by Claudia Dain
"Well?" he prompted, turning to look at her.
"Well," she hedged, distrusting him, "your hair is longer than it was, though I would not have thought it possible. You almost could be taken for a horse, but you lack the whiteness of teeth for it." It was not true; his teeth were very white and surprisingly even, but he could not know that and he would definitely not hear it from her.
"Well," he repeated, "I had thought the water and soap of a Roman bath would wash the spite from a nasty Roman child and reveal a woman, but no water in the world can change childish spite into a woman's warmth."
What made his insult so cutting was that he said it casually; he didn't even look at her.
"You want warmth from this woman's body, Saxon?" She smiled coldly. "Why, I have given you the heat of my hatred since I first saw your dirty face in a place where it should never have been: My home!"
"Only a child bleats always of home," he said dismissively.
"Or a woman who has been robbed of hers. I am a woman, Saxon oaf, as any of your men will swear. If you doubt, ask them." It was a vicious taunt, but she didn't care; she wanted only to strike and hurt him. As he had hurt her with his cool dismissal of her womanhood.
Now he looked at her, and it fed her fire to see the smothered anger burning in the depths of intense blue.
"What will they tell me, little Roman?" He leaned over her, and she forced herself not to lower her torso to escape him. If blue could burn, his eyes burned into hers, but she held herself rigid. She would not avoid and she would not run and she would not yield. Not to him.
"Will they tell me that you have a woman's breasts, full and soft?" His breath, scented with wine and yeasty bread, fanned her face. His lashes were long and curled and the color of wheat.
"Will they tell me that your hip is smooth and curved?" His teeth were very white against the pink of his mouth, and his lower lip was very, very full.
"Will they tell me that your hair is as thick and soft and black as fine wool?" She felt the grass under her feet and the sun on her hair as if in a dream; it was a hot summer day, yet all was frigid next to the blaze of his eyes.
"Will they tell me how soft and small your mouth is and how easily it could be devoured?" Was he saying that he would destroy her or was he saying that he desired her?
"Will they tell me anything that I don't already know?" he whispered, his lips a finger span from hers.
He was so close. She could see herself reflected in odd distortion in his eyes, eyes so blue, so completely blue that the hot summer sky seemed pale and weak in comparison. He blinked slowly, his lashes dropping down to cover that blue for just an instant, a languorous instant, and it seemed to her that he had fanned the flame in his hot blue eyes.
He desired her; she could see it, hear it, even feel it.
It was all she needed of him. All she wanted. She wanted his desire; she did not want his touch. His kiss would scorch her lungs and his touch would scald her. She could not let him touch her. It must never come to that. She would not allow it. Now that she knew he desired her, she had but to pick her moment and he would lie dead at her feet.
Melania smiled into the face of his hot desire. "You want me," she stated bluntly, not damping the glow of her victory.
Wulfred pulled away sharply and mumbled something in his barbaric language under his breath. Melania smiled more fully in the face of his embarrassment. His shame at being caught desiring her was food she could eat daily.
"I do not mock you, Saxon. You show a scrap of intelligence in doing so and should not be ashamed. Truly, this does you credit." She couldn't help grinning as she said it.
Now he studied her and she tried to control the flaring joy that flashed out of her smile. Really, she did not want to be obnoxious in her victory, because she did not want him to know how much this news pleased her. But it was so very hard not to smile.
"You declare that I want you," he said, stroking the angle of his jaw with the knuckles of his left hand, his eyes not leaving her grinning face. "And you smile with pleasure... or is it victory?" Wulfred leaned forward and brushed his knuckles against the line of her own jaw, and her smile faltered under the heat of even so casual a touch. "Will you still smile in arrogant Roman fashion when I tell you that I mean to have you?"
Melania's grin vanished as her stomach tumbled. Anger rose up to protect her against the image of his body heavy upon hers.
"You mean to have me?" she asked under her breath, giving air to the fire of her anger, shielding herself from the seduction of his words. "Is that some sordid Saxon metaphor?" Lurching to her feet and towering over him—and that was a glorious feeling—she shouted, "I said you showed a scrap of intelligence in wanting me, but you will never have me. I am far beyond your grubby Saxon reach!"
Wulfred jumped to his feet with far more agility than she had and grabbed her by the upper arms. His touch was bruising but she said nothing, showed nothing. She would not give him that. As long as he touched her in anger, she was safe.
He said nothing, but his eyes were violent and expressive, blazing with the blue intensity of flame. Beyond his reach? He was showing her just how easily he could take her, hold her, subdue her. She read all the power of him in his eyes, more power than the strength of his hands, though they came close to breaking her. So much angry power in him, so much turbulent emotion in those eyes, and all of it directed at her. It was enough to frighten anyone, but not her.
His anger was her ally. His desire for her was her ally. It was the growing knowledge that she saw him as a man that was her enemy. He was Saxon, she Roman; never could they forget that. She could not allow either one of them to forget.
"I will agree to nothing," she said with cold precision, though her skin burned where he held her.
He smiled. "I do not need your agreement."
"And you most definitely will not have my cooperation."
"It also is not needed," he responded, releasing her slowly.
She would not rub her aching arms with him standing right there; that would give him nothing but perverse pleasure. But then, he always seemed to want what would cause her the most distress. It had been his purpose from their first meeting, and certainly nothing had changed between them.
Except that he had admitted to desiring her. Did he want her violent refusal? By taking her against her will, the idea of which seemed to please him inordinately, he would be torturing her spirit. It would be a case of her punishment and his pleasure: an ideal situation for him. But she didn't think she could take their contest of wills that far. It would be better to die than to endure the claiming he was promising. Her stomach heaved at the thought and flopped around under her ribs. She could hardly catch her breath.
She had wanted him to desire her because she had wanted him groveling. He was not groveling. He was not weak with love for her. In fact, scowling up into his set face, she didn't think she'd ever seen him look stronger or more indomitable.
"I had forgotten, for a moment, that you take what you want, even though it is not given," she offered, trying to sound placid. There had to be a way out of this; there had to be a weapon, an advantage, for her. "Now you will add me to your list of destruction." Into his pleased face, she added on inspiration, "You must want me very much."
Such overwhelming desire must surely give her some power. If he was caught in the throes of passion and she stood free of it, that would give her the advantage over him. It was a very definite weapon.
"You have not such power," he said flatly, reading her thoughts too accurately.
Turning his back to her and again facing the rushing water, he said, "I will take you. As wife."
There was numbness rushing through her mind and a tingling in her fingers and toes... her vision was black in spots... she would not faint in front of a barbarian! There would be too much victory for him in that.
No, she had to think of this calmly and clearly, and she would see a way out. There had to be a way out. She most definitely would n
ot—could not— marry a Saxon!
Of course! She almost laughed in relief. Of course. It would be a Saxon marriage, pagan; not binding on her. It would be an empty ritual. Meaningless. And even if someone, somewhere, believed in its meaning, divorces were easily obtained within the bounds of Rome, and Britannia was certainly within the legal bounds of Rome. In fact, slavery was more permanent than marriage in the Roman Empire. He obviously didn't know that.
When she said nothing, Wulfred cocked his head and looked at her over his shoulder. She wiped the smile from her face just in time. Let him think he had her cowed by this pronouncement, the latest of many; his defeat would be the sweeter for its being unexpected.
"Did you have a day planned for this momentous event or is that the bride's province?" she said evenly.
Wulfred frowned at her and shook his head. "It will be when I choose."
Melania tilted her head and smiled wickedly. "And that is...?"
"Not yet." He grunted, clearly upset by her composure.
"Soon?" she trilled, edging closer, crowding him.
"You will know when I tell you."
"Obviously," she said with as much sarcasm as she could, which was considerable. "Well," she said, turning away from the river, "be certain to let me know. A girl likes to prepare for such a day. In fact," she drawled, "I can hardly wait."
That should cause him to delay for a while, if only to spite her. In fact, she could hardly wait. There would hardly be a better day to kill him.
Chapter 15
"She won't go through with it."
"But how will she escape it? He hasn't shown himself to be a man who changes his mind."
"Especially not with her."
"Why marriage, though? He cannot mean to honor her—"
"Honor me?" Melania interrupted. The people of her household jumped and turned to face her, guilt and embarrassment revealed in their eyes. "How can marriage to him honor me? It is my humiliation he wants and my death he plans; marriage is but the latest means."
"Will you marry him?" Finn asked nervously.
"Certainly," she answered easily. "It will mean nothing. I do not believe in whatever pagan deity the ceremony will invoke."
Theras was not in the room, so there was no one to argue with her on that point. It could have been said that a marriage was a marriage, no matter the differences in culture. It could have been said that vows spoken carried legal and spiritual weight. But only Theras would have dared say such things to her. And Theras was checking the grain stores. She knew: she had checked on his whereabouts before coming to the kitchen.
"But after," Dorcas said softly. "What of what comes after?"
Melania's stomach tumbled end over end at the words. Of course Dorcas would ask that; her nights were full of what came after.
Melania turned quickly to Dorcas, the end of her stola swinging wildly with the movement. "What comes after also means nothing." And when Dorcas raised her brows in surprise and mild disbelief, Melania repeated hotly, "Nothing."
She would not explain to her, to any of them, that it was because the only "after" on that day would be Wulfred lying in a bloody heap on the floor. It would be perfect. He would expect to avail himself of the marriage bed; he would be vulnerable, unsuspecting, and so very close. She had often worried how to get close enough to him. The bridal night and the marriage bed would get her very close, as close as she would need to be.
* * *
"He won't go through with it."
"When have you known him not to follow through on his stated word?"
"Especially with a woman."
"Balduff, for the sake of all that's sacred, can you not once stop talking of women?"
"We are talking of marriage? And you suggest that I do not speak of women?" Balduff shook his silver-blond head and sipped his wine. "You are in a sad state, Cynric. Worse than even I would have thought. Time you put down that shiny sword and raised up one of a different hue before you forget what it's for."
"By all the gods! Can you not for once stop thinking with your best and dearest companion and begin to think of what this marriage will mean for Wulfred!" Cynric shouted, his fists balled and ready to swing at the head of his most irritating comrade.
"His best companion?" Cenred smiled. "Why, Cynric, that was actually very funny."
"He's very upset," Cuthred offered in explanation.
"Aren't we all?" Balduff huffed indignantly. "But at least I can still see the good that will come of this marriage—"
"What good when he can have her at any time?" Cynric interrupted, shouting.
"He doesn't seem to want her; not like that," Cuthred said slowly.
"Well, he'll have to take her or it will be no marriage," Balduff said with authority, taking a long swallow of wine for emphasis.
"He'll take her. He wants this marriage," Ceolmund said quietly, his eyes not on his comrades but on the flickering light cast by the lamps mounted on the walls of the triclinium. As was becoming the norm, his thoughtfully spoken words caused a hush to fall.
"What a strange thing to say..." Cenred began.
"Strange how?" Balduff roared amiably. "It was his idea, wasn't it? Certainly not hers!"
"No. Certainly not hers," Wulfred echoed as he entered the room.
"Did she fight you long over your decision, Wulfred?" Cenred chuckled, looking Wulfred over for teeth marks.
Wulfred smiled abstractedly and held up his arms for inspection. They were clean of wounds. "No, she resisted the urge to follow her natural bloodletting inclinations."
"When will you marry her?" Cuthred asked, eager to leave this place of no battles.
"When I choose," Wulfred answered bluntly, telling them something of the latest torture he had devised for Melania. The waiting in blind ignorance would eat away at her like poison.
"That will not please her," Cenred said with a smile.
"That's the idea." Wulfred smiled in return, his earlier misgivings about Melania's calm reaction waning.
"Then you had better be very careful in your bed, Wulfred," Balduff advised, "or she will not think herself tortured at all."
"No" —Cenred grinned— "she may even torture you with her demands for satisfaction." Stroking his chin, Cenred asked slyly, "What was the name of the woman who screamed your name as if in torment of the worst sort...?"
"Bekia," came the single reply from five throats, Wulfred's the loudest of them all.
"Melania is hardly the same type of woman as Bekia," Cynric said.
"Hardly," said Balduff in mock solemnity. "Melania is far more passionate."
The laughter continued unchecked, and Wulfred pointed to his knee and the teeth marks Melania had left at her first passionate attack.
"Take care you do nothing to inspire her to score your back or you will have a most contented wife and defeat your purpose in marrying her."
"You do not want her to like her new position in life, lying flat on her back."
"Never leave her with a smile on her face."
"Never leave her with a scream in her throat."
"Never leave her with your back exposed," said Ceolmund into the raucous mix.
The mood dampened immediately. True, Ceolmund had never been boisterous, but when had he turned so sour? Balduff wiped the tears from his eyes and drank deeply of his cup. Cynric did not hesitate to launch again into his favorite theme: the deathly mistake it would be to marry the Roman snake.
"The torture you devise for her will be your own," he reiterated hopelessly, tirelessly. "You will be bound to a Roman for life."
"For her life, certainly," Cenred interjected.
"It will not be torture to have her under my complete control and miserable for the rest of her days. It will be a pleasure," Wulfred answered before drinking deeply of his beer.
"You look forward to this marriage with pleasure," Ceolmund paraphrased. "You do not find that strange?"
Wulfred drank again, enjoying the yeasty tang of the beer. Wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand, he answered easily, "No."
Before Ceolmund could respond to that, Balduff joked, "Then why wait to have her, and I know you have waited, because none of us has heard her screams of rage. Or of pleasure."
Wulfred paused before answering, staring into the golden swirl of his drink. They had been together for years, these men of his. They knew of his rage against Rome and they knew why. They had fought and killed and plundered together. They had wenched together. They all had known of Bekia, and the laughter her memory aroused had been shared and good.
But Melania was different. Melania was effortlessly and eternally different. He did not want her name so casually on their tongues. He did not want to talk like this about her, not with anyone. And the thought, which seemed so traitorous, disturbed him. Troubled, Wulfred said nothing.
"Her appeal is as recent as her first bath and her first combing," Balduff said, "though I could see the beauty of her beneath the rags."
"Could you?" Wulfred said, reentering the conversation. "I see her no differently. Clean or dirty, smiling or snarling, she is the same woman."
"Roman," Ceolmund supplied into the momentary silence.
"Yes," said Wulfred with a slight jerk of his head and a flexing of his hand around the mug. "Roman."
But he had not been thinking of that. She was beautiful in her dark, Roman way, and passionate in her intensity. He had not thought a woman of Rome would have so much passion; he had not thought any Roman could have her courage. She, with her reckless hatred and her unflinching aggression, was the sort of woman Saxons admired. She was ferocious, tenacious, and fearless; at least she appeared so. If she struggled against fear and overcame it with angry defiance, he could but admire her for her determination.
Wulfred drank again from his cup. These thoughts were wrong; she was Roman and nothing else mattered. He had waited too long for his vengeance against Rome to be distracted from it now by a beautiful woman with a warrior's heart.
"Since you feel that way," Cenred said, "she would be easier faced as a slave than as a wife in the marriage bed. Maybe you should force yourself to sample her before the bond is made, to see if you can face a lifetime of her. Or perhaps someone could do the service for you."
