Pushing past Victor, Marcellus strode up to Gwen. He dug his fingers into her waist.
Surprise lit her eyes. She yanked away from him.
He crossed his arms over her bosom as he clenched her against his chest. Leaning over, he touched his mouth to her ear. “I thought I told you to stay inside the villa.”
Her eyes widened. “You told me no such thing.”
“You’ll do it, or you’ll not like the consequences.” He moved his hand down, grabbing below her waist.
She slapped him across the jaw and the betrothal ring he’d given her drew blood. Not half-bad, but her brother had hit harder.
He needed her angrier. Marcellus grabbed her wrist and jerked it above her shoulder. She brought her knee up against what would hurt most.
He side-stepped and twisted her around, thrusting her front against his chest. “You’ll regret this by morning.”
“Yes, regret not carrying a knife. Oh wait, I did.” She flicked out the blade. Moonlight glittered off the metal.
Impressive. He grabbed for it.
She sliced forward.
Blood spurted from his hand. “Vixen.” In truth, she deserved that insult. “You’ve bitten me with your blade.”
“I’ll stab you again if you take another step closer.”
Marcellus glanced across the garden to where Victor stood.
A thoroughly impressed look covered Victor’s face. His smile showed his teeth as he raised his hand in salutation and turned back to the atrium.
Breath whooshed from Marcellus’ lungs. Something sharp pricked his ribs.
The tip of Gwen’s blade sank into his skin.
He grabbed for her hand. “I can explain.”
Gwen sank the knifepoint a hair deeper. “For your sake, I certainly hope so.”
Marcellus motioned her behind another row of hedges. “Victor suspects me of allying with your familia to spy against the Shadow Man. I needed to convince him there’s no love lost between you and me.”
A pinpoint of blood glistened on her blade as she dropped her arm. “Why not tell me our lives were in danger and that Victor Ocelli needed to think I hated you?”
“You’re not that good of an actor. Besides, I didn’t have time.”
“I am most definitely that good of an actor.”
“Prove it to me.” His green-eyed gaze challenged her. “Pretend you’re a slave girl looking to steal.”
“Over there.” She pointed to a silver vase inside the colonnades, which fresh cut flowers adorned. “I’d act as if I needed to refill the water, then abscond with the vase.”
He nodded. “Not bad. Pretend you’re a vengeful wife encountering her husband at a den of iniquity.”
An easy one. She grabbed his arm and pressed her blade against his throat.
“Impressive.” He flicked her wrist away. Something lingered in his eyes. “Pretend you love me, and I’m a patrician husband you would wish to live out all your days with.”
Her knife slipped through her fingers. Her voice caught. “That would take no great pretense.”
“Liar.” Thumbs hooked around his belt buckle, he held his shoulders out straight. “I’m a slave, and you count the days until you can banish me.”
The moonlight cast his black shadow against the silver grass. How many times had she run toward that shadow in gardens like this one? Flung her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his, with one ear cocked in case Father or Mother would wander into the hedges.
How many times had he clasped her hands in both of his and told her compliments to make her ears burn and her pulse race? How many times, and yet never again.
Tears formed in her eyes. If he’d only lied about the slavery, and been a good man in everything else, she’d consider staying with him even after they caught the Shadow Man and Consul Julius freed Marcellus. Her dowry was more than sufficient to invest, and they could have gone to the far reaches of the Empire, like Britannia where she grew up.
Out there, among the Celts, people cared little about patrician title or infamia. She’d have lost her Roman citizenship, but to have him could have been worth it. If Marcellus was a good man.
She glanced at him. He locked his gaze on her, his green eyes looking out of that same handsome face she’d kissed, and touched, and loved.
Scratchiness rose in her throat even as she fought down the tears. “I wish I could trust you, Marcellus.”
His muscles tensed underneath his tunic. “You are wise not to trust me.”
She raised her hand. “Why?”
“Half the time, I don’t trust myself.”
A coward’s excuse. “You walk a knife’s edge between the Viri and Consul Julius and, for the last few months, me. You are the epitome of restraint.”
“I spent two years seeking your attention because I wanted to, though I knew my slave status meant I could only hurt you in the end. And I treated you disrespectfully at that first dinner at your familia’s house because I let my hate for patricians overshadow loving you. That’s not restraint.”
This was the man she had let kiss her for two years? Defied her familia to run off with? She tore a frond off a juniper. “What about the violent Dacian war stories?”
“You know the Roman army doesn’t allow slaves into battle. Those things were all done by Caius Marcellus, the patrician war hero who captured and enslaved thousands.” He kicked the hedge.
The first Dacian War had ended five years ago, which meant Marcellus had played this part less than five years. She folded both arms across her green silk stola. “Perhaps his name suits you then.”
Rage flashed across Marcellus’ features. “I am nothing like Caius Marcellus.”
“You knew him?” She dropped her hands, uncrossing her arms. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“No.” Marcellus spat the word out. “I killed his father.”
“What?”
A footstep clapped against the courtyard stone. Fabius’ arrogant form rounded the hedge.
Without warning, warmth surrounded Gwen.
“Your smile rivals Venus’ tonight, delicia.” Sliding his hand behind her shoulder blades, Marcellus drew her next to him. He closed his mouth over hers and tingles shot through her.
She pulled back.
With a glare to rival the fire of Hades, Fabius spun on his heel and marched to the villa.
Pulling her eyebrows down, she glared at the man who had stolen yet another kiss from her. “You said not to flaunt kisses in front of Fabius. And I did not give you permission to kiss me.”
Marcellus dropped his hands from her. “There are always times to break the rules, domina.”
“Stop calling me that. I only forgive you for kissing me because of the look on Fabius’ face.”
The edges of Marcellus’ mouth crinkled. “He does have the most priceless looks when I kiss a girl he thought was his.”
She jerked her chin up. “Have you kissed other girls in front of him?”
“Long story, domina.”
Oh, she most definitely didn’t trust him.
Chapter 29
Gwen kicked Father’s box of daggers, and it clattered against Eric’s javelin. She flung the curtain open. Sunshine streamed into the room. Four days since she’d discovered Marcellus spying, and still she knew no more than before. Footsteps sounded. She yanked the bedchamber door open.
Marcellus crossed the atrium, a pile of filthy tunics in his arm.
She jerked her thumb. “Come in here.”
He raised his eyebrows, but he crossed to her.
With a shove, she slammed the door shut behind him. “You’re going to tell me how you became a spy. You’re going to let me help. If you don’t—”
He turned his mouth up, laughter in his eyes. “Your threats are not outrageously inspiring when I have twenty loyal followers in this villa, and you have none.”
That man! She clenched her hands. “Why? Why won’t you tell me? It’s not as if you have anything to lose.
I already know you’re a spy and a slave.”
“True, but then again, why should I tell you, delicia?” An all-too-charming smile lit his handsome face. He dropped the dirty tunics.
“I let you share my bed for weeks. Weeks. Unlike you, that’s not a favor I give freely. I deserve to know your history.”
“As I recall, you’re the one who beseeched me to. In this very room, delicia.” He moved his gaze to the mattress where she sat when she suggested contemptio usus marriage.
“You are the most—” Grabbing Eric’s javelin, she threw it.
The weapon grazed Marcellus’ thigh, drawing blood. He clutched his leg. His gaze flicked to her. “Better aim and you would have pierced my heart.”
“I aimed a bit lower than your heart.”
With a groan, he removed his hand. Not that much blood stained his fingers. “Very well. Sit down.” He gestured to the couch. “I’ll tell you how I came to be Caius Marcellus.”
“The entire truth? No lies?” She rested her hands on the soft leather belt at her waist.
He quirked one eyebrow up. “Or what, you’ll throw another javelin at me?”
“Perhaps a knife.”
Instead of shaking in fear, the hint of a smile raised his lips. Crossing, he dropped on the couch.
She sat on the other side.
He took a deep breath. All the light left his eyes. A shudder ran down his firm chest.
Hand on the worn cloth of the couch pillow, Gwen moved her gaze across him. Even his bronzed skin paled.
“My mother.” Marcellus swallowed, his throat bulging at the movement. “She was a Germanian Celt. Her family took part in a local rebellion against the Romans.”
So, that’s how he knew Celtic. Gwen nodded.
“The man whose seed I sprang from—” Marcellus clenched his fists over the rim of the couch cushion, and the fabric looked like it would tear from the force of his grip. “Killed her parents, killed her betrothed, enslaved her, forced himself upon her.”
Gwen gasped.
“The soldier had a Roman wife. He regarded me as no more human than any other slave in his household, despite that the same blood flowed through our veins. See.” Rotating, Marcellus thrust down one sleeve of his tunic, “I bear the scar of his lash, along with many others.”
Gwen dug her nails into the couch. Four days since she’d seen those gashes, and already she’d forgotten just how gruesome they were. One scarred-over stripe cut down to the bone.
Gaze averted, Marcellus plowed on. “Three years ago, the domina sent me for a scroll in the tablinum. I was twenty, a man grown, though no future lay before me.” His teeth drew blood from his lip.
Gwen ran her finger over the smooth wood of the armrest.
“The master had my mother pressed down against the couch, forcing himself on her. She gasped at the brutality in his motions. I threw him against the tile. You can still see his bloodstain on the couch.”
Her breath stopped as she stared at Marcellus’ haunted eyes. She was burning that couch.
“I didn’t mean for the fall to kill him, but within hours it did. As Roman law dictates, Caius Marcellus, my half-brother, ordered all the household slaves executed. Only, before he could carry out the sentence, fever struck. The slaves tended Caius faithfully, hoping to ease his wrath, but the fever took Caius and his mother’s lives.”
Marcellus had committed patricide. Gwen dropped her gaze to the tile.
“The next day, Fabius Agricola, Caius’ comrade from the Dacian War, came to read the will. Caius had written that all thirty slaves must die. Fabius enforced the sentence. He took my mother first, along with the others. He dragged me out last.”
One hand squeezed over the other, Gwen bit into her thumbnail. She couldn’t make herself meet his gaze. No wonder Marcellus hated patricians.
“Consul Julius Semproni, the master’s friend and heir to the estates with Caius dead, arrived too. He stayed Fabius’ hand when Fabius would have killed me.”
Gwen dropped her voice to a whisper. “The spying?”
“Caius Marcellus had already agreed to spy for Consul Julius. The consul had a connection with the Viri for Caius, and he’d planned to start the spy work that month. I bear my father’s face and many a time guests mistook me for my half-brother. Consul Julius offered me my life if I’d pose as Caius Marcellus and take down the Viri.”
She reached across the cushions and touched Marcellus’ hand. It felt cold. “I’m so sorry.”
His lifeless green eyes met hers. “That’s what makes you different than other patricians.”
Dryness scratched her throat.
“What else do you want to know?” With a shake of his head, he banished the tortured look, and the mask of his smile returned. “Now that you’ve gone to all the trouble to throw a javelin at me.”
“The rumors about you and women. Which are true?”
“None.” Marcellus clenched his jaw.
“You expect me to believe none of the rumors are true?”
“Yes, as I told you a week ago.”
Gwen searched the face of the man who’d lied to her a hundred times. “So many women claimed you as father of—”
“There’s not a child across this empire who bears my blood. I will never be my father.” He spoke loudly, violence in his tone.
“How did the rumors start then?”
“The name I bear is my half-brother’s. To play the part, I had to live up to his reputation.”
Gwen narrowed her gaze. “How did you accomplish that?”
“It didn’t take much. All you have to do is not talk like an arrogant—” Marcellus cursed, the filthiest of curse words, “like Fabius.”
Gwen cringed. Cursing? Drinking?
“Listen to a woman, and they’ll like you. And you’d be shocked after women like you, how the completely unfounded rumors grow.”
Gwen pressed her lips together. “I’ve heard you talk. You do a lot more than listen. You tell a girl her eyes are like sapphires, her lips like rubies, her hair finer than spun gold.”
“Maybe I did, but it ended at talk. And….”
“And what?” She glared at him.
He swallowed. “A few kisses.”
“You broke girls’ hearts!”
Marcellus twisted his hand over, palm up. “Do you have any idea what a surge of power it sends through one’s veins to have women who would have ordered you flogged for dropping their serving dishes fawn over you?”
Her mouth parted as understanding flashed through her mind. “You liked the rumors.”
“They were false rumors. I promise that.”
“But you liked them.” She groaned.
“They terrified Consul Julius too.” He smiled. “Thoroughly enjoyable to see his look of dread every time another patrician girl ruined her reputation and the rumors swirled.”
“Marcellus!”
“They helped me ingratiate myself with the Viri.”
“Obviously not well enough,” she gave him a severe stare, “since Victor said the Shadow Man considered killing you this week.”
“I tried to settle the rumors down after I met you. But once gossip flames are fanned, there really is no putting out that blaze.”
She narrowed her eyes. “A likely story.”
“I swear I did. Especially after I left you in Britannia for Rome and Sicily. I thought you’d be done with me if the rumors got back to you, but I couldn’t quench the gossip. A full three hundred women claimed they bore my child while I was in Sicily. Three hundred. I was only there six weeks. I doubt that’s even physically possible.”
She snorted. “Serves you right after you enjoyed starting all the rumors. I’m still not entirely sure I forgive you for being such a flirt.”
“Forgive me? What’s that matter now? I’m a slave.” He turned from her, his gaze on the oak door.
“And?”
“You’re a patrician woman, and no bridge exists that spans that gap.” He stood. “An
d I’m sorry.”
She raised her hands. “For which part?” The lying? The threatening to kill her? The deceiving her into marrying him? The showing up in her room drunk and using the foulest of curses?
“Breaking your heart.” He twisted the door handle. One step out of the door, he stopped. “If it makes you feel any better, mine’s broken too.”
With a clang, the door swung shut. Gwen buried her sobs in a couch cushion as her tears ran down the fabric.
A knock sounded on her door. Throwing her coverlet around her shift, Gwen opened it.
Marcellus stood in the darkened atrium. “I’m going to meet the Viri. Bruno and half the rabble will stay here if you need anything.”
“I want to go with you.”
“What?” He tilted his head.
“I want to help catch the Shadow Man.” She locked her elbows against her sides and held herself tall. “I’ve pursued him for two years, ever since Victor tried to kill my familia.”
Marcellus’ eyes widened. “You want to spend your night slogging through muddy riverbanks, with a sword in your hand, enduring the rabble’s less than friendly disposition and forced marches, while you could be asleep in your bed?”
The coverlet slipped off her shoulders as she dug her hands into her hips. “Yes.”
Marcellus skimmed his gaze down the too thin fabric of her shift. “All right.”
“In truth?” Wryn never would have let her.
“If you want to risk death, who am I to stop you?”
“Oh.” Her mouth twisted down. Scarcely an enticing way to put it.
“If you come,” Marcellus leaned up on the doorframe, “I’ll have your pledge you’ll obey orders same as the rest. One false move and you’ll get me killed.”
She nodded. “I pledge.”
“The Viri consider me a patrician. Only the consul and Fabius know about my slave status.”
She kicked the wall. “I hate Fabius.”
Marcellus snorted. “You haven’t even felt the sting of his lash.”
“What do you mean?”
“I said you could come. I didn’t say I’d spill my life history to you.” He moved past her into the room.
To Deceive an Empire: Love and Warfare series book 3 Page 28
