Celtic Fire (11 page)

She rolled onto her stomach and peered up at him. “I’m to eat while reclining?”

Lucius smiled. “It will enhance the pleasure of your meal.” A heady mix of aromas rose from the table: broiled fish swimming in dark sauce, roasted eggs, and flat loaves arranged with artistic perfection. Lucius nodded his approval. His brother’s Roman cook had a fine hand indeed.

He removed his armor, handing the torso shield along with his sword belt to the male slave with instructions for their care. The man bowed and left the chamber.

Clad only in his tunic, Lucius settled himself to Rhiannon’s left, not touching, but close enough to wrap his arm around her waist if he so chose. “Your presence will enhance my own pleasure,” he whispered in her ear.

As if in response, Rhiannon’s stomach growled loudly. Lucius chuckled. “Your appetite seems to have recovered,” he said, drawing close.

“It seems so,” she said faintly, moving away.

The female slave stepped forward to fill their goblets. “Leave us for now,” Lucius commanded. “We’ll serve ourselves.”

He reached over the bolster and used a flat knife to transfer various selections from the platters to a shared plate. When he’d finished, he lifted a plump morsel of fish with his thumb and forefinger and raised it to Rhiannon’s lips. He held it just slightly out of reach.

She caught the offering on her tongue, laving the pad of Lucius’s thumb as she drew the succulent fish into her mouth. Fire shot through his loins. He shifted on the cushions until he felt the whisper of her body along the length of his own.

He chose another small piece from the plate, but before he could present it, Rhiannon made a sound of distress. She snatched a goblet from the table and downed a hefty draught of wine.

“Dear Briga!” She swiped the back of her hand across her tearing eyes.

Lucius rubbed her back. “Have you never tasted fish?”

“None that swim in fire,” she replied. Lucius chuckled and ate from his own dish while Rhiannon nibbled at the bread and ate a small portion of egg. At length, the slave woman returned bearing a platter of roasted boar’s meat.

“Perhaps you will find the second course more to your liking,” Lucius said. His finger brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek.

She went very still. “I’ve never been fond of boar’s meat.”

Lucius ordered the woman to take away the platter and bring the final course. Rhiannon’s eyes widened when a bowl of poached pears soaked in honey and wine appeared before her. She dipped her spoon into the confection and did not stop until it was gone. She closed her eyes as she brought the final taste to her mouth. Lucius watched the pink tip of her tongue move over her lips to catch the last drop of syrup.

His arm brushed Rhiannon’s shoulder as he nudged his own untouched plate in front of her. Her eyes flew open. He placed the palm of his hand on her nape. “I’m glad you found a dish to your liking at last,” he said, his lips close to her ear.

She shivered. He slid his palm to her shoulder for the briefest of caresses before breaking contact. When the second dish of pears was empty he rose from the couch and, leaning, once again lifted her into his arms.

“I need no help,” she said, twisting in his grasp.

“Perhaps not, but I wish to give it.”

He stepped onto the path bordering the courtyard and strode toward the stairs. Once in the upper gallery, he paused and captured her gaze.

“Shall I carry you to my chamber, nymph?”

Rhiannon’s heart pounded so violently, she feared it would leap out of her chest. She went very still, hoping that a dearth of movement would calm it. It did not.

Lucius’s arms tightened about her. His steady pulse beat against her breast, not so rapidly as her own but swift nonetheless. One hand cupped her buttocks. Its heat burned through her, feeding the torturous fire that had been kindled by their intimate supper.

Lying on the Roman dining couch with Lucius had been far too much like lying abed. Every sip of wine had been flavored by his scent; every taste of honeyed fruit had been spiced by his touch. Rhiannon had eaten too little and drunk too much, and she had clung too tightly to Lucius’s shoulders as he’d ascended the stairs.

His arousal had nudged her hip with every step and even now lay heavy between them. She struggled to remember that he was her clan’s enemy and that this blatant evidence of his lust should repulse, not tempt her. But floating as she was in the pleasant haze of the Roman wine, the thought held little meaning.

Sweet fire raced through her veins, a desire so unfamiliar and fierce that it stole her breath. Lucius looked down at her, a splash of light from the courtyard playing about his face. His dark, exotic eyes gleamed.

“Shall I carry you to my chamber?” he repeated. His voice, low and vibrant, cloaked her like a mantle of darkest midnight.

Rhiannon wondered that he had asked at all. Certainly Niall would not have. The thought sliced through the wine-induced fog like an icy wind. Dear Briga. What manner of woman was she to lust after her clan’s foe?

She went rigid in his arms. “No. I would pass the night alone.”

Lucius swore under his breath. In two swift paces he was at her chamber door, shoving it open. Midnight shadows shrouded the small space, relieved only by the red glow of the coals in the brazier. He strode to the bed, footsteps harsh on the tile, movements rough. He deposited her on the narrow mattress so abruptly that she fell back into the cushions. He braced his arms on either side of her head and leaned over her. His breath bathed her face with heat. He inhaled deeply as if to imprint her scent on his memory.

His lips parted, showing a glint of teeth. “I would stay with you.” His head dipped slowly, and in the taut, endless moment before his lips touched hers, Rhiannon could think only that she could not turn away even if her very life had hung in the balance.

His kiss teased like the tantalizing flight of a butterfly. His possession eased, then advanced, a sensual assault both urgent and enticing. Desire flowed into Rhiannon’s loins. Lucius’s teeth nipped her lower lip, creating tiny darts of pleasure. His tongue soothed, then probed the slick lining, demanding more.

Rhiannon trembled beneath him. Her mouth opened as if in welcome, her arms entwined his neck as if in need. His body came down on hers, the ridge of his arousal pressing against her thigh. The small part of her brain that had been protesting her surrender fell silent. She was a woman, he a man, and the night was dark.

Yet even as the sweet ache in her breasts rose and the liquid heat pooled low in the hidden place between her thighs, the scornful whisper returned, taunting. How fitting that the granddaughter of Cartimandua should open her legs for her enemy.

Shame seared her. She gave a sharp cry of protest. When Lucius gave no response, she slapped his chest with her palm. She tore her lips from his, twisting as she fought to free herself from his weight.

He swore softly and shoved himself off the bed. His gait was angry as he strode to the window. He stood, unmoving, hands fisted at his sides and stared out into the black night. Rhiannon swallowed hard, her fingers knotting the edge of the coverlet. Had she gained another day’s reprieve? Or had she succeeded only in tapping his rage?

At length he turned and approached her. She tensed as he drew near, but he merely took up a brass handlamp from the table near the bed. Crouching at the brazier, he touched the wick to the coals and blew gently until the flame leapt to life.

He repositioned the lamp on the table with careful precision. His eyes were hard, his expression grim. When he reached for her with an abrupt motion, she flinched.

He frowned and drew back. Rhiannon struggled to remain calm. Would he force her now? Would it have been better to yield to his advances when his mood had been light?

“What manner of man do you belong to, Rhiannon?”

She drew a shaky breath. “None.”

“Every woman belongs to a man. Have you a husband?” When she didn’t answer, he added softly, “I won’t hurt you as he did.”

“What?”

“I won’t beat you. You needn’t fear my hands.”

Dear Briga.
How could Lucius know that Niall had indeed taken to striking out at her? Not often, and never in the company of others, but Rhiannon suspected that Owein had known. The fault was her own. If her womb had provided Niall with a living babe, he’d never have felt the urge to hit her. And Edmyg never would have gone to Glynis’s pallet to seek a son.

“He should be castrated.” The compassion in Lucius’s eyes was harder to bear than his anger. “Put your thoughts of him aside. I promise you will enjoy every moment in my bed.”

“Your vanity is astounding,” Rhiannon whispered.

He grinned suddenly, the dimple in his cheek deepening and his eyes taking on the impish glint of a lad. “Why not put my arrogance to the test? You may well find yourself begging for my conceit.”

An unexpected laugh bubbled into her throat. “You are far too sure of yourself.”

He touched her face, the roughened callus on the pad of his thumb curiously gentle on her cheekbone while his fingers caressed the sensitive skin behind her ear. Against her will, her eyelids fluttered shut.

Abruptly, he stepped back, leaving her bereft before she recalled she should be glad of his withdrawal.

“Please leave,” she said, but the words held little force.

In answer, he lowered himself onto the bed and took her hand in his. He began a thorough kneading of her palm, first stroking with firm pressure, then tracing the skew of lines with a feathering touch. An aching response pulled low in Rhiannon’s belly. The small smile tugging at one corner of Lucius’s mouth told her that he was well aware of the effect of his touch.

Her face flamed and she snatched her hand away. “Why do you woo me? You are a Roman defiler. You have only to spread my legs.”

“I wish your pleasure.”

“You seek your own.”

His teeth bared in a smile that looked almost painful. “True enough. Yet I find I anticipate your satisfaction even more.” His voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “Would you care to know what I dreamed last night?”

She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “No.”

Lucius rose and paced around the bed until he stood behind her, not touching, but close enough that the heat of his body seeped through the thin barrier of her tunic. “You came to me while I lay abed. You flowed over me like wine and I drank you in.” The heat of his breath was on her neck, the musk of his sweat in her nostrils. “First, I savored your lips …”

He paused on an inhale. Rhiannon licked her lips. They had gone suddenly dry.

“Then I moved to your breasts …”

Her nipples tautened as if they’d been touched. She clutched her knees tighter, pressing them into her chest.

“Then your navel …” Lucius’s breathing was rougher now and his tone had taken on a sharp edge. “I circled it with the tip of my tongue.” His voice dipped to a bare whisper. “The taste was sweet, but I knew there were hidden places that would taste sweeter still.” Rhiannon eased back slightly, her grip on her legs loosening as she strained to catch his words. Her hands moved to the cushion to balance her weight.

“I followed the scent of your need.” His low, vibrant voice stroked like a caress. “I drank honey from the cup of your womanhood.” His breath fanned over her nape, but still he did not touch her. “No wine could compare.”

Her breath grew ragged and the fire between her thighs flared hot and slick. She imagined Lucius’s tongue there, lapping and probing in that forbidden place. She bit hard on her lower lip, stifling a moan.

“I lay back and you rose over me. You sank onto my shaft and rode me into a storm.”

Rhiannon’s knees fell apart. She leaned back, into his arms, her body pleading for that which her lips could not beg.

He tasted her at last, his mouth searing the hollow between her neck and collarbone. His tongue stroked over her in delicious waves. His scent, spiced and dangerous, filled her senses with the promise of dark ecstasy. She twisted, threading her fingers through his hair and drawing him close.

He made a sound of feral satisfaction. He surged onto the mattress, his weight pressing her to the cushions as his tongue plunged and retreated. He delved into her mouth—a hot, wet promise of pleasures yet to come.

He eased back, kissing a line from the corner of her mouth to her earlobe. “Your past is gone. You belong to me now, Rhiannon.”

His whispered words shattered the erotic fog hazing her brain, even as his shameless tongue sent another tremor of need coursing through her. She blinked and looked up at him. His eyes glittered down at her, alight with pure arrogance.

How many times had she seen the same expression on Niall’s face?

She gave a sharp cry and struck him, throwing her full weight into the blow. Her fist connected with his jaw. His head whipped to the side and he lost his balance. He rolled over the edge of the mattress and struck the floor with a sickening smack. Rhiannon scrambled off the opposite side of the bed, putting its bulk between them as he leaped to his feet.

He rubbed the back of his head and glared at her. “By Pollux! Why did you do that?”

“I don’t belong to you, Roman.”

“You do.” Anger radiated from his body with the force of a wildfire. Deliberately, he leaned across the narrow bed and caught her chin between his fingers. “Do not forget it. My patience is not infinite. You are mine and I mean to have you.”

“Shall I lift my hem for you then, master?” She spat out the word as if it were dung. “A quick plunge should soften your temper. My wishes hardly signify. A Roman never shrinks from lands where he is not welcome.”

“So you say. Yet I wonder—were I to slip my finger between your thighs, would I find myself unwanted?”

“Yes,” she said, but she twisted her chin from his fingers and dropped her gaze.

He gave a short, harsh laugh. “Soon, Rhiannon, you’ll beg me to conquer you. When I slip my sword into your sheath, you will writhe with the glory of it.”

Dear Briga, what arrogance. Yet even as she condemned him, she feared his words might very well be true.