by Claudia Dain
"And why not? There is no race between warm thighs and round breasts," Balduff answered pleasantly, still holding his weapon.
"But when did you start marking the difference between women and wives? You have never done that before."
"Since Wulfred took a wife," he huffed. "I have my loyalty."
"I thought your first loyalty was to the little warrior between your legs—"
"You ox, Cynfrid," Baldruff roared good-naturedly. "My warrior is a giant. Do not judge me by your own stunted standards."
Slowly, gradually, the confrontation ended. The Saxons, bickering in their typically vulgar fashion, drifted back into the triclinium. Ceolmund and Cynric stayed with her, moving her like a dumb animal out into the courtyard. They obviously didn't want to take any chances with the changeable mood of the mob, but she had something to say to Cenred; Cenred would not disappear into the triclinium to drink her beer with his unwashed brethren.
"Cenred!" she said firmly. "Do not think to slink away with your brother wolves!"
He stopped and turned to look at her over his bare shoulder. What was wrong with these Saxons that they went about nearly naked day upon day? If he had been clothed, perhaps Dorcas would not have become enamored of him and had her heart bruised. But then again, perhaps not. Clothing, or lack of it, seemed to have little to do with the attraction Dorcas felt for him. The ignorant lout— did he not have even the slightest feeling for her?
"Do you call me back to thank me, Melania?"
"You are a fool, aren't you?" she spat, angry that he might be correct. Gratitude for their interference was probably in order. But to thank a Saxon? She couldn't do it; besides, they had defended her because of Wulfred, not because of her. Wulfred should thank them.
"You're welcome." He smiled, turning again to go.
"And do you thank Dorcas when you pleasure yourself on her? Or is it the men you claim brotherhood with who get your thanks... when they assault her?" There. That stopped him.
Cenred turned and faced her fully, his warm brown eyes suddenly stormy. Ceolmund had not left her side, and Cynric, although distancing himself, remained near. She did not care if she had an audience. Cenred would do the right thing, or... well, she still held the knife.
"What did you say?" Cenred asked, his voice low and tight.
"I said," she said clearly, "that Dorcas has been threatened with rape by the men you run with. The woman who carries your child. Is that clear enough for you? Of course, since you practically raped her yourself, you might not object if more of you Saxons avail yourselves of her body. Still, she does carry your child, and such rough work might dislodge the babe. I don't suppose you care. But whether you care or not, you will marry her, Cenred." Holding up her blade so that it pointed at his throat, she added, "I'll even supply the matrimonial knife."
Cenred hardly heard her. His face was a mask of astonishment and fury.
"But why? Why Dorcas?"
"Why not?" she returned bluntly, pleased to see the fury building behind his eyes. "Did you not use her in the same way? And are you not all Saxons? She has no husband to protect her, Cenred. What do you think will happen to her every time a band of barbarians decides to descend upon us? Will they leave her untouched because you have been there first?"
He answered none of her biting questions. He hardly could. Melania smiled her pleasure.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"She is in the kitchen, waiting for a proposal of marriage."
After watching him walk toward the kitchen to assure herself that he wasn't going to miss it or become waylaid, Melania turned to Cynric. For a man who had just defended her, he looked less than pleasant. Poor Cynric. That must have been hard duty, defending a Roman for the sake of honor. Melania caught her breath at the direction of her thoughts—again, this notion of honor. Saxon honor. Where had she acquired such aberrant thinking?
"Cynric?" she asked. "Where is he?"
Cynric hesitated. Perhaps he thought that Wulfred had disappeared to escape her. Perhaps he had. Still, he would be found. She wanted to talk to him about the matter of Dorcas and Cenred. It was a good excuse.
"I'll leave the knife with you, if that's what worries you," she chided, trying to shame him.
"He is on the rock that overlooks this place. Take the knife, if it suits you," he said, turning from her. Apparently he was unshamed.
Glad for a destination, Melania left the villa courtyard and Cynric and all others behind as she climbed the hill to the rock. Ceolmund was not left behind, however. He stayed with her, at a discreet distance, obviously having decided that she needed a personal guard of sorts. After her experience in the triclinium, she was disinclined to walk alone.
Wulfred sat on the large, flat rock wedged into the hillside like a king on his throne surveying his holdings—in this case, her villa. The sun had overcome the heavy bank of gray clouds for the moment and shone down on the hillside in golden splendor, shimmering on rain-covered leaves and sparkling in puddles. Below, the valley remained in shadow under the advancing cloud front.
Wulfred did not welcome her by gesture or word. Melania was highly aggravated. Had he not held her in his arms all night? Had he not kissed her so passionately her lips were all but seared? Had he not claimed to be her husband?
Had he not disappeared, effectively avoiding her?
"If you had bothered to stay within the walls of the villa, you would be aware that those animals you call allies assaulted Dorcas this morning." When he did not react except to look up at her as she glared down at him, she added, "And when I went to condemn them for it, they all but attacked me!"
Again he said nothing, merely looked toward Ceolmund, who confirmed her words with a slow nod.
"And now I have... strongly advised Cenred to do the decent thing and marry the girl he impregnated so casually, and I want you to add your voice to mine. He is your man and should do as you tell him. Cenred must marry Dorcas!"
Wulfred looked up into her face for a moment longer and then, saying nothing, looked out over the valley again. How could he act with such blatant superiority when she was standing over him?
"Did you hear me?" she snapped.
"Of course, who does not hear Melania when she speaks?" he said with a chuckle. "But I know you did not climb this slippery hill to talk to me about Cenred. Or about Dorcas."
"What are you babbling about? Of course I did. Why else—"
He turned to look at her, and the sun lit his hair to molten gold and his eyes to lapis. "I think you wanted to find me. I think you wanted to be with me." Turning away again, he added, "I thought you more direct."
How had he known? Regardless, she would never admit it. She could hardly admit it to herself.
"Direct?" she countered. "Wasn't it you who always accused me of being devious? Are you so ignorant that you do not understand that the two words are in direct opposition?"
"You have always been very direct... in your deviousness." He smiled.
Now he was amused. He was not going to be amused at her expense.
"You are a complete oaf. Do you know that?" she said in a soft snarl.
"I've been told," he said just as softly, looking at her over his shoulder. Which, of course, was as bare as the day he was born. And rippling with muscle in the strong sunlight, And gleaming gold in color. And...
"I can read it in your eyes, you know," he said, his voice low and throbbing. Just as she was throbbing.
"What?" She licked her lips, distracted.
"Your desire, Melania. It's as blatant as a fire in the night. And just as beckoning."
"This is... hardly polite conversation," she said.
Wulfred smiled slowly. He reached for her hand and held it to his mouth. Gently he traced the line of her veins with his tongue. She couldn't even think to pull her hand away.
"When have I ever been polite?"
Never. He had never been polite.
Was it important?
"Wulfred."
&nbs
p; Who had said that? Oh, Ceolmund. Melania pulled her hand away and rubbed it, but his touch would not leave her.
Wulfred stood, placing her just behind him while keeping her in view. Saxons, strange Saxons, were coming out of the trees behind them.
One of them had red hair and silver bracelets.
Melania stepped forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Wulfred while Ceolmund closed the distance he had left between them. Wulfred pushed her firmly behind him; the expression on his face kept her there. Three Saxons walked through the brush. Melania rubbed her hand on the hilt of the knife, thankful she had kept it.
"Ho, Wulfred," Red Hair saluted. "Ho, Ceolmund."
"Does not my wife deserve a greeting, Sigred?" Wulfred asked coldly.
Sigred smiled tolerantly and saluted Melania, Roman fashion. "Hail, Roman."
"You seem preoccupied with her origins." Wulfred smiled in return. "She is my wife. She is Saxon now."
Under different circumstances, Melania would have howled her objections to that statement. Now she held her tongue—nearly bit it off.
"If you say so—"
"I do," Wulfred interrupted.
"What are you doing up here?" Sigred asked, changing the subject, coming to the point. "Your people are below in fellowship. Why do you seek to be alone?"
"I am not alone," Wulfred said. "Or have you no eyes to see?" He gestured to both Melania and Ceolmund.
"But they have just come," one of the others said.
"Yes,"—Wulfred eyed him coolly—"and you would know that only if you had been in the triclinium, while my wife was there. Was Walfric there, Ceolmund?"
"He was," Ceolmund answered evenly.
"I hope you were not one of the men who was rude to my wife. She puts great store in manners." Wulfred barely breathed, "As I have learned to do."
"Wulfred, we did not come to discuss this," Sigred said, drawing closer. "We came to bring you down with us. It is not our way to seek solitude." He eyed Melania with open suspicion. "Saxons do not leave the company of Saxons."
"Even when they are newly joined?" Wulfred smiled. "You know that is not true. Here is my wife. I choose to be with her in a more private place than the rooms below. Understandable, is it not?"
"She was below—"
"Because she was required to comfort a woman who had been abused by Saxon hands and Saxon words." Wulfred walked to Sigred and stood a handbreadth from his face. "I have won this place by conquest. I have won the people in it. I will not hand it over to you. Not one small part of it. Understood?" When Sigred nodded in curt answer, Wulfred said, "Now return to my holding and enjoy my hospitality, while you may."
Effectually dismissed, Sigred, Walfric, and the other men brushed past Wulfred and walked down the steep hill toward the villa, anger and frustrated defiance showing in every movement. Melania stopped stroking her knife when they disappeared from view.
"Is this the amity shared between Saxon allies?" she asked. "Your world is peopled by enemies."
Ceolmund faded away into the brush, giving them a modicum of privacy; she had no doubt that he could still see them. Wulfred looked down at her, his manner strangely hesitant. This was altogether a new behavior for him. She had seen him angry, passionate, disgusted, and vengeful; this was... sorrow? Tenderness?
"What is it?" she asked, disturbed more than she cared to admit.
"It is not I who has their suspicion. But you are right; my bond with them is strained. It will heal. In time."
Melania looked into his eyes, so blue and suddenly so soft. "Is it because of me?"
Wulfred took her into his arms. The wind brushed her hair and pushed the dark clouds across the sky, cheating the sun of its day. It would rain again, and soon.
"You are Roman and among us. It troubles them," he said against her hair.
He had trouble with his own kind? Because of her? Because of a hated Roman? Of them all, Wulfred had the most reason to hate Rome and all who sprang from her; of them all, Wulfred stood with her, against them. She had not forgotten that his comitatus had stood to defend her, but only because of Wulfred. Because of Wulfred, she was safe. Because of her, he battled his own.
Regret surged through her powerfully. Regret that someone was hurt because of her and sorrow that she could not mend it. She could not stop being Roman even had she wanted to. Strangely, in this world of ravaging Saxons, she was more effortlessly Roman than she had ever been. But for the first time in her life, her Roman birth brought her no satisfaction.
"I am sorry," she whispered against his chest.
She apologized for being a Roman.
Wulfred, savage, uncivilized, and uneducated, understood.
How had she come to this? How had the barbarian holding her so tenderly learned compassion? Or was it she who had learned understanding?
Her world had been a simple place of simple and straightforward principles; Romans were the apex of civilization and the epitome of all man could achieve on earth. Saxons were, of course, the nadir. Yet the Saxon holding her now would stand tall in any culture, and his own was not as degraded as she had once believed. He had an honor from which he never wavered. He had the courage to stand against his own and the compassion to see the need. He inspired loyalty and dogged devotion. He was not the animal she had named him.
Her father died a little more at that moment as her arms wound around a half-naked Saxon warrior and her lips pressed against his thudding heart. Melania quietly let her father go. Peace, Melanius.
She shifted in his arms so that she could look up at him as he held her. His jaw was strong and sculpted, his mouth wide, his nose straight. He was a well-featured man, and strong. And he was gold all over. She had never known a man could be so golden. On impulse, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his throat.
"Planning where next to set your knife?" he asked, holding her close.
She smiled against his chest and answered, "Too difficult to reach. I had considered it."
"You obviously thought it through. Unusual for you."
"I'm still thinking, still considering."
"I can see I've taught you caution."
She reached her arms around his chest and nuzzled her face against his width. She loved the smell of him.
"It would be much more fair if I could only get you down on the ground."
"I don't think you'll have a problem with that." He smiled, running his hands down her back to cup her bottom.
"Good. You have been something of a problem in the past. I don't suppose you can help it, being a Saxon."
Wulfred lifted her so that her legs straddled his thigh. The friction was exquisite torture, and she clung to his shoulders, closing her eyes to the world around her.
"I don't suppose you will admit to being a problem? Not even once in your short life?"
"Romans are not problems; they are challenges," she murmured, seeking his mouth with hers.
He kissed her. She felt the wind against her skin, and Wulfred's hands against her body, and his tongue hot against hers. She was all sensation, and reason was buried. He was a Saxon and she had been taught to hate him, but all she wanted was to feel him, be with him, talk to him. Could this fire that burned with every touch be the reason that she saw him differently? He was no longer Saxon to her. He was Wulfred.
And what of Marcus? Her father was gone—she had released him to the eternal—but Marcus was here.
That name tortured her more than the blaze of Wulfred's touch. She had again forgotten Marcus in the heat of Wulfred's arms. Marcus was depending on her for his very life. The area swarmed with Saxons, and Marcus waited in hiding, waited for her. And she stood on an open hilltop with her arms around a Saxon warrior. What had she become during the passage of this summer?
Pushing herself away from his kiss, she said, "I must go."
"You must not." He smiled, reaching for her again. Why was his grin so engaging, his manner so light, his lower lip so full? He had been easier to hate when he kept pushing her in the
dirt.
"Because I have things to do, and so should you."
"Do what calls you. I will go with you."
"You don't have to do that!" How was she going to supply Marcus if Wulfred dogged her steps?
"But I will."
She walked down the hill, hoping to put some distance between them with every step. Of course, it didn't work; his stride far outpaced hers. Did he feel he had to protect her? Certainly he had cause, but if he stayed by her all day, she would never be able to meet her obligation to Marcus—an obligation rooted in love.
They reached the villa walls and walked into the courtyard, Ceolmund not far behind. She still had thought of no way to remove Wulfred from her side, until she saw Cenred's back outlined in the kitchen doorway. Inspiration hit.
"Wulfred, why don't you go to the baths? And take Ceolmund with you. I want to speak to Cenred privately."
Wulfred looked at her speculatively, seeming to measure her motives. She had told him the truth, and she let that shine from her eyes. She did want to speak with Cenred again about Dorcas... and Cenred would be so much easier to evade than either Ceolmund or Wulfred.
"I did not know you were so generous with your baths," Wulfred remarked, stroking his jaw.
"I am very generous where my nose is concerned."
"You will be in the kitchen?" So he had seen Cenred's back, too.
"That is where I am going," she said truthfully. The food for Marcus was in the kitchen.
"Then I will be in the baths, should you need me," he said, and he playfully pulled her hair in passing.
"There are Saxons enough to drown in. I won't need another," she called after him.
"There are Saxons enough to drown in," he repeated. "Stay in the kitchen." He didn't even look back as he said it. Arrogant oaf.
She entered the kitchen without giving in to the urge to watch him until he was lost to her sight. Cenred was there, as was Dorcas. Cenred was flirting outrageously. Dorcas was ignoring him, her earlier vulnerability buried. Melania watched, fascinated and a little mystified. Watching Cenred cringe, Melania saw that Dorcas clearly knew more of men than she did. What mastery.
"I would have been there, had I known, but I did not know," he explained pitifully. Stroking the length of her arm, he said, "You are too beautiful a woman to wander without an escort—"
