Grasping the raised end of the bed for balance,
Rhiannon eased her weight onto her uninjured limb. Her
wounded leg throbbed, but she resolutely ignored it and took
a step toward the window. She needed an idea of the fort's
layout before she could escape it.
The first step on her wounded leg sent a
shooting pain into her thigh. She gritted her teeth and
stepped forward on her uninjured limb. On the third step
her balance faltered. She landed on the hard tiles with
a thump, her hand striking the tail of the glittering cat-beast. Pain
exploded behind her eyes. She clutched her leg and forced
back a cry as she waited for the sting to recede.
The door chose that precise moment to open. She
peered under the bed frame, her heart pounding into her throat. A
pair of masculine feet, encased in short leather boots, advanced
a few steps into the chamber. Bronzed skin sprinkled
with dark hair covered calves hard with muscle. The hem
of a blood-red tunic fell above the knee, affording her a tantalizing
glimpse of long thighs roped with sinew.
The owner of the magnificent limbs moved
unerringly in Rhiannon's direction. She jerked herself
upright, ignoring the fresh spurt of pain in her leg. She
would not meet her captor while sprawled on her arse.
The Roman commander rounded the bed and looked
down at her, his dark brows drawn together in a disbelieving
scowl. "Are you insane? You should be in bed." Without
waiting for a reply, he bent and scooped her into his arms.
He lifted her easily, his arms flexing around
her like a living cage, and for a moment, Rhiannon forgot to
breathe. Her fingers closed on his upper arms. His
skin was smooth and golden, stretched taut over iron hard muscles. Rhiannon
willed her racing heart to slow, and, as she filled her lungs
with air, she thought she had succeeded.
Then she looked up, into his eyes.
His steady gaze enveloped her like a fur
cloak on a winter night. His frown softened, drawing
her attention once again to his smooth chin. One corner
of his mouth quirked with the promise of a smile. She
shifted in his arms. His lips parted on a quick intake
of breath, revealing a row of even, white teeth.
He smelled of the wind in the pines and of
leather freshly cured. His powerful, blunt-fingered hand
closed on her arm. His skin was dark against her fairer
coloring, but his grip was not harsh. His fingernails
were clean, and trimmed short.
Rhiannon's heart set to pounding harder than
before. She thought perhaps she should be afraid, but,
oddly, she was not. When his calloused warrior's hands
lowered her to the bed, she thought only that this Roman's
touch was softer than Edmyg's had ever been.
He straightened, the frown returning to his
eyes. He swiveled his head to the right and left--searching,
it seemed, but for what, Rhiannon couldn't imagine. He
hunted, prowling to the window, then back to the door. He
bent to inspect the underside of the long table against the
wall.
"Gone again," he said, his tone
abrupt. He turned on her with a swift movement. "Could
it be you?"
Rhiannon's confusion grew. "What
do you mean? Who is gone? The healer?"
 He
didn't answer. His shoulders slumped and his hand passed
over his eyes as if to wipe away some unwanted vision. She'd
seen only his strength when he had first entered the chamber,
but now, looking closer, she noted the weariness in his stance,
the slight tremble of his hand as it curled into a fist. After
a long moment, he raised his head and met her gaze. Again,
recognition sparked in Rhiannon's heart, along with an overwhelming
desire to ease the raw pain that showed so clearly in his soft,
dark eyes. Eyes she was certain she'd looked upon before.
Then, suddenly, she knew.
The Roman commander bore an uncanny resemblance
to the young officer Madog had slaughtered at Samhain. The
man whose soul had cried out to Rhiannon at the moment of his
death. Was the new fort commander kin to the murdered
man, come to revenge his death? A sound of distress escaped
her lips.
Her captor's features smoothed, as if he'd
exerted a sudden effort to wipe them clean. "I'm
sorry if I frightened you," he said. Then, a heartbeat
later, "You shouldn't walk. I'm sure Demetrius told
you."
"He did."
"But you thought to try anyway."
"Yes."
The smile returned to his eyes. "My
esteemed physician will not be pleased to find you think so
little of his advice."
"Then he should refrain from giving
it."
The corners of his mouth lifted, first one
side, then the other. The result was a lopsided smile
and a dimple in one cheek that was identical to his son's. One
dark curl fell over his forehead. He brushed it aside,
only to have it fall back again.
"Forgive me if I don't relay that sentiment
to Demetrius. I know from hard experience he wouldn't
take kindly to it." He took a step toward her. His
hand came to rest on the bed, very close to her arm.
She inched in the opposite direction. Did
he think after a bit of light banter she would welcome him
into her bed? If so, he was to be disappointed. At
the same time, she wondered why he bothered with polite pretenses
at all. He'd claimed her as a battle prize. He
could take her whenever he wished, and there was precious little
she could do to stop him.
"Rhiannon," he said. "A
beautiful name."
She
looked up to find him watching her. "How did you — Oh. The
lad told you."
He nodded. "My son."
"Marcus."
"Yes." He paused. "You
may call me Lucius."
Lucius. It fit him. A
bold name, but not a rough one. Rhiannon was drawn to
the sound of it in spite of a fierce wish to snap the thread
of fate that joined her soul to his. She shifted backward
on the bed, away from him. No matter what he was called,
no matter what connection his kinsman's blood had forged between
them, he was her enemy.
The heat in his gaze told Rhiannon that he
desired her and the knowledge of it filled her with dread. Her
captor was above all a man, and like all men, he would take
what he wanted. But she would not yield easily.
She kept her expression neutral. "How
is your arse, Lucius, where it was struck by my arrow?"
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Joy shares her experience traveling while to Scotland, where many of her books take place. See photos and more on her blog... The following includes research that ties into Celtic Fire.
» Day 7: Vindolanda Roman Fort
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