Virginia Henley (29 page)

“No!” The denial was loud and firm, not yet filled with anguish. Marcus’ accusing eyes swung to Petrius. His
brother stepped forward and raised his arm to indicate the center of the arena.

“This is my gift to you, Marcus.”

He swung around and saw her. He knew instantly that it was Diana by her lovely pale gold hair. She was wearing his favorite magenta.

“No!” The cry this time rent the air. The mixture of anger, pain, and fear were palpable. Icy fingers closed about his heart and squeezed until all the breath left his body.

Marcus ran to the front of the box and vaulted down to the floor of the arena, twenty-five feet below. He bent his knees in anticipation of the impact as his feet hit the packed earth of the track. He was running before he came out of the crouch. The moment he landed, a gate on the far side opened and a pair of lions, starved for a week, sprang forth.

The crowds were on their feet screaming their encouragement. Here was sport! A three-way race to see who could reach the female first—the warrior, the lions, or the flames.

Marcus had a will of iron. He was a man who would not acknowledge defeat even when it stared him in the face. He drew his gladius sword and willed his powerful legs to cover the ground faster.

Marcus and the lions reached their goal at the same instant. One sprang at him, while the other lunged at Diana. Even as his sword thrust into the lion’s vitals, killing it, he heard her tortured scream.

He flung the carcass away and plunged his weapon into the second lion. Mortally wounded, it fell away from his beloved, but not before a swipe of its great claws had torn open her breast and shoulder and throat.

“Marcus…”

With horror he saw that her hair was already afire as the tarred stake burned about her head. He held her agonized gaze with his fierce black eyes. “I’ll love you forever, and beyond,” he vowed as he raised both arms and plunged his sword into her heart.

The jolt Diana’s body experienced had the power of a lightning bolt. One moment she was burning hot; then she was freezing cold. She felt as if cool air were rushing past her. Her eardrums felt as if they would burst. She experienced the sensation of falling, and awoke with a cry of terror on her lips, trembling uncontrollably.

The first things she saw were the peach-colored covers of the bed in which she was lying. Diana thought she was back in her own chamber in Aquae Sulis. Then she felt Marcus’ powerful arms about her and realized she was safe. Her relief was overwhelming.

“Marc … Marc … Marcus,” she sobbed. “I had a terrifying nightmare that I was being put to death at Circus Maximus. Thank God I woke up!”

“Hush, hush,” came the deep soothing voice.

“Oh God, it was unbelievably real. Just hold me … I feel so safe in your arms.”

As his arms tightened, she rubbed her cheek against the muscles of his chest. It felt like solid rock and she clung to him desperately. Even the familiar scent of his body was comforting to her. His hand stroked her hair until her trembling lessened. On a shuddering sob she whispered, “Darling, I can’t go to Rome with you, please don’t ask me, Marcus. Please understand.”

“Lady Davenport, do you know where you are; do you know who I am?”

Diana’s eyes widened. Her glance traveled about the chamber and it slowly dawned on her that it was the Elizabethan room she had occupied at Hardwick Hall. She closed her eyes to steady herself. When she reopened them and still found herself in the peach-colored room, she whispered, “Dear God, I’m back.”

The man who held her loosened his arms and pulled back so that he could see her face. His black eyes bored into hers intensely, as if he were trying to read her thoughts.

“Yes, indeed, you are back. The question is, back from where?” the Earl of Bath demanded.

Diana did not want to be back in her own time, yet she certainly did not wish herself back in Rome. She had had a miraculous escape. Then she realized time or place had nothing to do with her deep longing. It was Marcus from whom she could not bear to be separated. But, of course, she wasn’t separated from him. He was here, holding her. Mark Hardwick was Marcus Magnus. She knew it as surely as she knew she was Diana Davenport. The only problem was,
he
didn’t know it!

She searched his face. Except for the scar, he looked exactly the same. She knew this man more intimately than any woman had a right to. Surely he would believe her story. Diana took a deep breath and let it out in a tremulous sigh.

“It all began when I went into an antique shop and found a Roman helmet. When I put it on, I was swept back to the time when the Romans occupied Bath. It was called Aquae Sulis—”

“I know it was called Aquae Sulis,” he said dryly. “I am an archaeologist.”

She smiled at him. “Everything Roman fascinates you because you actually lived in Aquae Sulis. Your name was Marcus Magnus. You were a general who trained legionaries before they went to fight in Wales.”

The earl looked at her incredulously, as if he were dealing with a liar or a madwoman. He stood up, towering above her in a threatening manner. “You’ve been gone for months. Have you any idea the trouble and the scandal you caused by disappearing?” His dark face hardened. “When you are ready to tell me the truth, I shall be willing to listen.” He strode to the door.

“You insufferable, pig-headed devil! At least you might have the courtesy to listen to my story before you dismiss me as a crackpot! Where are you going?” she cried.

“To summon the doctor who is attending you. You’ve been unconscious all night.”

Diana turned her face into the pillow. The shock of all that had happened to her in the last hours, coupled with the fact that she had been torn from Marcus Magnus so cruelly, were too much to bear. Tears flooded her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she quietly sobbed, “Marcus … Marcus.”

As the Earl of Bath reached the door, the plaintive sound of Diana’s crying stopped him in his tracks. The longing and quiet desperation he heard in her voice touched a chord deep inside him, and hearing her cry transported him to his childhood and the dim remembrance that his grandmother had always called him Marcus.

The doctor came the moment he was summoned. He had attended university with Mark Hardwick and the two men were well acquainted. Mark met him at the door.

“Charles, she’s regained consciousness. It happened quite suddenly. She was lying still as death, then she shot up in the bed so distraught I didn’t quite know what to do. When she calmed down, I asked her where she had been and she concocted some ridiculous tale about being transported back in time.”

“Really?” Charles Wentworth asked with great interest.

“She’s been crying for someone called Marcus.”

“Isn’t that
your
name, old boy?”

“Well, yes, but I can assure you Lady Diana isn’t crying for me. The two of us rubbed against each other rather abrasively whenever we met.”

“Well, I’ll have a look at her. I think I’d better go in alone. We don’t want to upset her further.”

Mark nodded his understanding. “I’ll wait down here, Charles.”

When he opened the chamber door, he smiled at the beautiful girl in the bed. “Good morning, I’m Dr. Wentworth. Don’t be alarmed, I’m just going to make sure you’re all right, after your ordeal.”

He had thought her lovely when he had seen her unconscious, but now that he saw her eyes, the color of violets drenched with tears, he found her beauty breathtaking. Before he examined her, he wanted to talk with her. If he could gain her confidence, perhaps she would tell him where she had been and what had happened to her.

“My ordeal? You saw me last night, I understand?”

“Yes. Apparently Mark went to an antique shop up on the heights last evening to pick up a Roman helmet they had acquired for him. He and the proprietor found you unconscious on the floor. Since you were engaged to his brother, the earl put you in his carriage and brought you to Hardwick Hall. They sent for me immediately. I gave you a cursory examination, found no bones broken, and advised them to keep you in bed, keep you warm, and have someone sit with you. I told them to summon me the moment you regained consciousness.”

He put his first question very gently. “Do you remember what you were doing before you lost consciousness?”

“I remember exactly, Doctor. I was browsing through the antique shop up on the heights, when I saw an authentic Roman helmet. I was so thrilled to see it, to touch it. I
couldn’t resist trying it on. I forgot I was wearing a wig and somehow it got stuck on my head and I couldn’t get it off. I remember I felt quite ill, as if I were about to faint, but when I fell, I didn’t fall to the floor, I just kept falling—I felt a wind rushing past me. I can’t really describe the sensation, I have no adequate words, but I was transported back in time to when the Romans occupied Britain.”

The doctor watched and listened to her intently. “You went into the antique shop yesterday?”

“No, I’m afraid not, Dr. Wentworth.” She smiled wistfully. “It was in the summertime—months ago, I imagine. By the snowflakes drifting past the window, I can tell it must be winter now.”

“Early spring, actually. This was a late freak storm. So you fainted in the antique shop on a summer’s day and Mark found you there unconscious the following spring, and you have no recollection of what happened in the months between?”

“Oh no, Doctor, I recall every moment! I went back in time to when the Romans occupied Aquae Sulis. I lived in the villa of Marcus Magnus, a legionary general.” She stopped herself before she blurted out that Marcus Magnus and Mark Hardwick were one and the same. “You must think I’m mad! None of this can possibly make any sense to you.”

“No, no, Lady Davenport, I don’t think you mad at all. You are convinced that this happened and I urge you not to suppress it. The only way you can work through it is to talk about it. Obviously you’ve suffered a great trauma. Are you feeling ill at all?”

“No, I feel quite well—a little shaky perhaps. Is my hair all right?” Her hand went to her head. “Is it burned or singed?” she asked apprehensively.

“Not at all, your hair is quite lovely. I’ll just listen to your heart.” He unfastened the buttons on the high neckline of the starched white nightgown she wore and folded it back, so he could listen to her heartbeat.

Diana stared down at the expanse of creamy, unblemished flesh. Her fingers came up to touch her shoulder and throat where the lion had torn her open, then they trailed down across her heart where Marcus had plunged in his sword to put an end to her suffering.

“I seem to be all in one piece,” she whispered shakily.

“All in one piece,” Dr. Wentworth confirmed. “Your pulse is rapid, but I’m sure it will settle down if you try to stay calm and get lots of rest.” He closed his black bag and gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll be back to see you tomorrow.”

When the doctor descended, he found Mark Hardwick pacing the front hall.

“I can’t find anything physically wrong with her, but she has obviously suffered some sort of trauma.”

“Did she give you any sort of explanation where the hell she’s been since summer?”

“She’s convinced she’s been right here in Bath, or Aquae Sulis as it was called in Roman times.”

“Good God, man, did she try to fob you off with that ridiculous tale?”

“Mark, I know how utterly implausible it sounds, but to her it is very real. Perhaps it was her way of escaping from a situation she found intolerable. Let her talk. Encourage her to get it all out, every detail. It’s the only way she’ll rid herself of this obsession. Having someone listen to her without poo-pooing her will be therapeutic, cathartic even. Once her mind unloads itself of the burden she’s carrying, perhaps she will begin to recall what really happened to her and where she’s really been for the last nine months.”

“If this is the mumbo-jumbo of medicine, I’m glad my consuming passion is archaeology. I wouldn’t have the bloody patience to be a doctor!”

“Well, patience is exactly what you’re going to have to exercise with Lady Diana, Mark. None of your bullying, autocratic tactics.”

“Me? Bully? I am the epitome of a gentle man.” Charles rolled his eyes ceilingward. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

As Mark strode back to the stairs, he encountered his cook with a tray of food in her hands.

“Why didn’t you tell me the young lady was awake? She’s had nothing to eat since yesterday, Your Lordship. Why are men so thoughtless?”

“No lectures, Nora, I beg you. I’ve just had one from Dr. Wentworth. I’ll take the tray up. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

When the earl reentered the chamber, he caught a look of infinite sadness on Diana’s face, as if she longed for a love, lost forever.

The pain of losing Marcus was so sharp, Diana thought she might die of it. In fact, she mourned him so deeply, she wished she had died. And then the chamber door opened and he walked in. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart started to hammer erratically.

Why couldn’t Mark Hardwick remember that once upon a time he had been Marcus Magnus? Once upon a time—it sounded like a fairy tale. Surely it was more than that? Diana cast away all doubts. Marcus was Mark. He simply didn’t remember. It would be up to her to make him remember. The question was, did she want to?

She loved Marcus Magnus with all her heart and soul. She did not love Mark Hardwick. She wasn’t sure she even liked him! Seventeen hundred years of civilization under his belt had masked his good qualities and magnified his flaws.

“You must be hungry,” he said, putting the tray down beside her.

“I’m thirsty. My throat is very dry. Thank you.” He took a chair beside the bed and stretched his long legs before him.

Diana fingered the high neck of the nightgown she wore. She looked into his black eyes and asked directly, “Did you undress me?”

The Earl of Bath licked lips gone suddenly dry. Her words and the vision they provoked made him shift in the chair to accommodate his arousal.

“Nora undressed you.” He cleared his throat. “Most of the servants at Hardwick Hall are male; Nora is my cook.”

She began to sip the broth he had brought her. His eyes followed the spoon to her lips. “Did she make this? It’s delicious.”

“She’s a Frenchwoman. I’m lucky to have her.” As he watched her eat, his mind went back to last night when he found her unconscious. When he lifted her into his arms, an icy finger of fear had touched his heart. An overwhelming protectiveness arose within him that still lingered. He had thought it stemmed from her vulnerability and helplessness, but now he wasn’t so sure.

His mind drifted back to the first time he ever saw her, dressed as a goddess. He had been instantly attracted to the beautiful young girl, which was odd, because he preferred older women of experience. Perhaps it was because she was dressed in the Roman style. He had always had an inexplicable passion for anything Roman.

Whatever it was, he had known instantly that he wanted her. When he propositioned her, she had thrown champagne in his face. Mark Hardwick’s mouth curved with wry amusement as he remembered mistaking her for a cyprian. How the hell he could have done that was beyond his comprehension. She had had such an air of innocence about her, a man of his experience should have known better.