The Patrician's Fortune- A Historical Romance

by Kayse, Joan

  “Not the most conventional way to travel but I think I could get used to it,” he murmured in a husky voice.

  “Damon, you will release me at once.”

  Faint light from their escort’s torches filtered through the curtains, casting Damon’s face into shadow but she could see one dark brow lift.

  “Ah, wife, do you not enjoy it?”

  Julia had never been this close to a man in her life, but her body seemed to know what it wanted. Stretched out against long, muscled legs, the soft mounds of her breasts pressed against his harder chest, lips so close she could almost taste his wine-sweetened breath, a searing heat bloomed low in her belly and her breath came out in soft pants. Through the dryness in her throat she said, “Damon. Release me.”

  Instead, Damon trailed his hands up her waist, brushed his thumbs against the outer curve of her breasts causing them to tighten, the sensitive nipples to pebble at the friction. She heard his sharp intake of breath before he slid his hands to her upper arms. He squeezed gently until she raised her eyes and met his heated gaze.

  “You’ve commanded me to do a job, threatened to return me to the executioner should I fail,” His mouth settled into a grim line. “Since the thought of dying pinned to a cross is less than appealing to me, I intend to perform my duties with conviction. I will do whatever I must to convince your friend the Prefect, the entire Roman Senate or Jupiter himself that we are married. I’ll release you, goddess, but there will be no more slapping or striking or regal pique. Is this understood?”

  A thousand retorts flew through her mind, most of which involved him losing a body part. Julia scanned the stubborn line of his jaw, tried to ignore the strength of the hands holding her but it was the resolve reflected in the deep gray depths of his eyes that convinced her to comply. She nodded curtly.

  One side of Damon’s mouth quirked but he had the good sense not to give into his mirth under her quelling glare. He released her and folded his arms behind his head, watching her struggle to a sitting position.

  Shoulders squared, chin tilted upward, Julia straightened her palla and tried to restore some semblance of dignity which dissolved as the litter dipped with a violent jerk causing her to make a wild grab for the side. The porter’s apologies were lost beneath Damon’s low-throated chuckle.

  “Now, tell me why you are so angry?” he asked.

  Julia rolled her eyes and looked at him. “Your clever remarks at our departure.”

  He looked puzzled. “Remarks? I merely thanked the good Senator and his lovely wife for their hospitality.”

  “And implied that we would be sharing a bed on our return.” Damn him, damn him, damn him.

  “Ahhhh, I understand. You wish to keep it a secret.”

  “There is no secret,” she snapped. Infuriated more at her lack of control than at his amused expression, she slowed her breathing. “Even if we were actually wed, it is not proper to discuss such matters openly.”

  Damon made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Patricians. Wouldn’t want the reality of life to intrude in their proper lives.”

  His expression was bland but his flippant remark could not hide the bitterness beneath his words. “You know about patrician’s lives, do you?”

  “More than you might expect,” he answered gruffly. “I spent the better part of my life serving them.”

  “You are a slave?”

  Damon rose up on one elbow, his gaze fierce. “Was. I was a slave. I was emancipated years ago and have all the proper Roman documents to prove it.” He settled back against the pillows and closed his eyes. But the set of his jaw belied his anger. “Does that surprise you, goddess?”

  She found that it did. Damon did not act in the least like a person who had spent any time being subservient to anyone. He was too proud, too confident, and too patrician in his actions. What circumstances, she wondered, could cause a man such as he to bow before anyone? Dark, dangerous ones, an inner voice warned. Julia glanced at him from beneath her lashes. He seemed at ease yet there was an edge to him she couldn’t quite define. She shivered at the realization. No matter. This was her life at stake. Ex-slave or not, he answered to her. “Where did you go after dinner?”

  He shrugged his shoulder. “I had need of fresh air.”

  What a convenient explanation. “You saw no one? Spoke to no one?”

  “No, not a single person,” he answered.

  Julia worried the edge of a pillow with her fingers. He could be telling the truth. Damon had performed far better than she’d thought possible despite his small rebellions. By this time tomorrow the gossips would have spread the word; Julia Manulus had a fine and noble husband. A male to head the family.

  She pressed her fingers against the aching throb in her temples. Her plan had worked. She’d made her public statement. Quintus would occupy himself with more important matters now and she could concentrate on caring for her family.

  But how could she concentrate on anything with Damon in such close proximity? Julia glanced again at his strong profile, knew he was feigning sleep because of the amused quirk lifting the corner of his mouth. Her gaze lingered on his mouth. Twice now she had been accosted by those strong, firm lips and instead of being appalled and repulsed by his lack of formality, his sheer audacity, wondered when she might feel the sizzling heat of it again.

  She swallowed hard. This could not go on. As soon as they arrived home, she would make an offering of honey cakes and incense at the family altar and implore the household gods to grant her protection from her enemies—and that luscious mouth.

  Chapter Ten

  What did Quintus want?

  Damon picked a pebble from the pile in his hand and skipped it across the still water of the garden pool. That question had plagued him since the night of the dinner three days past. That he was no closer to figuring it out only added to his conviction that he was going mad.

  Quintus and Tertius conspiring together. Octavian Manulus’ disappearance. Julia’s hesitant and vague responses to his questions. Damon shook his head, puzzled. The pieces would not fit together.

  He scanned the ridge of the garden wall. Information wasn’t going to come climbing over that stone barrier. There were informants to contact, questions to be asked, observations to be made, bribes to offer, people to threaten. None of which he could do as a prisoner of the beautiful goddess.

  Julia had kept her distance, minimizing contact with him since the night of the dinner. On the few occasions he had encountered her on his way to the bath or back to his cell, she’d thought to distance herself by donning her cool patrician’s decorum. His lips curved upward in a wry smile. She wasn’t quite as detached as she liked to believe. There was no mistaking the flare of panic in her eyes when he’d given her a heated look as they passed in the hall, one that told her plainly what he was thinking—that he wanted to taste her again, cover that generous mouth with his and make her forget to breathe.

  Damon shifted on the bench against the tightness in his groin. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d never been aroused by the mere thought of a woman. By the gods, it had been all he could do to stay in control in the litter, not an easy feat when there was a goddess lying on top of you.

  She was not frightened of him but rather her reaction to his touch. It was more gift than vanity to admit that he was skilled in handling women. Pleasuring whichever woman occupied his bed increased his own fulfillment and so he had learned how to coax the female body to tremble beneath the touch of his hands, knew how to find the secret places unique to each lover that would send them spiraling into ecstasy.

  Yet Julia’s mind and her pride resisted the temptation her body was eager to accept. There was a vibrant, passionate woman beneath that staid noble lady and Damon would relish the opportunity to strip away the layers to find her—if he had the time. He sighed and dumped the remaining stones on the ground. Time was something he had precious little of and too much of it was being spent gaining Julia’s trust.

 
; The mere fact that he was sitting outside in the sunshine should have eased the coiled tension twisting his gut. It had not been a simple task to talk Julia into releasing him from his prison. She’d been immune to all of his arguments until he’d informed her that Kaj had decided a window was a luxury and covered the opening with locked wooden shutters. At the height of the day’s heat it was suffocating and did she wish her new husband to roast like a pig on a spit? He’d give her credit. She’d resisted making a comparison between him and the swine though the temptation to do so had been clear in those expressive eyes. She had relented and he’d overheard her admonishing Kaj for his caution.

  Damon stretched his legs out in front of the bench. He felt no remorse for playing on her sympathies and a great deal of satisfaction in knowing he had read his goddess correctly; she was not the cold-hearted patrician she worked so hard to portray. Either that or she was beginning to trust him.

  He shifted again.

  He glanced around the garden, shook his head when he spied Basil peeking at him through a large flowering bush. Shifting his gaze to his left he easily picked out the sandaled toe and dress hem of a kitchen girl behind one of the marble columns. Perhaps Julia wasn’t as ready to trust him as he’d hoped.

  Frustration gripped him. “I’m not going anywhere,” he announced in a loud voice.

  “Maybe you should.”

  Damon recognized that disgruntled voice. He got up and stepped around a cluster of urns—etched with dolphins—to find Lares sitting on the edge of a narrow couch. His hair, a darker gold than his sister’s, was mussed as though he’d just arisen from sleeping. Damon glanced at the crumpled linen coverlet tossed in a heap on the ground.

  He looked back at the boy. Save for an unhealthy pallor from too many days spent indoors, he appeared perfectly normal for a youth of thirteen years. All arms and legs, he was well on the way to being at least as tall as Damon and if he tilted his head just right to catch the light, Damon could see downy hair sprouting on his chin.

  “Why don’t you leave?” he repeated, his voice cracking.

  Yes, Lares was well on his way to manhood.

  Damon shrugged a shoulder negligently and strolled over to the bench. “Why would I leave? I am married to your sister.” He couldn’t bring himself to say husband. A husband had responsibilities and...rights that he would never have. Suddenly he felt as grouchy as Lares sounded.

  Lares scowled and ran his hand along the prow of a small wooden ship in his lap. “She doesn’t need you. She was doing just fine taking care of us. Father...” his voice roughened with emotion. “Father taught her well.”

  Something tightened in Damon’s chest as he recognized the hurt, the confusion, the sense of abandonment beneath the boy’s words. At Lares’ age a boy looked to his father for guidance, for encouragement, instructions on how to be a man. When this was denied you by your own father the loss was almost too much to bear. He, better than anyone, would know that.

  Ignoring the boy’s glare Damon sat down beside him, propped his arms on his knees and gazed out into the garden. “Your sister is intelligent and very capable of handling the Manulus affairs without input from me. But you, as heir, must be a tremendous help.”

  Lares rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Heir? All Julia sees is a cripple who must not exert himself for fear he will crumble into dust.”

  “And will you?” Damon asked.

  Lares narrowed his eyes. “Will I what?”

  Damon gave him a pointed look. “Crumble into dust.”

  The boy seemed to be searching his brain for some scathing reply but after a few moments sighed heavily. “My legs are not strong and I tire easily. Truly, I am of little use.”

  A rush of understanding swept through Damon. He knew exactly how the boy felt. Though he’d only been eleven when his family was torn apart, Damon had always blamed himself for not protecting his mother and sisters from their fate. It’s what had driven him through the years of servitude, had caused him to put his own life aside. It was his guilt that had led him to his demon pact with Tertius.

  He met Lares’ gaze. “You still have legs and if you do not use them they will forget how to function. Not to mention lying about all the time would drain the strength even from Hercules.” Damon rose from the bench, indicating the toy ship in Lares’ lap. “Does that float?”

  The obstinate expression returned, the resemblance to his sister uncanny. “Of course it does. I built it myself.”

  Damon suppressed a smile. Lifting the boat, he sat it on the bench and held out his hands to Lares. Lares looked at him uncertainly before hiding his fear behind a disdainful mask.

  “I cannot walk,” he said with a well-practiced sneer.

  “So you’re a coward, then?” Damon had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud at the potent adolescent glare Lares gave him.

  Taking a deep breath, his brow puckered in concentration, the boy took hold of Damon’s hands and pulled himself to a standing position.

  A quick glance at Lares’ face reassured Damon that the trembling in his legs was more weakness than pain. Careful to appear unhurried, he shifted around until he stood beside Lares, one arm slipped about his waist. Together they walked the half dozen steps to the pond. Damon eased him down to a patch of grass. Droplets of perspiration dotted the boy’s forehead but were completely overshadowed by the triumphant smile on his face.

  Damon nodded in approval then turned his attention to the ship. “Now show me how this works.”

  An hour later Pompeii had defeated the Cilician pirates—twice—and was crowing in delight.

  “Meet the fate of those who dare defy Rome,” declared Lares, ramming his warship into the last of Damon’s pirate boats. Damon frowned and watched the ship capsize, joining an entire fleet of carved vessels bobbing in the water. He’d thought his last maneuver a particularly brilliant one, but looking at the flush of excitement on Lares’ face could not begrudge him the victory.

  “Did you make all of these?” Damon asked, surveying the naval carnage.

  Lares plucked two of the vessels up and tilted them so the water could drain out. “Most of them. Father did the rest.”

  “Your father has many talents,” answered Damon, helping to gather the toys.

  Lares nodded in agreement. “He is always talking about new mechanisms or theories or techniques. He says Rome carved out an Empire with its legions but ideas are what make us strong.” Lares sighed. “At least he used to believe that.”

  Damon’s attention sharpened on the boy. “What do you mean?”

  Lares twirled a ship in the water with his finger. “In the weeks before he left Father became very irritable.”

  “Perhaps he was ill?”

  Lares considered that. “No. Father is never sick.” His voice thickened. “Even when mother and I caught the fever he stayed well.”

  Keeping his tone casual he prodded the boy further. “Did he say what had put him in a foul mood?”

  “No, but he would barricade himself in his library for hours. Aunt Sophia was the only one whose presence he tolerated.” A frown creased his brow. “Julia was very upset. She tried to speak with him about it, but he’d tell her that it was none of her affair.” Lares met Damon’s gaze. “He made her cry.”

  A ripple of anger went through Damon at the thought of Julia in tears. He didn’t imagine she gave into them often, not with the strength of will he’d witnessed the night she’d saved him from the executioner. Whatever had driven Octavian Manulus to lash out in such a manner to his favored daughter had to have been serious.

  “Tempers are known to flare on the Senate floor. It would not be uncommon for the heat of the debate to linger.”

  Lares scoffed. “No, it was the man who kept coming round, a plebian that sparked father’s ire.”

  Sometimes, information was laid at your feet. “A man?”

  Lares busied himself with the ships. “Cripples are invisible to most people. No one noticed I wa
s in the garden when he came to the door demanding to speak with father.”

  Damon’s eyes narrowed. A plebian daring to approach a Senator’s home in such a manner? He leaned forward. “What did he want?”

  Lares shrugged. “I do not know. Father hurried him out of the atrium and into his chambers.” Lares looked at his legs in disgust. “I could not follow.”

  Damon shared the boy’s disappointment. Still it was a start, something tangible that Damon could use. He glanced around the garden. He needed to gain access to the Senator’s library, search for clues to the man’s identity though his gut told him it was the missing Theophilus.

  Lares released a dejected sigh. Damon studied Lares’ bent head. This was no child but a young man desperate to prove himself. All he needed was confidence.

  Damon pushed up from the pavement and brushed the dirt from his hands. “I believe I’ve time for a rest before dinner.” He turned on his heel and headed for the house.

  “Wait!” called Lares, his voice tinged in panic. “You must help me to the divan.”

  Damon looked over his shoulder. “You were able to get from the couch to the pond. You surely can get back by yourself.”

  The boy’s eyes were as large as plates and so filled with anxiety that for a moment, Damon thought to give in and carry him back, but that would do nothing except reinforce his invalid state. “I will assist you to your feet. You must walk back yourself.”

  The heat in Lare’s glare was so potent that Damon was surprised he didn’t ignite into flames. He strode to Lares, gripped him beneath his arms and helped him stand.

  Lares wobbled for several seconds before shrugging free. Temper, it seemed, was as much a family trait as stubbornness judging by the defiant jut of the boy’s chin. Damon smiled at how much he looked like Julia. Raising his hands palm out he stepped away to allow Lares space but stayed close enough to intercede should he falter.