Barbarian's Soul (22 page)

Adria gave him a questioning look. “Believe me?”

In two strides, Bran was at her side. With his finger he held her chin and nearly melted her with the tenderness of his kiss.

His deep voice was husky. “I believe you were willing.” Bran walked to the door. “Come, I find I am ravished. Perhaps Menw still has some of his infamous gruel left.”

***

“Fresh chickens! Lopped their heads off just this morning.”

Adria spared a glance at the dripping carcasses, catching Julian’s arm as he reached for one of the severed heads piled in a basket.

“I want to see if it still bites!” he protested.

“It may not, but I will.” she said into his ear. Adria glanced at Bran, wondered if he would object to her chastisement but he was not paying attention, listening with that impassive expression he did so well to a vendor extolling the virtues of his leather goods.

The morning had passed in a surreal manner. On returning to the house Bran had insisted that they bathe together. Adria had wanted to protest but the heat in his eyes matched too closely the fire simmering in her own blood for her to refuse. She closed her eyes, her belly clenching at the memory of how gentle he’d been as they’d explored each other and joined again, the warm, scented water soothing and enhancing their lovemaking. The contrasts between the hardened warrior and the lover who had taken such care to provide her with her own pleasure caused her heart to constrict, and her eyes to burn.

She swiped away the unshed tears. Damn him. She’d never been one to weep over, well, anything, save her parents death. Tears were a weakness in the streets and she abhorred showing weakness. But the emotions she was feeling were overwhelming. Bran had some level of care for her, a care she’d not experienced since she was a child. A sense of belonging above and beyond physical lust.

She sighed.

When they’d finally emerged from the bath, Cyma and Julian begged and pleaded for Bran to take them to visit a friend named Cellach and he had consented. Adria had hoped to be left behind, to sort through the madness that was now her life, but Bran had refused.

“Look, Adria. I can make it talk!” Cyma exclaimed.

Adria tugged Julian toward Bran and stared aghast as Cyma held up one of the chicken heads and moved its beak up and down with one chubby finger.

“Release it this minute,” she admonished. Ignoring the pout and pooling of tears in the little girl’s eyes, she took her by the wrist and walked her to a small fountain beside the butcher’s shop. Scooping water into her hands, Adria washed the blood off.

“I never have any fun,” Cyma said belligerently.

Adria waved her hands dry. “That is not true. Did you not hide Julian’s sword from him, causing him to declare war on the Trojans this very morning?”

A satisfied smile lit up Cyma’s face. Adria had to hide her own at the spirited little minx. She was a fighter, this one, a kindred spirit, just as Adria had had to be when she’d found herself in the streets.

Her thoughts turned to the little girl’s mother. What must it have taken to survive living in the world of gladiators, protecting her children? A champion, Adria realized, glancing toward Bran, a surly Linus by his side. An oath made to a slave, binding or not, could have easily been broken and the three children declared property to be sold or trained like Beatrix. This new perspective of Bran only added to the swirl of confusing emotions battering her. Taking Cyma’s hand Adria turned to leave only to find the butcher eyeing her with suspicion.

A wave of apprehension passed through Adria. Surely he did not recognize her, not with the way she was clothed? She smoothed the skirt of the tunica Bran had given to her after their bath. A sheath of deep blue linen it was beyond any type of clothing she’d ever owned. Two beaten silver
fibulae
with the same swirling concentric circle design she’d seen on Bran’s other jewelry, held the material together at her shoulders. A belt woven of silken cords gathered it at her waist and her sandals, while plain in design, were soft leather. She hadn’t quite deduced how or why Bran would have acquired women’s clothing, but she was certain that no one would recognize her in such finery when she scarce recognized herself.

She scanned the corner of the market. It was an area she’d patronized on rare occasion, the majority of the merchants here selling hard goods rather than food. No, they would not recognize her as the desperate girl dressed in rags. Squaring her shoulders she gave the man a regal nod and ushered Cyma over to Bran and the boys.

Bran gave her an assessing look. “Causing trouble already?”

Adria raised a brow, trying to hold onto a squirming Cyma who had seen a puppy three stalls down. “Why do you always assume the worst? Do not answer,” she said raising a hand to forestall him, “I’m very certain I would not agree with the answer.”

Bran snorted but his lips quirked as he turned back to consider the leather belting being touted by the merchant. Adria waited, having convinced Cyma that the pup would not like her kitten and should be left alone. The little girl stood beside her watching Julian, who was occupied with converting a discarded piece of wood into a shield.

“It is a fine belt,” the tanner purred. “Perfect for a sword of any size. Your
gladius
will slide free, smoothly giving you an advantage in a, er, close fight, such as an arena.”

Adria heard the tone of derision in the merchant’s voice, and sent Bran a sidelong look. His expression remained stoic but she sensed the imperceptible tensing of his body at the pointed reference to his weapon and the implication of its use. There was no way the man could have seen the
stigma
, his gladiator’s brand, etched into his neck, not with his hair trailing past his shoulders. Adria had felt it as she’d slid her hands beneath his hair in the bath. Hard, puckered skin, an Egyptian symbol branded multiple times to cause it to be hard and prominent. Even as focused as he’d been, kissing and nuzzling the sensitive spot behind her ear, he’d shivered at her discovery of it.

“My sword draws cleanly,” replied Bran with deceptive calm. “And this leather seems a bit brittle along the edges.”

The merchant sputtered. “It is a fine belt! My lady, tell your husband there is no finer leather goods.”

Husband? Adria stared at the man in disbelief and waited for Bran to disabuse him of his mistake.

Bran flicked his gaze to her. “What do you think,
wife
?”

Adria’s cheeks burned and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from cursing. They were in a public place and it would not serve to cause a spectacle. The merchant and Bran were still waiting for her answer.

“I think,
husband
,” she answered in a solicitous voice, “that the coin would be better spent at the baker’s for sweets for the children.”

Upon hearing sweets, Julian and Cyma began to jump up and down, tugging at Bran’s hands and imploring him to take them for treats. Adria’s lips twitched at the tanner’s disgruntled look and the glower Bran sent her over Cyma, who had wrapped her arms around one of his legs in her impassioned plea for honey pastry.

She shifted her gaze away as Bran finished his transaction with the leather merchant, enjoyed the aggravation it caused him and tried not to think of possible consequences. Her eyes narrowed on Linus standing a few feet away facing the street. He shook his head and made a slashing motion with his hand. Adria followed the direction of his scowl. Lounging against the entry of an alleyway were three boys. Two appeared near to Linus’ age the fourth a bit younger. All were dressed in tattered tunics, their faces smudged with dirt. Two were barefoot and all three wore the hardened expressions of youths who’d seen too much of the ugly side of the streets.

The tallest boy said something to his companions and they all laughed. Linus’ cheeks reddened as he made an obscene gesture with one of his fingers.

The leader sobered in an instant and removed a blade from the side of his boot. Adria’s gaze narrowed on the youth. He seemed familiar, though she could not fathom why until he pulled the neck of his tunic down. Even from this distance she could see the distinct mark of a coiled asp burned into his left shoulder—the symbol of the
Vipera,
the most notorious gang of cutthroat street rats in Rome. Everyone, save the likes of Tiege and his ilk, gave wide berth to those demons. She’d seen this one kick a beggar, an infirmed old man, halfway to death.

Linus’ hands curled into fists and he gave a curt nod. He swung away from them and jerked in surprise to find Adria watching. She glanced at Bran, saw he was occupied counting out coins, and took the few steps to stand beside Linus.

“Friends of yours?” she asked, looking out over the street, noting from the corner of her eye that the three boys had melted into the crowd. She saw the middle one jostle into a slave following his richly garbed master. The slave spun in the opposite direction, never realizing the purse from his belt was gone.

Linus cast a wary look to Bran’s back and said beneath his breath, “What matter is it to you?”

Adria tamped down her irritation. “A word of advice,
boy
,” she replied, enjoying his wince, “some of your worst enemies wear the mask of friendship.”

Linus rolled his eyes. “And some whores wear the mask of nursemaids.”

Adria willed herself to not respond and not solely for the sake of peace between Bran and Linus. Because his jibe fueled her own doubts. Yes, she had made a conscious decision to lie with Bran, her captor, a barbarian. Prostitutes did so for a profit. She looked at Bran who turned at that moment and fixed his gaze on her. She saw the flash of smoldering heat and her body reacted. She took a deep breath, tried to ease the tightness in her chest. What profit would she have save the wish for something that could never be?

“Adria!” exclaimed Cyma, skipping ahead of Bran. “Come! Ceallach’s house is not too far! Bran says Bryna will have honey cakes there!”

An odd sensation shot through her at the mention of the mysterious Bryna. She pressed her lips together, refused to recognize it as jealousy. Bran gave her a quizzical look as he directed Julian and Linus ahead of them. It deepened at her startled jump when he placed a hand at her back. The gentle, possessive gesture stirred the well of emotions churning inside her. How could she desire him at the same time he was parading her before his lover?

“Are you ill?”

No, she was miserable. Adria shook her head and forced her chin up. She took Cyma’s hand and keeping her gaze straight ahead, walked with him out of the market.

Neither of them spoke as they left the crowds behind and made their way up the paved street leading to the wealthiest residential area in the city. Adria struggled to control the nerves knotting her stomach as she looked ahead at the hillside dotted with the sumptuous villas of Rome’s elite. She was a plebian, a commoner. A fleeting thought went through her mind that the very ground might open up and swallow her if she stepped one unworthy foot on patrician ground.

The noise of the Forum faded as they walked, seeming to step from a world teeming with life into a silent crypt. Even the children had fallen quiet, their heads cast down as they walked. She looked up and down the thoroughfare. Most of the pedestrians appeared to be slaves about their masters’ business. A few ornate litters borne on the shoulders of porters dressed in bright tunics maneuvered their way around the curves of the thoroughfare. Bran walked beside her, eyes straight ahead, the inscrutable expression that she was coming to know as his gladiator’s face fixed in place. He looked as if he were preparing for battle. And then she saw the reason why.

Their small group had drawn the attention of the people they passed. Living on the streets, she’d been the object of derision before but never the harsh contempt that emanated from the people glaring at them, at Bran.

“Ignore them,” he said beneath his breath.

“How can I when they appear ready to slit our throats?” she whispered back.

“They do not like strangers in their midst.”

Linus snorted. “They do not like slaves and barbarians.”

Bran sent a hot glare to the boy. “Ignore. Them.”

As much as she wanted to do the opposite, ask these people by what right they judged, Adria could see the wisdom of being silent. Patricians did not take insubordination from the lower classes well. But she refused to cower. Squaring her shoulders, she clasped Bran’s hand in hers, ignored the startled look he gave her, turning instead and smiled at the shocked matron staring at them from her entry.

Adria’s lips felt frozen in place by the time they turned off the main road and stood at the gate of a modest villa nestled in a grove of pine trees, well apart from the other
domus
’.

“You can stop smiling now,” Bran said.

“I don’t believe I can,” she answered stiffly.

Bran faced her with a lopsided grin. Gods, the devastating wonders a smile had on that handsome face, releasing even for the briefest moment the lines and strain of worry, pain, guilt. “Allow me to help.”

He took her mouth with his. The kiss was hot, demanding, and seared her to the very tips of her toes. She swayed and grasped his upper arms, relishing the feel of his hardness. Like a rock, she thought distantly, strong and steadfast. Safe. A wave of disappointment washed through her when he pulled away.

His hand supported her back and she tried to see his face through the haze. As if from a great distance, she heard Cyma giggle, Julian groan and Linus snicker.

“Better?”

Adria did not trust herself to speak. Instead she allowed herself to lean against his chest to catch her breath.

“Master Bran! Welcome!”

Adria snapped back to her senses and tried to free herself from Bran’s arms. He allowed it though he kept one arm circled round her waist. The heat in her cheeks only increased at the bemused expression on the steward’s face.

“Mistress Bryna has been expecting you.”

“This comes as no surprise,” murmured Bran.

The steward’s bemusement turned into a wide grin. “Please, follow me.”