Claudia dropped her gaze. “No.” She stooped and picked up the wool.
“What does your mother say? If she stands with you, perhaps your father will relent.”
“She won’t.” Claudia wrapped the wool so tight the ball of yarn contorted. “She’s not even my real mother.”
Gwen shifted on the bench. “What do you mean?”
“Father divorced Mother when he rose in power, got a more influential wife. I don’t even remember her.”
“Where’s she now?”
Claudia shrugged. “Moesia, I think. She still writes me every month, but my father won’t let me have her letters.”
A mother in Moesia. What better place for Claudia to run away to? Gwen felt for her stylus. After she visited the fuller’s shop, she’d have to discover a bit more about this mother.
The kitchen fire flamed hot on this warm spring day. Gwen pulled her legs up on the bench and rested her plate on her lap as Marcellus downed boiled eggs and potato soup. In all their eighteen days married, Marcellus hadn’t reclined in the triclinium, the proper place to dine, once. Gwen looked at him. “What are your plans for the evening?”
“I have to attend a dinner at Cato’s house.”
She brushed a crumb off her skirt. “That sounds delightful.”
“Scarcely.” Marcellus bit into an egg. “If you choose to come, you must promise not to speak to Cato.”
“Why must I promise that?”
No answer, of course. Marcellus never answered questions.
Gwen took a bite of asparagus. “I inquired today about hiring a few more servants. Did you never live here much? You need a porter at least, and someone to clean, a gardener—”
“No.”
“What do you mean no? The atrium’s already filthy, and the hedges look like no one’s trimmed them for three years.”
“I’ll do it.”
She dropped the last sprig of asparagus. It fell with a plop. “You’ll do it?”
He stood. “Finished?” He bent for her plate.
She nodded. “But I can—”
His hand closed on her plate and he piled it on his. As if instinctual, he shook the plates off in the slop jar and dunked them in a pail of water. He stirred the water as he cleaned them. Grabbing a towel, he swished it over the plates and laid them on the shelf by the other clean dishes.
Gwen touched the bench as she stared at him.
Unlike the Marcellus familia, the Paterculis had a reputation as Stoics who eschewed decadence, hired few servants, and treated those they had well. Yet, she’d never seen Wryn or her father do that.
Crossing the kitchen, she took Marcellus’ wet hand and smiled at him.
“What?” He lay the folded towel on the cabinet.
“Nothing. I’m just in love with you.” She brushed her fingers up his temple, across the cartilage of his ear. His short hair jabbed against her palm.
“When did you first love me?”
“That autumn day in Britannia when you met me outside the Camulodunum gates, and we spent all afternoon wandering in the woods collecting beechnuts. You kissed me the first time then too, remember? And you?”
“At the Tellnus dinner party, six weeks before Saturnalia.”
Because of the snow covering the gardens, she had no chance to speak to Marcellus at that party. She’d smelled of fish all evening because a little serving boy had spilled an entire plate of sea bass on her. The Tellnus’ eldest son had beaten the boy for it, despite her begging him not to. She’d given the child a sweet cake after, and his tears had slowed. “Why that night?”
Marcellus let his hands fall from her. “I have work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
His sandals thudded against the tile as he disappeared into the courtyard beyond. Quidquid. She’d bought cloth, and now she’d replace all the curtains in the entranceways.
Gwen’s silk stola hung less awkwardly than the linen ones. If she’d known how unattractive a stola’s extra layer of fabric was, she’d not have envied married women’s wardrobes so much these past two years.
As Cato’s dinner guests milled, she tugged at the red silk. It only rumpled more beneath her belt.
“Gwen Paterculi in the flesh.” Fabius’ martial figure blocked the lamplight.
She planted her feet on the tile. He in no way deserved Claudia.
“Surprised you’re still showing your face after the infamia of what you did.” He perused her in a much less respectful manner than a month ago.
For certain, she’d started a scandal, but she was married now. She drew her bare arms over each other. “I did nothing worthy of infamia.”
He tilted dark eyebrows up. “So sure?”
“You are the most arrogant, self-absorbed—”
“At least in me, you would have found a worthy husband.” He raked his gaze over her body.
“Worthy? There’s nothing worth anything about you. And you don’t deserve Claudia either.”
He moved his broad shoulders up. “Wouldn’t take much to deserve her, and I’m a tribune in the Roman army.”
How dare he speak of Claudia that way! Gwen clapped her sandal against the tile as she stepped into Fabius’ space. “Marcellus served bravely in Dacia.”
“Ha!”
“What do you mean, ‘ha’? People still speak about the battles Caius Marcellus won.”
Instead of stepping back, Fabius held his domineering position only a few handbreadths from her. “If not for him, you’d be my wife.”
As if. She held her head high above the pearls dangling at her throat. “You would like to think that, wouldn’t you? How’s it feel to be rejected in place of a better man?”
“Better man!” Fury flamed across Fabius’ face, steam rising.
She curved her lips. “You never achieved war hero status in Dacia. In fact, I hear you lost more battles than you won.”
Fabius clenched his hands. “That man never—”
Raising her kohl-tinged lashes, Gwen shrugged her shoulders, mussing the fabric of her stola. “Can’t get a girl any better than rout an army?”
Red covered Fabius’ face, and though he opened his mouth, only fumes emerged. A delightful scenario indeed.
A hand touched her. Marcellus. Faultless timing. Sliding her hand up his shoulder, she smiled at him.
Marcellus gestured right, but Fabius was her archenemy, and he’d insulted Claudia. Stepping in front of Marcellus, she stood on tiptoe and pressed her kiss on his mouth.
A supremely satisfying case of near-apoplexy overcame Fabius.
Marcellus pushed her away. “Don’t flaunt it.”
Her face fell.
A victory sneer parted Fabius’ mouth.
“But Marcellus….” She turned her gaze up to him, and she couldn’t hide the betrayal in her eyes.
Taking her hand, Marcellus tugged her right to the food tables beyond. As she followed him, Marcellus dropped his voice. “Fabius is a dangerous man. ‘Tis unwise to anger him.”
Dangerous? Marcellus kept company with Victor Ocelli, who he admitted was a murderer.
Anyway, she certainly wouldn’t stand by and let a man who even the Marcellus feared marry her sweet friend.
Marcellus glanced at the moon. Second watch of the night and if he hurried he’d arrive home by the third watch. Now if only Gwen didn’t wake again. The Shadow Man had spoken truth on one account. Gwen did have a keen mind.
A wild olive grove hid the boat tethered a quarter mile farther on.
“You stay here.” Marcellus motioned to Androkles and the other nine men. Swinging up on the horse, he dug his heels into the unsteady mount.
Cato already stood on the smugglers’ gangway, a dozen Viri men behind him.
Swinging off the horse, Marcellus hastened up the gangway.
“Late again.” Cato glared at him.
Actually, it was the first time ever because he had to wait until Gwen fell asleep. “My apologies. I trust I haven’t made the Sha
dow Man wait as well?”
Cato narrowed his eyes. “The Shadow Man’s not returning until the spy who followed him last time is caught.”
“Spy?” Marcellus forced his breath steady. “Is he sure? The town’s full of cutpurses looking to stalk anyone wearing a tunic without holes.”
“Oh, he’s sure.” Cato’s cloak blew in the wind.
Not come back until the spy was caught? Until the Shadow Man came back, they’d have no chance of catching him. He only had a month left in Consul Julius’ two-month deadline.
The Viri men started hauling men and women from the hull.
Another slaver ship. Marcellus clenched his fists. Nothing he could do now.
The ship’s crew brought out chains, and the Viri men moved down the line of dirty captives, clasping cruel iron around wrists.
Cato paced the line, inspecting the slaves like so much merchandise. Hooking his thumb underneath one girl’s chin, Cato jerked it up. “You’ll bring quite the price at Ostia’s slave market.” He ran his hand down her dress.
The girl cried out.
“Don’t touch my sister.” A man broke away from the Viri men. He plowed a fist into Cato’s face.
Whipping out his knife, Cato sank the blade into the man’s ribs. He fell to the deck, his life blood pooling in a dark circle. Cato stabbed his toe into the man’s chest. “I didn’t intend to take her for myself, but now I think I will.”
As the slave gasped his last breath, Cato cinched his deadly fingers around the girl’s hips.
Stifling the curses, Marcellus yanked his gaze away and forced his hands, which shook with rage, to steady. Oh, for the day when he caught the Shadow Man and Consul Julius brought the Viri down.
Cool night breeze blew over Gwen. The moonlight fell on her face and she opened her eyes.
The covers lay flat around her, Marcellus gone. She touched her bare feet to the tile floor. Marcellus had a reputation for women, but surely not. Not now anyway. Or would he? Wryn thought him a smuggler.
Her hands shook as she held a flax wick to the fire embers. Holding the clay lamp high, she swung the door open and crossed to the atrium. Perhaps Marcellus had gone for water.
She entered the kitchen—empty. One by one, she pulled back curtains and checked rooms. Empty.
Crossing the hall quickly, she rapped her fist against the backroom door Marcellus had denied her entrance to.
A man leaped from the floor, his eyes groggy with sleep. “Domina?”
She stabbed a finger to the locked room. “Is Marcellus in there?” The lamp jolted. A drop of burning oil scorched her hand. She’d empty the entire lamp on Marcellus if he truly weren't here this night.
“Ask Bruno.” The man pointed to the door that separated the villa from the courtyard.
Marching across the atrium, she shoved the door open. Bruno and other dark shadows patrolled the courtyard. “Is Marcellus here?”
“What?” Bruno raised shaggy eyebrows.
“Marcellus, the man who owns this villa.”
Bruno glanced evasively around the courtyard. “I suppose he’s gone out.”
“Gone where?”
Bruno shrugged.
“Oh, you know. You, by Jove, do know. The question is, are you going to tell me?”
“You should get some rest, domina.” Bruno gestured to the door. “It’s late.”
“Yes, much too late for legal activities.” The cobblestones felt cold against her feet.
Stepping back, Bruno jerked the villa door open and waited for her to go inside.
She glanced across the courtyard to the gate. Wherever Marcellus had gone, he was long gone by now.
Her bare feet drummed the way to her room, their room.
Could Wryn have spoken truth? Was Marcellus a smuggler, in league with pirates and that ilk? She shivered. Or did he ‘merely’ live up to his adulterous reputation?
Which was worse?
The clay lamp warmed her hands as she stared out the broad window to the rising moon. Either way, would she have to tell her family? Her gaze dropped to her dirty feet.
She sank into the couch and waited as the moon rose to its zenith then dipped lower in the sky.
The door creaked open. Marcellus’ sandal clipped the tile.
She jumped up from the couch. “Where were you?”
Marcellus moved next to her, a smile on his face. “Right here with you, delicia.”
“No, you weren’t. Don’t give me any of your ridiculous stories about only stepping out for a moment either. I’ve stayed awake the whole time.” She slammed the lamp on the table. Sweat stained his tunic and fresh grass clung to his sandals.
Flanking her, Marcellus ran his fingers through her loosened hair. He kissed her upside down, the brush of his lips heavenly. “I love you. More than the sand, and the stars, and the—”
Had he kissed another woman with those lips tonight? “Where?”
He eased onto the couch. Fingers hot on her waist, he tugged her down beside him. “Where do you think I was?” He grazed his mouth against her jaw.
“Somewhere bad enough you don’t want me to know.” She flicked her gaze up to that handsome face she’d thought she knew. Smuggling? Adultery? Which could she more easily believe of him? Which would she prefer to believe of him? Her throat tightened, uncried sobs shoving against her chest.
He stood and took her hand. “Parts of my life are private, Gwen. Let’s get some rest.”
“I’m your wife.” She slapped her feet against the tile as she stood to her full height.
“You have to trust me, Gwen.” His eyes looked so sincere.
Very well, he didn’t find it necessary to confess his goings-on to her. She wouldn’t share her strategy to find out with him. If he was a smuggler, letting on she knew could jeopardize her life. “You’re right, dear.” Stepping into him, she pressed her hands to his chest and kissed him.
“Um.” Marcellus stared at her.
She ran her hands across his face. The face of a liar.
“You’re accepting my answer?” Shock widened his eyes.
“Of course, darling. Who would I trust more than you?” Perhaps a weasel on opium.
Chapter 21
Gwen entered the Paterculi villa. Should she tell Mother and Father what happened last night? Awkwardness wouldn’t begin to describe the moment, but she needed advice. She pushed the curtain to the tablinum aside and peered inside.
Wryn bent over a parchment.
She certainly wasn’t telling him what happened. “Wryn, salve. What’s new at home?”
“Father got the consul position. They want him to leave for Gaul by the morrow.”
Her familia gone from Rome? Her alone here—with Marcellus.
“He’s having fits trying to decide whether to go because of leaving you here with Marcellus.” Wryn scratched a pen across the parchment.
Her hand trembled. “What happens if Father delays?”
“He risks losing the position to another man.” Wryn tipped a candle over the parchment, dripping wax over it to seal it.
Oh. She couldn’t let Father lose the position he’d wanted for years. She stilled her hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“I doubt that. As does Father.” Wryn plunged his copy of the Paterculi signet ring into the wax.
Why didn’t women get signet rings? Blatant male oppression. Turning, she walked across the atrium. All too soon this domus would stretch out in emptiness, and, if Marcellus proved as bad as his reputation suggested, she’d have no defender in all of Rome.
The curtain to Mother and Father’s room hung open and they stood inside.
“Congratulations on the consulship, Papa.” Running forward, Gwen threw her arms around Father’s neck. “Wryn told me.”
Concern etched Father’s forehead. “I don’t like leaving you in Rome alone.”
“I won’t be alone.” She summoned a smile. “I’ll be with Marcellus.”
“That’s what concerns me.” Father cock
ed his head as his dark eyes searched her face. “Marcellus hasn’t done anything too obscene in public these last few weeks, but has he treated you right at home?”
Did sneaking off for hours in the middle of the night count as right? No. She bit her lip. Father had wanted a consulship for twenty years. “Marcellus is everything a woman would want in a husband.”
“I could stay in Rome.” Mother touched her shoulder.
Mother hated Rome. She’d be much happier in Gaul with Father. Gwen shook her head. “No need.” She’d gotten herself into this Marcellus disaster. Her parents shouldn’t suffer the consequences of it.
“You could come with us, see the sights of Gaul?” Mother’s blue eyes held hope.
No, she needed answers. If she ever did go to her familia in Gaul, she wasn’t coming back to Marcellus, ever. “I’m not leaving my husband.”
Father frowned. “If you are sure, we’re supposed to leave on the morrow.”
“May God go with you on the journey.” Holding back tears, she embraced Father, then Mother.
What if the rumors did prove true? Or what if Marcellus worked for the Viri? Who would she turn to then? Wryn’s army leave would end soon and he’d return to Moesia.
Speaking of which, she’d promised Aulia she would interrogate Wryn before he left. Exiting the room, Gwen crossed to the tablinum where Wryn now marked a tablet with his stylus.
Gwen cleared her throat. “Wryn.”
He looked up.
“Do you think you’ll marry someday?”
“Of course. I’m the firstborn son. I have to produce male heirs, carry on the Paterculi line.” He moved to the next tablet.
“Wryn! Have you no romance in your soul?” Worst of all, Aulia wouldn’t care. She’d count herself fortunate to have Aulia as a sister, but Aulia would never cross Wryn once. Wryn acted insufferable enough without that kind of wife.
“I’m simply looking at the practical side.” He scratched his stylus across the wax, his right hand moving across the tablet.
Last time she’d visited Aulia, her friend had launched into shockingly explicit detail about the manliness of those hands, and she’d had to threaten to leave the room three times before Aulia ceased. There was something deeply disturbing about hearing one’s brother described as an object of romantic interest. “What else are your practical wife requirements, brother?”
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 21
