Barbarian's Soul (16 page)

Bran rolled his eyes at the memory of Menw’s smug expression when he’d hotly refused that suggestion.

He glanced over at the pallet in the corner and the form curled up beneath its cover. His gaze lingered on the enticing arch of her buttocks just visible in the moonlight streaming through the opening above. Gods, the material of her shift had molded against her wet skin when she’d left the bath, outlined those very curves. The memory caused his groin to tighten. He bit back a groan as he shifted himself with one hand to relieve the strain. A temporary solution to a vexing problem.

He shifted his gaze back to the ceiling, studied the cracks just visible through the pale light of the new day slanting through the grated skylight above. He’d spent many sleepless nights in his gladiator’s cell staring at the confining walls, at the muted shadows, awaiting the dawn and the matches he would face that day. He’d felt such emptiness, such despair in those quiet morning hours, contemplating the men he would kill. Men as helpless as he in their choices, slaves who earned the right to live another day only by slaughtering their opponents.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He had survived, but at the moment he was uncertain he’d survive the assault on his senses by the Roman witch and her alluring body so close at hand yet as far away as Eire.

A soft sigh drew his attention away from the edge of the black abyss to Adria. She began to mumble, her left foot kicking free of the blanket. Bran raised up on one elbow and watched as she wrestled with the covers in earnest. She began to toss back and forth finally rolling over in his direction. Her delicate brows were drawn together, her lovely mouth twisted in a grimace. He plopped back onto the bed. A bad dream was no more than she deserved. After all, her actions were causing his own to last weeks—or longer. A hard shudder shook him. If they did not sail before the
Idus
of November they would be forced to remain in Rome an additional four months.

Gods.

Adria whimpered then cried out, the terror beneath the sound unmistakable. Bran swung his legs to the side of his bed. Damn the girl.

He padded across the stone floor and crouched down beside the pallet. Adria was pale and shaking. A flash of concern surprised him but with practiced ease, he squelched it. “Thief,” he said gruffly, “wake up.”

“No!” she shouted. “Leave me alone!”

She could be speaking to him, Bran mused, if not for the fact her eyes remained closed.

She let out a guttural noise, flailed her arms in a wild circle, hitting Bran flat in the chest. He caught her wrist before another blow could find its mark, held it loosely as she circled the same arm in the air. As irritating as the girl was, no matter what punishment he might wish to dole out, he understood the terror of nightmares. “Thief,” he repeated firmly, “rouse yourself.”

Adria gasped and lunged out, grabbing him around the neck. The sudden movement caused every muscle in Bran’s body to tense. The impulse to defend against attack surged through him, the air around him spun like a maelstrom and the instinct to survive at all cost constricted his chest. Only the clean fragrance of her hair and her own sweet female scent kept him from throwing her against the wall.

He was shaking along with her as his mind convinced him bit by bit that he wasn’t in the arena, was not facing an opponent that must die by his hand. Bran took a ragged breath as the roar of the crowd dissolved into the sound of weeping.

Hot tears trickled down his bare skin where Adria’s cheek pressed against his chest. Her eyes were still closed in sleep, one slim hand clutching his upper arm. She was holding on as if her life depended upon it. A wave of protectiveness washed over him, caused his own heart to pound. Ruthlessly, he shoved it away.

“Thief?” he whispered, appalled at the shakiness in his voice. He blew out a breath and spoke firmly. “Adria, it is but a dream.”

Adria shuddered. A long-buried instinct drove Bran to pull her into his arms, an action he regretted in an instant when she sighed and snuggled against his shoulder.

Bran had never felt as trapped as he did now, not even when he’d been forced to fight alone against six
Myrmillos
with their fish-crested helmets and lethal swords. The only memory he held of that match was the blast of rage he’d let loose and the spectacle of six bodies being dragged from the sand by arena slaves.

Adria shifted her head, her silky tresses brushing against the stubble of his chin. Bran’s eyes drifted closed. He inhaled her scent, realized there was more to it than the fragrance of the bath oil; sweet musk blended with a sparkling freshness that reminded him of the mountain streams of home.

His eyes snapped open. Gods, the madness he feared had finally surfaced. What other explanation for comparing a woman of Rome with something so pure as Eire?

Even in sleep this woman was causing havoc. Bran started to give her a good shake as much to satisfy his annoyance as to wake her but his hand stopped in midair when she sighed again, a sound filled with relief.

He angled his head so that he could study Adria’s profile. She looked so damned vulnerable asleep, not like the prickly female he knew her to be. Long, thick lashes, black as soot fanned out in a crescent over cheeks flushed a perfect shade of pink that complemented the light-olive tones of her unblemished skin to perfection.

And her mouth. Gods, that mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth as he contemplated those rose-tinted lips. The lower one was fuller than the upper, perfect for nipping, he mused. Bran released his own sigh. Wine would not be necessary if he could but drink from such a mouth. One taste and he’d be lost.

And you’d never get your fill
.

Bran frowned at the errant thought. He’d kissed many women, a necessary prelude to the couplings he craved. Only a few girls from his youth and Beatrix had ever given him cause to linger for a more thorough tasting. It took a moment for Bran to realize that Adria’s body had gone stiff in his arms.

“No!”

The cry was primal, filled with a panic Bran recognized all too well. “Thief! Wake up!” She did not respond but began to twist in his arms. Bran tried to keep her contained, fearful that she would fling herself against the sharp stone edges of the wall but she fought like a madwoman. He hissed as her nails raked across his neck. Usually when a woman scored him it was during the height of passion. This was like wrestling a lion.

Bran swung one leg across her lower body and used his weight to still her flailing legs while holding her wrists close to her belly. Her eyes were still closed, her breathing rapid and her cheeks flushed bright red. Bran’s breath hitched. Gods, she
was
beautiful. Distracted, Bran loosened his grip. A fist, small but hard as a stone, shot upward.

“Damnation, witch!” Bran snarled, rocking back on his heels, his palm pressed to his throbbing right eye.

Adria’s eyes fluttered open then widened. “Wh—what are you doing?” she asked in an accusing tone. She began to wriggle beneath him. “Do not touch me! Let me go!”

Bran leaned forward, held her captive with his thighs, his initial arousal withering as she fought. He glared at her with his good eye. “You were having a nightmare.”

She gave an indelicate snort. “That is a fine excuse. I do not have nightmares.”

“Excuse? I have no need for excuses.”

“You had your hands on me.” She swept her gaze over him. “You still do! Release me!”

He did not attempt to hide his amusement at the shock in her eyes when he did just that, causing her to tumble back onto her appealing little ass. And to think he’d thought her soft and vulnerable only moments ago. “Sheath your claws, woman.” He could feel the skin beneath his eye swelling. “You were making an unholy noise in the throes of the nightmare you were not having and disturbed my rest.”

A look of uncertainty flashed across her features as if she were trying to remember. Why she would want to, he could not fathom. He’d not had a night of restful sleep since the day he’d been captured, so vivid were his own sleep terrors. Bran fisted his hands against the unreasonable urge to comfort her when she shuddered again.

She met his gaze evenly. “I was
not
having a nightmare.”

Stubborn as ten mules, he thought. No effort on her part could hide the fear and pain the dream had rendered. It was there, written plainly on her beautiful features. He started to point out to her that her pride was misplaced when a streak of red shot across his vision, an image of Tiege flashing in his mind. Bran squeezed his eyes shut, the sharp sense of danger subsided but not before he saw a shadowy figure behind the master thief. When he opened them again, Adria was studying his face, a small smile playing along her mouth. “Did I do that?”

He squinted through his injured eye as he rose to his feet.  “The night is spent,” he growled. “I hear Menw below in the cooking area. You will assist him in preparing the morning meal and then take the children in hand. Come.”

Chapter Nine

B
arbarians were an infuriating race.

That was the thought foremost in Adria’s mind as she trailed Bran down the short, narrow corridor to the stairs leading to the lower level of the
domus
. Of course barbarians were not a race unto themselves. The designation was one placed on any number of uncivilized peoples bold enough to challenge Rome’s assimilation of their lands, their culture, their wealth. Their lives.

Barbarians were ignorant, she’d heard the politicians proclaim, wild and unpredictable, no more than dumb animals. It was Rome’s duty to subjugate them. A mistake, her father used to say, to underestimate people threatened with the loss of their homes.

Staring at the broad back in front of her, Adria felt as if she had been as shortsighted as the Empire’s legions. Not in terms of mental capacity, not in the least. From the first moment she’d looked into that formidable emerald glare, she’d recognized the shrewdness, the keen intellect. Perhaps not in the manner of a scholar. Even in Rome only patricians could afford formal education. But there was no doubting Bran’s intelligence or, she thought, her blood heating, the raw, primal wildness barely leashed beneath that intellect.

Adria stifled a sigh. She was usually adept at judging other people, identifying their strengths, finding their weaknesses. A certain natural flair, she supposed, honed by living in the streets. But Bran refused to fit into any of the convenient niches she’d placed him in. She’d never expected him to react with such anger at the loss of his precious jewelry, especially when it had already passed out of his hands. Ranting and raving, yes. Perhaps a stomping of feet, loud cursing or other typical male responses, none of those would have surprised her.

Instead, Bran had hunted her down with a single-minded purpose that still caused her head to spin. And had he done so because of the loss of coin? No. He’d tracked her, cornered her, and abducted her because his honor—his precious
barbarian
honor—had been tarnished.

And to awaken lying beneath him? Adria chewed on her lip at the memory of how that powerful body towering over her had taken her breath away and ignited a heat within her blood that still simmered. A transitory image of arms holding her gently, almost soothingly passed through her mind. For one brief moment she’d felt safe. Adria felt the flush of heat on her neck which only deepened when Bran glanced over his shoulder and raised one brow.

Arrogant, she added to her mental list of Bran’s faults as she followed him down the stairs.

Cyma stood at the foot of the stairs. The little girl looked as if she had just tumbled out of bed, her golden ringlets snarled into a tangle down her back and her beautiful blue eyes still clouded with sleep. Adria held her breath when Bran reached the bottom, certain he would snap at the child. Instead he stretched out his hand. Cyma smiled and without a word between them, grasped it and skipped beside her father to the kitchen.

Adria stared in disbelief. The little girl had not been frightened, had not appeared the least bit intimidated by Bran’s frowning visage. Well, she thought as she continued down the stairs, she absolutely refused to add tenderness to the roll of his attributes. Even beasts were attentive to their young. Before they ate them.

“Where is Linus?”

Adria entered the kitchen as Bran asked the question while straddling a crude wooden bench beside the lone table.

“He ate his meal and bolted while I was sweeping the entry,” replied Menw from where he stood slicing coarse bread into thick slices. “He muttered something unintelligible, though you might guess the essence of his message.” Menw turned and seeing Adria lingering by the doorway motioned her to the table with a smile.

Adria acknowledged him with a slight nod, but she kept a wary eye on Bran who acted as though she were not even present. A blessing, she thought, as she joined Julian and Cyma on the opposite bench. Cyma wriggled to make room for her, bumping her brother in the process. Julian scowled at his sister and reached for his wooden sword.

“Hold, warrior,” said Adria, gently nudging Cyma aside to sit between them, “your opponent is unarmed.” Julian gave her a cool sideways look and continued eating his meal while Cyma giggled. Adria felt Bran’s attention skim across her but when she raised her eyes he was looking at Menw.

“I do not like it,” Bran grumbled, reaching for a bowl filled with honey. He slathered a piece of bread with the sticky confection and took a huge bite.

Adria’s gaze locked on a small drop of honey that clung to Bran’s lower lip. His mouth was hard, masculine and tempting. Through the haze of her receding dream his mouth had been only a brush away. The scent of wine from his breath had sparked an unreasonable urge to taste that mouth. From beneath lowered lids she watched him lick it away. Her moment of insanity cleared when Menw spoke.

“You cannot keep him confined, Bran.” Menw poured himself a goblet of water. “He is finding his way.”

Bran grunted. “Finding his way? In the streets of Rome?” \