by Claudia Dain
He was so close.
She had the knife.
He was a Saxon.
The Saxon.
Justice was due.
Overdue.
She pulled the knife free, thankful again for the darkness, and leaned away from his kiss. She had to strike for the face, the eye. It had to be a mortal strike. Perhaps the throat so that he could make no cry and she could run to the west. To Marcus.
She did not make the mistake of pulling back to add strength to the blow. This was not a blow of strength; this was all placement. She did not make the mistake of shouting her intent to raise her bloodlust. Her bloodlust was high enough. She did not make the mistake of hesitating. The Saxon was quick, too quick for her to falter.
No, her mistake was in choosing her opponent.
The knife was out of her hand and in his before the kiss had truly ended.
His holding her knife in his fist effectually ended the kiss.
"Do Romans use knives when they fondle?" he asked in a growl. "It is no wonder the population dwindles."
For perhaps the first time in her life, she could think of nothing to say.
"Come, Roman. We have lingered in the dark long enough," he said, anger edging into his voice. But she had heard him angrier.
Gentleness gone, he dragged her by the back of her stola, propelling her ahead of him. She blinked in the mild light of the torches lining the portico and was momentarily blinded by the whiter light of the triclinium. Was this where he would kill her? It was late. The triclinium would be deserted.
Or so she had thought.
The triclinium was filled. Every person who lived within the confines of the villa was present. And all were staring at her.
Wulfred held the knife, her knife, in his fist and raised it high for all to see. He would kill her with it. She knew it. In just a moment her earthly life would end, and end in defeat. She would die by his hand, at a time of his choosing, having failed to kill him first. But at least she would die. At least this misery would be behind her.
And she would die proudly.
Standing straight, head erect, she looked out over them all. No tears marred her vision. No hands begged for leniency. No knees collapsed with fear. She would face her execution bravely and would shame them all with her courage. He would get no satisfaction from her.
"The knife is Melania's," he said into the silence. "She has given it to me. A gift of arms."
A gift? It was no gift...
Blond Saxon heads nodded in affirmation.
A snort and a rattle of harness was her only warning before Optio was brought into the triclinium and right up to her. She had to sidestep or the beast would have knocked her over. Unnatural animal.
A single shout and she jerked instinctively. Then the room erupted in shouts, the Saxon horde banging sword and seax to shield until she thought the plaster would crumble off the walls. Stupid Saxon pigs, could they not even kill someone with dignity?
"Do I have to lose my hearing as well as my life?" she barked, trying to jerk free of Wulfred's hold.
"You will lose neither your hearing nor your life, Roman," he said, grabbing her firmly by the elbow. "You have just gained something."
"A headache?"
"A husband."
Chapter 18
"Impossible!" she exploded, pulling free of his touch. "You hold a knife to my throat and tell me that by some hideous miracle we are now married? When did this miraculous transformation occur? And when will you kill me, for surely you must know that... that what I did... what we did... that it was not real? I was but maneuvering you onto the point of my knife!"
He smiled down at her with his eyes of brightest blue and clasped her gently by the nape. "And look how close you came to maneuvering yourself onto the point of mine."
"You're disgusting." She tried to wrench herself free of him, but he held her fast.
"How changeable you Romans are." He smiled, fingering the knife. "Unless I am not translating you correctly. You did say disgust? Or was it lust?"
"Will I prove my point if I throw up all over your dusty feet?"
"Is that how Romans show their desire? Or is it only you?"
Melania pried his fingers off her neck and clenched her fists, mutely daring him to touch her again. "Will you kindly tell your murderous friends to stop banging away on their toys! I can hardly think!"
"They only show their approval of our bonding," he said as he tucked the knife—her knife—into the waist of his pants.
"We can't be married," she stated, crossing her arms over her chest, willing it not to be so. "There has been no ritual to bind us."
He obviously thought otherwise.
"You gave me a gift of arms. I gave you a horse. It was witnessed. We are one."
"That's... that's not a marriage ceremony," she stammered. It was as she had feared: a Saxon marriage ceremony was as flimsy as cloud trails across the face of the moon. She should have wagered gold that a Saxon bonding ceremony would include a knife. "And Optio is my horse!"
"My horse, by conquest, given to you as a gift. Now Optio is yours."
"This farce of a ceremony is not binding by Roman law, the most just law ever—"
"You live in Saxon-controlled land now, Melania," he said, turning her to face him, holding her by the arms when she tried to move away from him.
"Saxon law rules this land. By Saxon law you are my wife."
"I am Roman. I know nothing and care nothing about Saxon law. This" —she waved her hand all around her— "means nothing."
Wulfred let her go and stood looking down at her. His expression was solemn, almost rigid, and she found herself trapped by his look more than by anything his hands could have achieved.
"You accepted my intention to marry you. You gave me a gift of arms. You are on Saxon land ruled by Saxon law. Will you stand by the bond or ignore it because it does not match your own customs?"
There was far more subtlety to this barbari than she had at first thought. She could see no honorable way out.
The noise of the barbarians had stopped. Their drinking had not. Balduff toasted her loudly, his light blue eyes gleaming in amusement. Cenred and Cuthred and Cynric drank to his toast, but their faces were wiped clean of emotion, any emotion, and they regarded her with a look that spoke clearly of distrust. Only Ceolmund, of that group, eyed her warmly. He said little, but he seemed almost to respect her. Of them all, she considered him the least offensive. And the most intelligent.
Standing behind the barbarian group were her own people, dark-haired and silent—a grim contrast to the boisterous Saxons. Theras watched her, and she could feel the weight of his expectation. Would she honor the bond or would she fight? The decision she must now make would affect the precarious peace that time had established in her villa.
There was no help for her in this room. There never had been. In her fight against the Saxons she had fought alone; if only Marcus... But Marcus was gone. She was alone, and with a Saxon for a husband.
The world was not running the way it should. What to do when all the laws of nature and order were cast into the fire to burn away and leave only smoke? What to do with a Saxon warrior claiming he was now a husband?
"I ask you again, Melania," Wulfred said, his voice rumbling over the tumult of the triclinium. "Will you stand by your vow?"
She turned abruptly away from the chaos of her orderly triclinium and faced the man who had tilted the foundation of her world by his very existence. "Leave me alone, Saxon! I don't know what I'm going to do! I don't know!" she shouted, her fists clenched in impotent fury.
Impotent, yes; there was little she could do. Saxons had outnumbered and outarmed Romans, and outfought them, too, on this desirable isle. He watched the emotions whirl behind her eyes: anger, panic, frustration. She screamed that she did not know what to do. It was the best answer she could have given him, because it told him many things. It told him that the answer she gave him would be a serious one. It told him that
she would tell him the truth. She was devious, but she was not a liar.
As he had told her the truth. She was his wife now. She had performed her part in the Saxon bonding ritual, albeit unwittingly. He had suspected her motive in leading him to her chamber; he had also suspected her methods. But what he had not suspected, what he never could have guessed, was the passion that had fired between them. Unless she had deceived him in that. It was possible—she had proven her duplicitous nature more than once—but he couldn't convince himself that her responses hadn't been genuine. He didn't want to. Yes, she was sly, but she was also passionate and fiery of temperament; he had the scars to prove it.
And she was his wife. He would claim her. Now.
Her hands were still fisted at her sides, and she looked blindly at the tile floor at her feet, deep in thought. He knew the direction of her thoughts. And knew his own. He reached out and ran his hand down the length of her hair. So black, so smooth, and so straight. She turned to him, distracted, irritated, the spark that never slept in her eyes flaming again. Strange eyes, strangely alive and volatile. Eyes like sun, trees, and earth mingling, fighting for dominance.
"What!" she snapped, brushing her hand over her hair, wiping away his touch. "Can't you leave me alone for a moment? Haven't you done enough to me this day?"
Wulfred smiled, tracing his finger down her arm from elbow to wrist and catching firm hold of her hand. "No. Not nearly enough."
She would have said more, but he pulled her from the triclinium, out into the portico, and then into her chamber. She had to know what was coming next; she had to understand what would happen now that she was his wife. He must lay his claim on her, but she could not know that he wanted to possess her as a lover.
He wondered if she recognized the desire he felt for her and the small power it gave her over him. He would never admit such weakness to her. He would never hand her the club with which to beat him.
He had not wanted her at first. She was Roman; that was all. She could have value to him only in her downfall. But he had seen her fire and he had watched her odd Roman honor enacted throughout the summer. There was something about her that defied his hatred. He could look at her now and see a woman, a beautiful and passionate woman, and because of that he could take her—and he would. She would be his in a way that even a Roman could understand.
He did not want the darkness now; he did not want her to have the protection of it. He wanted to see her in her passion. He would watch desire contort her features. He would watch her yield to him.
Wulfred had brought a torch from the portico with him into the chamber and now used it to light the wall-mounted lamp. The room was immediately cast in a warm, golden glow that masked the flaking plaster and the missing floor tiles. The couch stood out in bold relief in the far corner of the room, a dark presence in all the warmth of tinted plaster. He had lain with her on that couch once before when he had held her while she slept, learning her shape and her texture. He would lie with her there again. They would not sleep.
There were two windows in the room and they were black rectangles set in muted gold. The wind was rising, an autumn wind with the smell of water and ripening wheat. It blew softly into the chamber, freshening the air and cooling the temperature. The days were still hot, but the nights were mild. There had been no rain.
"Autumn comes," he said into the unnatural silence.
Melania jerked out of her introspection to glare at him. She seemed almost surprised to find herself in her chamber again. "Yes, autumn comes, and when it does you will go, if God is merciful."
"The gods are rarely merciful," he answered mildly.
"With such a people as you, it is hardly surprising," she said with a spiteful smile.
"And when I go," he said, continuing her earlier observation, "you will go with me. You are mine now."
"I haven't yet decided if that is so."
"I have decided. It is so."
"Go back to your pack, Saxon," she said in a snarl. "Leave me to my thoughts. I will tell you what I decide."
"You tell me to go and sleep with my men? Tonight? You have made many pronouncements and many judgments, Roman, but none so wrong as this. I will not sleep with my men tonight. I will not sleep with my men again. Not when I have a woman to warm me. Not when I have you."
Melania stared at him in surprise; shock quickly followed and was capped by anger. Always she had her anger. "You think to sleep here? By the Christ, you show me that you do not think at all, as if I needed a demonstration, which I most certainly did not. No Saxon oaf will touch me or share my couch. Especially the imbecilic oaf who has tried to find devious ways to kill me for the past weeks. That's what this is about, isn't it? This is just another way to torture me! Find another method, Saxon dog, because—"
"I have touched you, Roman snake," he said softly, closing the scant distance between them, ignoring her anger, understanding the shield that it was to her. Her anger blazed away all other emotion. She could defeat fear and grief and shame with her anger; he would not allow her to kill her desire with it. Her eyes glowed yellow in the small room. "I have touched you and tasted you. And you have tasted me." She backed away from him, her strange eyes wide and burning bright, her lips snarling; she backed from him until she was framed in the open window, the wind lifting the ends of her heavy hair. "Taste me again."
He bent to her mouth, holding her face between his hands so that she could not turn from him. She could not turn, but she did resist. Her lips were firm and tight against his mouth, and her hands pried at his. It was a futile struggle. He would not release her—not tonight, not when he had already tasted the fire within her. He would ignite her again, and this time they would not stop. She was now his wife. And he had disarmed her.
Her kiss was cold but he was still hot from their earlier fondling; mere coldness on her part would not stop him or even slow him. He burned for her. He would have her burn again for him. It would be a part of her defeat at his hands. It would do much for his pride to have a Roman aristocrat whimper for his touch, and it would be a blow against Rome that would salve old wounds.
Compelling her to participate by the very urgency of his mouth, Wulfred moved one hand behind her head and held it stationary while the other fondled her breast. Small it was, but round and full and large of nipple. She was responding, though her mouth was still hard against his. Where was the woman of moments ago?
She was thinking of her anger and her newly married state. Melania would never respond to him unless her body overtook her mind. For that to happen, as it had earlier, he would have to outpace her. No idle and slow-paced tarrying would do; she required a quick and hard assault. Only speed and ferocity would drive her intellect to ground and allow her passion to rise up.
As he had already risen for her.
Breaking the kiss, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the couch. He sank with her to it, her body prone and he kneeling on the floor at her side. Of course, she was not silent during this shifting of position.
"I have no desire to taste you, Saxon, which you may have noticed, if my reactions mean anything to you. While I understand that you have the base desires common to all barbari, I do not, and I have no wish to share yours. Surely anyone, any breathing, rutting animal, would do."
"As long as you keep breathing, Roman snake, you'll do," he said, grinning.
Again he kissed her, silencing her, assaulting her, seducing her. It was a kiss of pure passion with no restraint, and he heard her expel her breath with a gasp. Her breasts, nipples hard, jutted upward, and he fondled her with a firm hand, thumbing her in determined circles. She lay on her couch like a platter on a table; so small and so easily accessible. One of his hands moved to her legs, rubbing the fabric that covered her thighs and then brushing it out of the way. Her hair was black and soft. She kept her legs closed against him until he wedged her apart with his hand. And when he touched the seat of her womanhood, his fingers were instantly covered in her milk.
She burned.
He dared now to move his mouth, testing her desire by her lack of speech. She was quiet as his lips caressed her shoulder. She bucked beneath him when he licked her erect nipple. She swallowed a moan when his fingers played with the source of her woman's milk. His mouth moved down and he plunged his tongue into her navel, tasting her sweat, smelling her passion, feeding off her desire for him. She groaned and sat up, shaking her wild black hair around her.
"Pagan," she croaked.
"Husband," he corrected, pushing her down with the flat of his hand. He knew where he would go. He would taste all of her.
His tongue traced a line over the soft swell of her belly and then abruptly plunged into the well of her desire. She tasted of salt and fiery passion.
"No!" she cried, clawing at his head, tangling her fingers in his hair, trying to wrench him free of her.
"Yes," he murmured against her heat, taking her hands in his and holding them down at her sides. He would have all of her, and she would not stop him.
He nipped her gently and her legs jerked in spasm. He moved his mouth to her breasts and she thrashed her head back and forth, a low, keening moan building in her throat. His fingers roved over her like the wind on the sea. His mouth tasted her; he blew air onto the fire he built in her.
When all she could do was moan, when she lay limp and tossing in her sexual distress, when she did not react to his dominating touch other than to turn in to it, he slid her off the couch and onto the floor. He was not certain that she even noticed. Her arms reached for him, pulling him atop her so that her high-pitched crying moan was in his ear. She spread herself for him, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him down to her, wanting him.
"What do you want, Melania?" he said, his hips lifted away from hers, resisting her pull.
"Do it," she panted, tightening her legs against his obstinacy.
"Do what?" he pressed.
"I don't know!" She moaned, reaching for him, touching him, stroking him.
