Celtic Fire Page 23

  “My son lives. Thanks to you.”

  She spun around. Lucius had eased himself to a sitting position in the bed, his son nestled close to him. The sight of them together filled her heart to bursting.

  The dark stubble on Lucius’s chin gave him the look of some wild Roman god. His face was haggard, but his eyes spoke gentle whispers, dark and warm like a summer night. Truly, he was a king among men—strong and proud, with a heart that loved deeply and true.

  She turned away.

  A soft, bitter laugh reached her ears. “I deserve your disgust after my conduct in the forest, I am quite sure of that.”

  “No,” she said, her voice breaking. “I could never hate you, Lucius.”

  She heard him rise, heard the sound of Marcus being shifted from his arms. She turned to see Lucius drawing a blanket over his son. Bending low, he placed a kiss on the lad’s forehead.

  He approached her slowly as if he thought she would bolt if he dared to get too close. “You have every right to despise me, yet you repay my harsh treatment by trading your freedom for my son’s life.”

  “I love the lad,” she said simply.

  Lucius’s eyes glittered like dark, brittle stars. “I envy him that. I would give much to hear you say the same of me.”

  An ache rose in Rhiannon’s breast. She would give anything to say those words, but she dared not. Once said, there would be no going back to her people. No going back to Owein.

  Lucius touched his finger to her chin and lifted it. There was heat in his gaze now, fused with another, deeper emotion. One that frightened her even more than his anger had done on the day he’d prevented her escape. She blinked, trying to quell the rise of her emotions before they caused her heart to break.

  She caught his wrist. “I’m not what you think, Lucius.”

  “Do you know what I’m thinking?” He took her hand in his and turned it over, tracing circles on her palm with the tip of his forefinger. “Surely you do not. If you could look into my mind at this moment, you would not be standing so calmly before me.”

  She trembled as sweet sparks shot from his touch directly to her loins. Her tears began in earnest, streaming down her cheeks. Lucius bent his head and caught one on his tongue. “Why do you weep, my nymph?” He pulled back and looked into her eyes, his hands steady and warm on her shoulders.

  She knew she should turn away. Knew she should step back and shatter the intimacy of his touch. But when she searched his gaze and read a note of uncertainty there, her limbs went weak. She could no more turn away from him than water could refuse to rush over the falls.

  Slowly, she moved her palms up his torso, over the taut muscles of his stomach and the sleek strength of his chest. She explored the breadth of his shoulders. He stood motionless, neither inviting nor rejecting her advances. She stroked the column of his throat, finding the steady pulse there. Then she entwined her arms about his neck and pressed her body into his comforting heat.

  Only then did he dip his head. His mouth took hers in a sweet, almost chaste kiss. His second kiss delved only a fraction deeper. He lingered on her lips, coaxing, teasing, for endless aching moments.

  A fierce hunger came over her, an untamed craving so great she was powerless to resist it. She probed Lucius’s lips with the tip of her tongue, hesitantly at first, then with growing passion, demanding entrance.

  He opened to her at last, allowing her plunder and taking his own. His hands cupped her buttocks, lifting her slightly, then sliding her cleft along the hard ridge beneath his tunic. He repeated the motion, raising and lowering her in a sensuous rhythm until she thought she would go mad.

  Her fingers caught the tangled curls at his nape and held tightly. She wrapped one leg around his, rubbing like a cat, desperate to get closer. Her arousal grew unbearable. She moved in sinuous rhythm against him, wanting him inside her, needing him to assuage her need.

  A cautious rap sounded at the door. Rhiannon went rigid, passion draining as quickly as it had come. Dear Briga! What was she doing? Marcus lay sleeping but a few steps away. She fought Lucius’s arms. “Release me.”

  He permitted her to turn but didn’t let her step out of his embrace. He slipped one arm across her torso and pulled her against his body. Her spine pressed into his chest and stomach. His arousal prodded the small of her back.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The door opened, admitting Demetrius. The healer had visited the bath sometime during the night. His soiled tunic and mantle had been exchanged for clean garments and his hair and beard had been washed and combed. His eyes, however, were red-rimmed, and Rhiannon guessed he’d had little rest. Rhiannon, rigid in Lucius’s arms, felt her face go hot, but the healer’s attention barely touched her before swinging to Marcus. He hastened to the bed and placed his hand on the lad’s brow.

  “The gods be praised,” he said.

  “The fever broke before dawn,” Rhiannon said.

  “Should we wake him now so he may take some nourishment?” Lucius asked.

  Demetrius shook his head. “Better that he rest.” His gaze strayed, at last, to Rhiannon, still held firm against Lucius’s body.

  She resisted the urge to squirm under his knowing gaze. “Sleep is healing,” she told Lucius, trying desperately for calm. “He may eat when he wakes.”

  “Then we’ll retire as well,” Lucius said.

  “Yes,” said Demetrius dryly. “Please do. I will stay with the boy while you two, ah …”

  Rhiannon blushed even more.

  “… rest,” he finished.

  Lucius tightened his hold on Rhiannon, hand splayed on her stomach, pressing her even more firmly against his arousal. “We’ll return soon.”

  “No need. Take your time.”

  Lucius shifted Rhiannon to his side, positioning her between him and Demetrius. “I’ve no wish to display my rod before the old goat,” he said against her ear.

  Demetrius snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve seen it before.”

  Rhiannon nearly choked.

  “Your hearing is far too sharp for an old man,” Lucius muttered darkly. He propelled Rhiannon toward the door and lifted the latch.

  “I suggest a shave and bath before you fall into her bed, Luc,” Demetrius said, chuckling.

  Lucius half turned as he shepherded Rhiannon out of the chamber. “As always, Magister, I bow to your wisdom.”

  The healer let out a bark of laughter. “Begone, boy. I’ll tend your son while you tend your woman.” He waggled his bristly brows. “Make your ancestors proud.”

  Lucius moved his hands over Rhiannon’s body, dipping into her gentle curves and exploring her sleek, muscled limbs through the soft fabric of her tunic. The feel of her spun through his soul like an intoxicating fire. It would consume him, leaving little more than ash, but he no longer cared.

  With Rhiannon in his arms he felt alive in a way he’d never before experienced: more vital than dawn, his mind sharper than the instant before a battle horn sounded. When he looked at the world through her eyes, the narrow path of his life split open. A myriad of possibilities spread out at his feet, each choice glittering like a gem. The expectations heaped upon him at birth faded. With Rhiannon by his side he would have the courage to become the man he longed to be, not the figurehead tradition and family demanded.

  He nuzzled her breast.

  She tried to push him away. “Lucius! Someone will see.”

  No doubt. They stood on the upper passageway in full view of anyone who might venture into the courtyard. Dawn’s light painted the sky in shades of rose and violet. After the long, dark hours shut in Marcus’s chamber, its effect on Lucius was like that of a drug.

  “If some curious eye cares to watch, let it,” he said, “as long as Marcus and Demetrius are safely occupied.” He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent—mist and flowers underlaid with the fiery musk of her arousal. He could hardly wait to lose himself inside her. But where? The chamber adjoining his own? No. He would no
t let Demetrius amuse himself by listening. On the stair?

  Lucius was envisioning the possibilities when Rhiannon swatted his arm. “I assure you, Lucius, I will care if someone watches.”

  He toyed with her braid, plucking off the binding cord and separating the strands. “I want you, Rhiannon.” He drew back and met her gaze. “I need you. Now.”

  He heard the soft hitch in her breathing, saw the light in her expression that quickly overlaid a flash of pain. Her hand drifted from his neck to his face, where her fingers scraped the stubble on his jaw. Her gaze darted to the courtyard, the tiles, the sky—anywhere but toward his eyes.

  His urgency dimmed, but his determination increased. She had a right to fear him—he’d taken her in the forest like a green soldier pumping a whore. Perhaps she was afraid he’d do so again.

  He swept her into his arms and strode toward the stairs. She clung to his neck. “My chamber lies in the opposite direction.”

  “I know,” he said, taking the steps to the lower level two at a time.

  When he halted before the door to the bathing rooms, Rhiannon looked up at him, confused. “Tribune Vetus—”

  “Fled the house when Marcus fell ill,” Lucius informed her. “He’s ordered Brennus out of his private room in the barracks.”

  A shadow flitted across Rhiannon’s face. “I doubt the quartermaster will take kindly to such an imposition.”

  “He has little choice unless he wishes to share his bed with the man.” He snorted. “Vetus might enjoy that arrangement.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tribune prefers men to women.”

  Rhiannon’s eyes went wide. “For coupling? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “It’s common enough in Rome.”

  “Oh.” She frowned. “Have you ever—”

  “By Pollux! No.”

  He shouldered open the door to the baths. No slave boy slept in the antechamber, and Lucius was glad of it. He set Rhiannon on her feet. “Stay here. I’ll return in but a moment.”

  Tepid water filled the bathing pool. In the furnace room, the fire that had heated Demetrius’s bath water burned low. Lucius stirred the coals and stoked the reborn fire with logs from the wood pile.

  He returned to the antechamber, half afraid Rhiannon might have fled. She hadn’t. She’d taken a seat on a low stone bench in the changing alcove. He paced slowly toward her. She watched as he advanced, shifting her thighs on the bench in a way that made him wonder if she were already slick with wanting.

  The thought pleased him immensely. By returning to the fort—even if concern for Marcus had been her first motive—she’d shown that she knew to whom she belonged. He resolved now to erase her last remnants of fear and bind her to him completely. From this moment forward, her loyalty to him would outweigh her sense of duty to her countrymen. She would lead him to Aulus’s murderers and his brother’s ghost would rest at last.

  He dropped to his knees before her and loosened the leather ties on her shoes. He slid them from her feet and set them aside. He caressed one small foot, then the other, before his hand drifted to the hem of her tunic.

  He slid his hands beneath the linen and stroked her calves with his palms. He kneaded the smooth skin, softening the taut muscles beneath. Her golden gaze heated as his hand moved higher. Her tunic bunched as he went, hiding his arms and hands. He teased the tender flesh at the back of her knees and the inside of her thighs. She let out a soft sigh and parted her legs.

  When his fingers grazed the tight curls guarding her sex, she braced her hands on his shoulders and went very still. As he’d suspected, she was soft and wet. Her dew slicked his finger and he stroked deep, gathering it as if it were honey.

  “You give me a king’s welcome,” he said. He stroked again, earning a gasp as he delved deeper. Her fingernails bit into his flesh.

  He chuckled. “Do you like that, my love?”

  “You mock me,” she whispered. “You know that I do.”

  He lifted her tunic higher, baring her stomach, and swirled his tongue into the sweet indentation of her navel. Her hips arched. He seized the opportunity to glide the rear portion of her hem beneath her buttocks. “Raise your arms.”

  She obeyed, and he slipped the garment over her head. It fell to the floor in a languid flutter. But when she reached for him, he stopped her with another order. “Keep your hands above your head, clasped.”

  Once again, she obeyed without question. He sat back on his heels and drank in the sight of her. She sat before him, arms raised and legs parted, gloriously naked and more beautiful than Venus. Her unbound tresses were curls of flame that licked at one breast and covered the other. The taut peaks of those perfect mounds thrust forward invitingly. He imagined her budded nipples as ripe cherries, ready for the harvester’s hand. Or mouth. He dipped his head and tasted one, then the other.

  She abandoned her seductive pose to thread her fingers through his hair, urging him closer. He drew harder on her nipple. Her thighs opened. He felt one slim leg, then the other, rise to encircle his hips. Her boldness pleased him. She’d been so hesitant that first night, as if she’d never taken the initiative in lovemaking before. Perhaps she hadn’t.

  He left her breasts, inhaled a ragged breath, and moved lower, painting a trail with his tongue across her creamy skin. He buried his face in her belly and kissed her navel, then drew back and blew a cool stream of air across her wet skin.

  She made a sound in her throat like the coo of a dove. He licked lower, lapping, then blowing across the path he’d traced with hot bursts of breath. Rhiannon squirmed, trying to lift her hips. He eased her legs from his waist and opened her completely, holding her thighs and keeping her bottom firmly anchored to the cool stone. He nuzzled her curls and inhaled a scent more intoxicating than wine. She’d guessed where his path was leading, for she clutched his hair in her fingers and tried to guide him lower.

  He resisted, drawing another moan from her lips. “Lucius …” She all but tore the hair from his head.

  He chuckled. “Have a care, sweet. Unless you prefer a bald lover.” He licked a wet path along the upper edge of her Venus mound. He kissed the hooded place where her pleasure lay—once, twice, then again. “I’ll give a thousand kisses, then another hundred,” he whispered.

  Her hips strained against his hands, inviting him in. A magnificent invitation, but one he wasn’t yet ready to accept. He wanted her begging. Delirious. So stricken with need that she would never leave him. She would surrender to him at last, and if he could not quite subdue the niggling voice that told him she would never be completely his own, he could at least pretend he didn’t hear it.

  She tossed her head from side to side as he parted her sweet folds and kissed her again. “And yet a thousand kisses more.” Withdrawing, he blew short puffs of air across her sensitized flesh, then turned his attention to the tender ivory skin of her inner thighs.

  She groaned in protest, a low throaty growl that hardened his rod almost past bearing.

  “Lucius—” Her tone was no longer breathless but demanding.

  He laid his cheek against her thigh and circled one finger about her entrance. “Do you like this, I wonder?”

  Her answer was a sharp intake of breath.

  “No? Perhaps this, then?” He flicked his tongue gently over the exquisitely soft skin covering the swell at the opening of her sheath, then caught the tight bud between his lips and suckled.

  Her cry rang off the tiles. Her fingernails dug into his nape. Triumph raced through him. No other before him had made her scream with pleasure; he was certain of it. No other after him would get the opportunity to try.

  “Dear Briga. Lucius …”

  He drew back until his touch on her was no more than the tantalizing movement of his breath across her swollen folds. “This?”

  “No.” She surprised him by slipping out from beneath his hands as easily as a water nymph. Before he could react she was behind him, pressing her breasts
to his back and encircling his torso with her arms. She reached beneath his tunic and took hold of his rod. Her fingers stroked his length.

  “Do you like this?” she said, giving his words back to him.

  “By the gods!”

  “No? Then perhaps …” She gripped his flesh in her hand and stroked upward.

  “You are a vixen.”

  Her laughter fell on his ear like music. She danced away, her golden eyes flashing with mirth. He caught her by the arm, pulled her back to him, and lifted her in his arms. In two long strides he carried her through the door that led to the bathing room.

  He descended the tiled steps. Rhiannon let out a sigh as the water lapped at her legs. Lucius lowered her onto the top step and reached for the flask set in a nearby niche.

  “So warm,” she murmured. “Like a dream.”

  He tipped a generous amount of fragrant oil into his hand and rubbed his palms together, generating heat. He anointed her breasts, tracing circles around her areolas. She melted into his touch with a sigh.

  He massaged the balm on her shoulders, stomach, legs. When he would have delved into more intimate places, Rhiannon shook her head and eased the bottle from his hands.

  “Let me return your attentions.”

  Her fingers fluttered over his biceps, spreading the oil onto his skin. She massaged a trail over his shoulders and chest, a gentle siege before which he lay helpless. The tension of the last few days seeped away. In its place another, more pleasurable tension grew.

  Her eyes glinted as she scrutinized his arousal. It crested the water’s surface between her legs, dangerously close to her russet curls. She looked up at him and smiled. “Lie back.”

  He did as she commanded, spreading his arms on the edge of the pool, enjoying his passivity. She continued her ministrations, massaging oil onto his chest and stomach as he had done with her, sliding down his body with hands and lips. How far did she dare go? Anticipation coiled tightly as he watched her progress through half-closed eyelids.