Love Is in the Air (41 page)

A look passed between them, and then she answered curtly, “Thank you.”

Her wet hair dripped down upon her dress, making the material nearly transparent against her skin. Before more of her luscious figure was revealed and Brutus completely lost control of his desires, he dismissed her. He could not help but turn and watch her retreat through the door. Once she was gone, it was as if a pile of hot coals had suddenly been extinguished. The air had a chill to it that Brutus had not noticed.

Walking over, he dipped a finger in the bathwater and was surprised to find that it was still quite warm. How hot had the woman had it before? Brutus added just a touch more hot water, then climbed in himself. The faintest scent of Syra wafted off the surface. Already he could recognize the Northerner’s aroma.

Sinking into the water, Brutus realized why he had purchased the red-haired beauty. It was for just this reason. His pulsed raced, and feelings surged through his veins that he had thought forever atrophied. For this one skill, Syra was worth her weight in rubies.

CHAPTER 6

Entering her room, Syra found a tray laden with food. Lamb was perhaps her least favorite meat, but she bolted down the first few pieces without even tasting it. Looking over, she found Navia curled up in a ball. The Spaniard snored lightly. It seemed that the young woman needed unmolested sleep more than nutrition right now. Fiona had supplied more than enough food for both, so Syra ate her fill and was still able to leave plenty for the girl when she awoke.

Restless and having no desire to sleep, Syra threw on a cloak and headed out into the gardens. She had not known a furnished home since before she could remember. Camps by firelight on a campaign. Stalls in a barn if she were lucky. Where she rested her head was her home. A new village, a new valley, a new country nearly every day. How could people anchor themselves to only one place, even if it were a palace? The oxcart had felt more homelike than this sprawling estate.

She climbed a slight hill and stumbled to a stop, as all of Rome lay beneath her. The lights from the city nearly outshone the stars themselves. Syra felt tears sting her eyes. Despite her acute distaste for everything Roman, the sight before her was untarnished beauty.

“I come here to remind myself why I must strive so hard,” a voice stated behind her.

Syra did not bother to turn. She already knew Brutus’ voice. The timbre of his tone seemed just a bit deeper and richer than other men’s. Must he follow her everywhere? Syra forgot to blunt her words before they spilled from her lips. “Is this your private area also?”

Brutus walked up alongside her and gave a tight grin. “I deserved your rebuke. I was harsh earlier. For that, I am sorry.”

For a moment they stood in silence. Syra did not know what to say. She desperately wanted to cut him to the quick for all his faults and the flaws of his country, but no quips would come to her tongue.

Why did she feel so flustered? The man had no weapon, and there was no threat to her life. Yet blood surged in her ears, and she could feel her muscles ready for action. It was as if the dreams had now taken hold during her waking hours. But which of the dreams? Did she need to ready herself for battle, or a fight of another kind?

“Have you ever visited Rome before?” Brutus asked, as if Syra were his most special guest rather than a freshly purchased slave.

“Never,” she spat, angered more at herself for softening to the senator’s tone.

“You are not a friend of Rome?” Brutus smiled sadly.

She did not answer. Instead, she held out her wrists that were still laced with fresh wounds from her slave bindings.

“Nothing in the world is perfect,” Brutus replied.

“That is not what the friends of Rome say.”

Brutus chuckled. “Perhaps I can help you understand us better?” Her master sat down upon a wooden bench and motioned for her to join him.

The thought of having him so near made her hands clammy. Syra did not understand why, but she knew it was a feeling she disliked greatly. “I had best get back inside.”

“Please? A quick tour of the city so that you might understand our history a bit?”

Damn this man. Could he not be insufferable? Could he not be rude, or at the very least curt with her? Why was he extending her such courtesy?

Hatred was a much more familiar emotion. Uncertainty felt awkward, and let the dream’s haze settle over her vision. For she very much wished to know all about this Rome. Syra found herself sitting down as she justified her desire that if one day she wished to run, it was best to have a good lay of the land, and who better to give it to her than the master she was running away from?

* * *

Brutus had no idea what had gotten hold of his tongue. To sit here and explain Rome to a new slave? Perhaps his mother was right. He had been dropped on his head as a babe. No matter the cause, here he was, sharing a beautiful evening with this most intoxicating woman.

Too many seconds must have passed as he basked in her elixir, for Syra looked at him with anticipation.

“Yes. Let’s see…” Brutus scanned the horizon. They could not have picked a better evening for such a task. There was not a cloud in the sky, and one could see past even the city gates clearly. Now that the dust had settled from the day’s commotion, Rome was once again the crown jewel of civilization.

Syra cleared her throat. “Where are we now?”

“Ah, this is Palatine Hill.”

“This is where the gentry live?”

For some reason, Brutus felt strangely ashamed to answer yes to such a question. “These estates hold most of the senators and a few of the richer merchants.”

Down the hill, a few homes still had their garden torches lit. “There. That is Marc Antony’s. That one is Longius, my brother-in-law—’ “ Brutus abruptly stopped his narrative. He wanted no reference to his wife this eve.

Syra pointed to the northern hill that housed the Forum and state temples. “What hill is that?”

“Capitoline Hill. See the bright fire?”

Syra nodded, causing a lock of hair to fall from its tie and play against her neck. Once again, Brutus’ tongue was silent as he watched the breath enter and leave her chest.

“The fire?” Syra asked with that husky voice of hers.

“Yes, sorry. The fire. It is the sacred Fire of Vesta.”

“Goddess of the Hearth?”

“Exactly. It is attended night or day by at least one Virgin.” Normally he would have said a single virgin, but with the events of the day, Brutus was certain many stood in attendance this eve. To have the fire extinguished would truly throw Rome into turmoil.

“These Virgins, are they slaves?”

Brutus shook his head. While this woman spoke Latin, it was obvious that she was very naïve to the workings of Rome.

“Nay. By constitutional order, the Virgins must be of free birth.”

Brutus did not mention that in the not-so-distant past, the Virgins had been required to be of noble, senatorial birth. But in these times, finding a virtuous, affluent virgin who did not hunger for a wealthy husband was nearly impossible, so the constitution had been modified to allow any of free birth. Brutus was certain that within his lifetime, even that restriction might be lifted. That is, if they wished true virgins to attend the fire.

Unaware of Brutus’ inner dialogue, the woman simply nodded. Tiny beads of water ran down her damp hair. Syra must have noticed his gaze, for she quickly wiped the offending strand away, exposing her deeply sunburnt neck. Brutus’ own skin stung in sympathy. Sitting here, it was so easy to forget the two very different worlds they came from. Nothing could change the fact that he was a senator, and she a slave.

Despite his body’s reluctance to move from Syra’s side, Brutus rose. “I have much work to attend to this eve.”

Syra got to her feet as well and seemed only too willing to leave his company. “I should retire as well.”

Even though his intention had been to leave her hypnotic presence, Brutus found himself asking, “Would you like to join me for dinner?”

“Nay. I have already eaten.”

Watching Syra leave, Brutus knew his heart was in danger of the most acute nature, for this woman was always one step ahead.

CHAPTER 7

Syra bolted upright. Even though she knew herself to be awake, a dream still held her within its clutches. The image was more vivid than most events she had seen in bright sunlight. Only a dark foreboding tainted this dream. A subterranean temple hewn of granite. A dark rite performed.

With each blink, the more the image receded. Without the constant rumbling of the oxcart that had become almost soothing, Syra felt unhinged. Nor was she lying on a rough wool cloak, her back hard against the rocky ground, as it had been for years on campaigns.

Her hands felt the smooth linen sheets, but it took her mind a few moments to realize that the soft cushion was a bed. Not just any bed, but one within a senator’s mansion. She was a slave.

Panic rose as she realized that Navia was nowhere to be found. The tray of food had been removed, and her friend’s bed was made as if the girl had never slept there. Had they taken Navia in the night? Had Brutus recanted and sold the Spaniard to the whorehouse?

Jumping from the bed, not caring what state of disarray she was in, Syra searched the hallways for someone, anyone, to ask. How her hands missed the weight of metal. She would give anything for a solid sword.

The house was unnervingly quiet. After months on the road with snorting oxen and shouting men, the silence disturbed her. The sudden noise of pans clanging caught Syra’s attention, and she turned back the way she’d come.

This mansion was maddening. It was so large that sounds bounced off the thick walls. You could not stalk a noise as you would in the open field.

Tense, Syra turned another corner and found a warm kitchen. Fiona bustled about, her dark hair flecked with flour. The woman did not stop her cooking as Syra stepped into the room.

“So you decided to return from Hades, eh?” Fiona chuckled at her own joke as she continued to knead the thick dough.

The cook’s joviality did not impress Syra. Fiona had been birthed by Roman loins after all. No matter her smile or warm words, the woman was suspect.

“Where is Navia?”

“The girl you came with? She is down at the laundry with Heffan.”

“Where is this laundry?”

Fiona stopped working the dough and looked up at her. “If you are going to range about the property, you might want to put a comb through that tangle of hair. Or is that how you Northerners prefer it?”

Syra caught a reflection of herself in the copper pots hanging overhead. Her red hair sprouted overnight into a frightful rat’s nest. Despite her embarrassment, Syra still feared for her friend.

Fiona must have sensed her anxiety, for the cook’s tone softened. “Do not worry, child. The girl is fine. She wished to stretch her legs and learn her new tasks. That is all.”

Syra found it hard to believe that Navia had voluntarily risen this morning. The girl had been in far worse shape than Syra. Navia should be in bed.

“I can do—”

The cook went back to massaging the sticky dough. “Heffan will not tax the girl. Not in her delicate condition.”

Syra’s back tensed. How could they know? Fear rose again. “She will recover from her wounds.”

“Of course she will, but that belly of hers is only going to grow.” Fiona must have seen the look of surprise in Syra’s eyes. “Please, child. Navia is thinner than a whipped puppy, yet her belly bulges. She is cooking something of her own.”

Again, Fiona chuckled as Syra tried to judge the pleasant-sounding cook. Could she trust her? Syra finally sighed. If Fiona did not betray Navia’s pregnancy, the Spaniard’s own belly would in a few short weeks. It would be best to discover the temperament of this household now. The key would be her new master’s reaction to the news. Then she would know just how Roman this Brutus was.

Fiona motioned Syra out of the way as she placed the dough into a large brick oven. “Get going, girl. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Dinner?” Syra asked. Where had breakfast and supper gone?

“Aye, child. You slept through the day. Now off with you.”

“That cannot be!”

Fiona nodded toward the open door. “If you don’t believe me, check the sundial. It will not lie.”

The cook breezed out of the room, leaving Syra to stand awkwardly in the empty kitchen. Still not believing Fiona, Syra exited the door, which opened into a small courtyard.

In the center stood the promised sundial. The sight took her breath from her lungs. Unbidden, her hand reached out to touch the rough wooden surface. As much as she refused to accept such a thing, there stood a relic from her homeland. A piece of her heritage nestled in a very Roman courtyard. Most unwelcome tears sprang to her eyes.

How her heart ached for Scotland. The wood had been painted the darkest green in remembrance of the lush forests she had roamed as a child. Feeling the delicate texture of the carving, Syra could imagine the sweet mist in her face. Moist locks would cling to her neck, making her wild hair almost tame. To have the calming fog greet you in the morn rather than this blasted sun every day, now that would heal her far faster than any balm the physician could prescribe.

Tracing the outline of the figure, Syra wondered once again why she had ever left her homeland. Why had she fled her beloved country the moment she could lift a sword? What had she thought she would find?

After a decade of traveling the world, Syra had found no land more beautiful than the rolling hills of Isles. But how could she have known at such a tender age that the best mutton in the world would be the scraps she stole from MacDoull’s Inn?

Syra had lived the life she had always imagined, even finding her feet upon Rome’s soil, yet her gut yearned for more. It felt as if there were still something to be done. Something more to be fulfilled. Despite this vague sense of unease, her heart wished for nothing more than to watch the gray fog billowing in from the ocean and wash over her road-weary body. To have rich ale to drink and thick potatoes in your belly was a delicacy that Rome could never match. Tears poured from her eyes as she remembered all that she had lost.