Celtic Fire (16 page)

“You must not speak so.”

His fingers pressed still deeper into her white flesh, but if his touch pained her, she gave no sign of it. “The dream stag gored Aulus. I watched—watched!—unable to help him. Then the beast vanished and the scene changed. I stood in a cavern split by a dark river. Roman soldiers roamed the banks calling for the boatman, but Charon gave them no notice. Aulus was among them.”

“Lucius, let go. You’re hurting me.”

He looked down at his hand, surprised to see Rhiannon’s wrist nearly crushed in his grasp. His fingers uncurled slowly. “My apologies,” he said stiffly. He moved away to the table set before the mural of Cupid and Psyche. The image of the lovers blurred as he fumbled for the handle of the wine pitcher. Red liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass goblet and spilled like blood on the silver tray.

“Your brother’s ghost comes to you often?”

He drained the wine. “He’s with me always,” he said without turning. “Save when I’m with you. What power do you wield over him?”

She inhaled sharply. “None.”

He spun about and hurled the goblet across the room.

The delicate glass exploded with brittle fury against the far wall. Rhiannon gave a cry and dove under the blanket.

He strode toward the bed. “Do not lie to me,” he snarled. He snatched up the coverlet and flung it to the ground.

She straightened and glared at him. “I speak the truth.”

“I do not believe you.” But when his gaze swept over her, he found he hardly cared. With her chest heaving and her red hair tumbling about her shoulders, she glowed like fire and life, a beacon of hope in the dark night that had become his existence.

He ached for her then, wanting nothing so much as to bury himself in her heat and forget the haunting specter that waited outside her door. His rod responded to the wish. Her gaze flicked downward, then back to his face, and her eyes widened.

He caught a handful of her hair in his fist. Breathing harshly, he wound the tresses slowly around his wrist, forcing her closer. “Truth or not,” he said, “I can only wonder—if I take you here, make you a part of me, will Aulus vanish for good?”

Rhiannon’s eyes closed and her lips parted. She made a mewling sound in her throat. A moan born of desire, or fear, or equal measures of both? The murmur shattered Lucius’s thin control. He pressed her against his naked body and took her mouth, devouring its sweetness. He drew her down into the bed cushions.

She braced her hands on his chest, not protesting yet not welcoming either. Lucius gentled his assault, stroking her lips, kissing the line of her jaw.

His tongue found her ear and swirled into it. His arousal settled between her thighs. Rhiannon’s hips shifted against him in a hint of welcome. He fisted her tunic in his hand and drew the hem upward, baring her legs to his touch. Her arms snaked around his neck. His fingers stroked a path up her thigh.

She stilled beneath him even as she clung to him. “No, Lucius, please, I …”

“Hush, little one,” he whispered, his fury sputtering like a dying flame. “There’s nothing to fear. I would never hurt you.” He hoped it was true.

His mouth covered hers, seeking silence and surrender. His tongue plunged and receded. She tasted like wind and honey. It would be no hardship to drink from her cup for a lifetime. He dipped his head to taste her again.

She bit his lip.

He jerked away and uttered an oath. Rhiannon scrambled to the far end of the bed. He stared at her as he touched his mouth. When he drew his finger away, it was streaked with blood.

“By Pollux,” he said, but the wild urge to subdue her had shattered. A glimmer of respect rose in its place.

Rhiannon met his gaze. “You told me you had no need to force your attentions on a woman.”

“Your response led me to believe no force would be necessary.”

She blushed. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

She looked down at her clasped hands. “I … I don’t know.”

“You feel it as I do, do you not? When I draw near. When I touch you.”

“Yes,” she whispered, still avoiding his gaze. “When you touch me. I feel … more. Everything. Like I’m dying inside.” She lifted her head and he saw anguish in her eyes. “You must believe me, Lucius. I know no spell that will ease your brother’s soul.”

A weight like a heavy stone settled on Lucius’s shoulders. He regarded her in silence, sickened that he’d come so close to snapping the thin threads of his control. After a moment, he forced his legs to carry him to the door. Shards of glass cut into his bare soles. He welcomed the pain. It was infinitely preferable to the numbness that had taken over his heart.

He set his hand on the latch, but couldn’t bring himself to lift it. Aulus waited outside.

He pressed his forehead against the polished wood. Long heartbeats passed, pulsing against silence. When he spoke, his voice trembled.

“May I stay?”

“Stay?” Rhiannon’s voice held a note of panic.

He turned, supporting his back against the door, not sure his legs would take his full weight. His fingers gripped the door latch. “Not in your bed, Rhiannon, unless you want me there. On the floor.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Aulus awaits me in the passageway. I cannot …” He choked, unable to finish.

Rhiannon’s hand crept to her throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said when she did not answer. “I forget myself.” He turned, steeling himself to open the door.

“Wait.”

He looked back at her.

“I’d bid you sleep on my floor, Lucius, but it seems to be covered with bits of glass.” She offered him a shaky smile. “Perhaps if I go to your chamber …”

Relief nearly drove him to his knees. “You don’t fear me? Think me mad?”

“No more mad than I am.”

“You cannot know that—you’ve not seen me speaking to the air. Sometimes Aulus seems more real than the living men before me.” He loosened his grip on the door latch and laid his palm flat against the wood. “More solid than this barrier. I relinquished command of my Legion to come north, but if truth be told, I was on the verge of being dismissed. My men no longer trusted me. And though I knew it, I didn’t care. I thought only of Aulus.”

“You loved him.”

Lucius closed his eyes against the familiar wave of guilt. “Not enough. He loved me far better.”

Rhiannon held out her arms. “Come. Carry me to your chamber. I dare not step off the bed for fear of cutting my feet.”

Lucius straightened away from the door and lifted her, pausing to blow out the lamp flame. He moved through the darkness swiftly, shouldering open her door and striding down the blessedly deserted passage to his own chamber.

His door stood ajar. He pushed through it and kicked it shut behind him. Aulus’s hideous Egyptian furnishings hulked in the darkness. He lowered Rhiannon onto the wide bed and covered her with one of the furs. He lingered at her side, wishing he could make out her expression in the dim light slanting through the shutters.

She caught his hand and brought it to her cheek. “This bed is large. Will you not share it with me?”

Shock flashed through him, leaving flames of violent hope in its wake. A long moment passed before he reined in his lust and gave Rhiannon a swift shake of his head. His control was far too close to the breaking point. Making love to her now would surely shatter it. If that happened, Lucius feared he would never regain his equilibrium.

“Lucius?”

“I would be a poor lover this night, my nymph. I’ll take my rest on the bench.” He bent low and brushed a chaste kiss across Rhiannon’s lips. “But I’ll promise you tomorrow.”

“Consorting with ghosts in the night, Luc?”

Lucius’s gaze jerked to the library door. Demetrius stood there, the weariness of his features a match to the limp drape of his mantle. His tone, however, had not lost its customary caustic wit. Lucius’s senses went on alert, but it seemed the old man’s comment regarding spirits had been an innocent one. Demetrius took no particular notice of Aulus’s pale form slumped at the far end of the reading table.

The specter lifted its head and stared dispassionately at the physician for a heartbeat, then looked away.

“So you’ve taken leave of the hospital at last,” Lucius said, his attention fixed on his brother. Aulus had been lurking in the upper passageway when Lucius had let himself out of his room a few hours earlier, all but fleeing from the woman asleep in his bed. He’d not trusted himself to pass the rest of the night in Rhiannon’s presence without making love to her.

One look at Aulus had been more than sufficient to drive any amount of lust from Lucius’s mind. His brother looked as if he’d met the wrong end of a centurion’s cane. Welts and bruises covered his face and forearms. A gash below his right eye dripped gray blood. His ethereal toga was torn in several places and his tunic sagged on one shoulder.

Demetrius stepped into the room and moved toward Aulus’s motionless form. Lucius half rose, ready to intervene, but at the last moment the physician frowned and chose another stool. Lucius let out a long, slow breath.

“You look fit to be washed down a sewer,” Demetrius commented. “Why are you not abed?”

“I might ask the same of you. Surely there are medics to care for the wounded.”

The Greek’s grizzled brows drew together. “Certainly, if you wish Vindolanda to lose even more men. As it is, two soldiers died today, despite my efforts.”

“Of wounds sustained in the skirmish?” Lucius asked.

“No. These men were not part of our escort. They had been ill with fever since before our arrival. Had they been properly cared for, I suspect they would be playing at dice rather than awaiting their eulogies.”

Lucius put aside the scroll he’d been reading. “Are conditions in the hospital so deplorable?”

Demetrius made a sound of distaste. “The pharmacy is depleted. The herb plot is crowded with weeds and it seems the dead physician is the only man in the fort who knew their uses. Zeus knows the soldiers who call themselves medics are idiots.” He gazed meditatively at his hands. “Perhaps there’s a healer in the fort village who can instruct me in local herblore.”

“Rhiannon is a healer,” Lucius heard himself say.

“Indeed? She may be of some use to me, then.” He shook his head. “But that is but a part of the problem. The sickroom is filthy—the pallets crawl with vermin. I have ordered a thorough cleaning of the entire facility. It will be a start, at least.”

“Good,” Lucius said. “And now I’ll give you an order. Seek your bed. It will do Vindolanda no good if its sole physician takes ill.”

Demetrius flicked a hand to the side. “Sleep! As my years advance, its allure diminishes. All too soon I will close my eyes for good. I’m loath to waste my remaining hours.”

Aulus stirred. Struggling to his feet, he began a slow circuit of the room. Lucius frowned. Was his brother favoring his left leg?

“You’re far too ornery for the grave,” he told Demetrius, forcing a light tone. “Hades himself will take leave of the underworld once you arrive.”

Demetrius snorted. “We shall see.” He waved at the neat row of scrolls lined up like soldiers. “So, my fellow insomniac—what are you about?”

Lucius shot a glance toward Aulus. The ghost had come to a halt behind Demetrius and was gazing wistfully at the pitcher of wine set out near the old man’s elbow. “Aulus wrote constantly, about everything.”

“Ah, yes,” Demetrius said. “To the detriment of serious study, as I well recall.”

“He was in the habit of recording every fanciful story he discovered, but wrote of his daily life as well. I hoped he might have recorded an account of the days before his death.”

“Ah.” Demetrius lifted the pitcher and poured a draught into the accompanying goblet. “Did he?”

Lucius rose with an abrupt motion and paced to the nearest shelf, giving Aulus a wide berth. “Not that I can tell.” He slid yet another scroll from its tube and checked its subject against its label. “You might trouble yourself to point a finger,” he muttered in his brother’s direction.

“What’s that, Lucius?”

“Nothing.”

Demetrius set down his drink and got to his feet. Halting at Lucius’s side, he squinted at the volumes Lucius had slid partway off the shelves. “Phaedrus and Plautus. Fable and comedy.” He shook his head. “How like Aulus. Have you found nothing useful?”

“No,” he replied. “Aulus seldom wrote anything useful.”

Lucius reshelved the two scrolls and chose a third. When he unrolled it, his brother’s bold scrawl leapt off the papyrus, so alive that his breath caught. He sat down, weighted the corners, and began to read. “This one appears to be a local fable,” he said.

“Indeed?”

Lucius scanned the page. “A horseman pursued a woman for three days, yet couldn’t catch his quarry.” He made a sound of derision. “A sorry rider he must have been.”

Demetrius cocked his head to one side. “The women of Britannia are not like those of Rome.”

Lucius was inclined to agree.

“Have you bedded her yet?”

“That, old man, is no business of yours.”

The physician chuckled. “I thought you had not. You fare about as well as that hapless horseman.” He pulled the scroll across the table and rolled the papyrus to reveal the next passage. “You would do well not to underestimate any woman of Britannia,” he said, peering at the script. “Do you remember Boudicca?”

“Who could not?” Lucius asked irritably. “Thousands fell when the Iceni queen led her tribe into battle against Rome after the death of her husband. But that was in the south, where the Celts thrust their swords with one arm before Rome subdued them. Here in the north, the
Brittunculi
are scattered and lawless. At least they have always acted so before the attack on our party.”

“Do you think their show of unity will continue?”

“I’m planning for that possibility,” Lucius replied.

“As well you should,” Demetrius said after a moment. “If this story has any truth behind it.”

“What have you found?”

“A bit of local history.” The physician’s bent finger traced a path across the papyrus. “ ‘The queen of the Brigantes tribe, Cartimandua, a client of Rome, ruled by right of her mother’s bloodlines. Her carnal appetite was vast but tolerated by her people until she renounced Venutius, her king and consort, in favor of the beardless youth who cleaned his armor. A civil war among the Brigantes ensued. Cartimandua, belly swollen with the child of her young lover, was taken prisoner by Venutius’s clansmen. The Roman governor sent a Legion to her aid and put down the revolt. The territory of the Brigantes was placed under Roman rule, but not before a female infant, the daughter of Cartimandua, vanished into the northlands.’ ”