacia. That’s the only reason I talk to him.” Gwen twisted her hands around each other, sweat glistening on them. “But don’t tell Father.”
Eric moved his mouth up. “Tell Father what? That you enjoy discussing Dacian war strategies with an expert? Balbinus Maximus is a fount of knowledge on these topics. Perhaps you could arrange moonlit walks in the garden with that old, fat man.”
“If you tell, I’m telling on you!” Gwen lifted her hand to hit him.
He jumped back before she could slap her hand across his jaw. “You don’t even have anything on me.”
She wouldn’t find anything either, because, though he’d never be Wryn, maybe he could pass Balbinus Maximus’ Moesia class. Cara thought so anyway.
Then, after thoroughly impressing Father with that, he’d get his training school, excel at it, and show Father that he was no degenerate.
The Dacian scroll swam before Eric’s eyes as he attempted the next line for the third time. Afternoon sunlight spilled in through the tablinum, a perfectly good training day going to waste. He’d not win the pentathlon, nor convince Father that he could run a training school, if he didn’t train.
Elbows on his knees, Eric shifted on the hard stool. Wryn and Gwen sat on the couches across from him. Outside, a horse-shaped cloud slowly shifted.
His small brother, followed by an equally grungy mutt, bounced into the room. “You got another marriage proposal, Gwen,” Paulus shouted in a singsong voice.
Gwen dropped her scroll, eyes lighting. “From who?”
“The Tellnus’ eldest son.” Paulus scratched the mutt.
“Oh.” Gwen sank back. “I’m not taking him.”
The curtain at the doorway parted and Father entered. “Caius Tellnus came by this – ”
“Paulus told me.” Gwen plunged her elbows into the cushions. “Absolutely not. He’s tedious.”
“Which is a shallow reason, but I rejected him anyway because he’s not a follower of the Way and he gambles, so I’m glad you concur.”
Gwen pouted. “Why do all these stulte men have to keep proposing?”
When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2) Page 7
