Barbarian's Soul: A Historical Romance Page 12

  Adria swallowed hard. A slave? Bran had been a gladiator so of course he’d have been a slave. How could this man have ever been subjugated? He was too proud, too fierce to have bent easily to a master’s will. Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat when he stripped his tunic off.

  She felt the heat spread from her neck to her cheeks, but was unable to tear her gaze away from the magnificent sight of his hard body. Broad shouldered, his wide chest tapered down to a narrow waist where a linen loincloth hung precariously around lean hips. Beneath the light bronze of his skin, he was fairer than anyone she’d ever known, a perfect contrast to the black, silky hair that brushed past his shoulders. Surely a god could not be more handsome.

  In contrast to the wild picture he presented, Bran folded his garment , twisting around to drape it on a low stool. Adria sucked in a breath at the ridged scars marring his back. A pang went through her as she realized he’d been scourged, and more than a few times. Her gaze drifted down, skimmed his arms and legs and noted other healed wounds scattered along his limbs. Thin, white lines indicated multiple blade wounds while others she could not begin to imagine their origin.

  “Most Roman women find the scars of a gladiator alluring.”

  His cold remark snapped her attention back to his face. Anger and resentment simmered beneath his guarded expression. “Then they are perverse creatures to take pleasure in your pain.”

  Bran gave no response, only watched her, his features blank save for those green eyes which glittered with dark emotion. What had this man endured? Her curiosity dissipated beneath his unwavering gaze, her instinct to flee flaring hot. Still holding her gaze, he lifted his left hand and pulled the string at his hip. The piece of linen dropped to the floor.

  The panic in her stomach nearly cut her in two.

  She had seen nude men before—one did not live in the streets of Rome without encountering a few, usually passed out in the gutter—but never so close nor in such proportions. Even the fuller’s son had kept his tunic on.

  His sack hung heavy between his muscled thighs and his cock was huge, jutting out from a mass of black curls and seemed to be moving of its own accord. Her heart thudded against her ribs as he strode toward the bath.

  Step by agonizingly slow step, he stepped over the rim and eased down into the water.

  The basin was not large and his entry caused the water to lap against her breasts. Adria curled her legs up tight but he still managed to brush his foot against hers. The glare she sent him was met with another tight smile. The bastard was enjoying her discomfort.

  The steam from the water enhanced his scent, a heady combination of smoke, sweat and musky spice that teased Adria’s nose. A most pleasant aroma, she thought and then gave herself a mental shake. She was losing her mind.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, stretching his long arms along the rim. “A bath can be so relaxing, can it not, thief?”

  “A bath alone, perhaps,” she muttered, “I find this one to be a bit crowded.”

  He had the audacity to chuckle though she could detect no humor. “You may leave at any time.”

  Before her hopes could gain ground he added. “The bath. You may leave the bath but not the dwelling.”

  For an instant she considered dashing for the front entry, clothed or not just to prove him wrong.

  “You cannot run, thief. I would find you.”

  Adria’s eyes narrowed. He had not moved nor looked at her to guess her intentions. “How do you...”

  Bran raised his head and pinned her with a look. “I know the way a captive’s mind works. I would consider you a dullard were you not to plot an escape.”

  She snorted. “When I decide to leave, you will not be able to stop me.”

  “The children have need of you,” he answered mildly.

  “Children? What do I know of children?” Nothing. Oh, she knew how to keep a watchful eye on Miriam’s babes and to bribe the older ones with bits of honeyed dates into behaving, but that had been for short spans of time. “I know nothing of children,” she repeated, folding her legs closer to her body. “And I’m not certain the ones in the atrium fit those qualifications. I believe the older boy to be a demon.”

  Bran’s lips quirked. “You are a female. All females know the ways of children.”

  “I am no nursemaid, you arrogant ass.”

  He ignored her jibe. “They have need of a female’s influence.”

  Why did she feel as if she were speaking to a stone wall? “Do you suppose that by being female I hold some magic touch to tame them?”

  “It is what women do.” He motioned impatiently for her to hand him the sponge floating between them.

  Adria obliged, scooped it up and tossed it at his head with all the force of her temper. He opened his eyes just in time to catch it with one hand against his chest. She opened her mouth but closed it when he raised a brow, his gaze falling to the swell of the breast she had exposed when she’d lifted her arm.

  A flush of heat swept through her as she sank back down to her chin. If this continued, the temperature of the water would reach scalding soon. “Your man Menw manages them well enough. Be truthful. Why do you hold me?”

  His jaw tightened. “Because you stole from me.”

  Adria blew out an exasperated breath. “I did not steal from you but from the jeweler. If your head were not so hard you would understand this!”

  His expression remained mulish. “Explain it as you will but it still impacted my purse.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Greed was a vice she had vast experience with, one that she was adept at manipulating to her advantage. Merchants, distracted by the prospect of profit, were often less observant, which brought more bounty for her. “I may have a way to remedy that,” she replied smoothly. Her heart tripped as he began to scrub his chest with the sponge. Tiny beads of water clung to the crisp, black hair that covered that vast expanse and arrowed down his flat plane of his stomach to disappear beneath the water’s edge. Her stomach clenched at the thought of the sizable bounty beneath the water. She cleared her throat. “If you release me I will obtain the funds you lost...” She looked up at the ceiling as though considering before she swung her gaze back to his. “...plus an additional fifty sestarces.”

  “By stealing,” he drawled.

  Adria raised her hands in frustration. “I take only from those who can afford the loss.”

  He snorted. “For your own gain.”

  Gods, if that were true she wouldn’t be hungry as often as she was but she would waste no breath explaining this to him. “You are an arrogant bastard,” she hissed.

  He leveled her with a look. “And you are a lying thief.”

  Adria told herself it was the smoke from the lamps that caused the stinging behind her eyes, not the jab of his insult. That it touched closer to the truth than she’d willingly admit only added to her agitation. “You dare to cast stones at me? You know nothing of my life.” The struggles, the constant fear that one misstep and she would find herself arrested, dead, or worse— in a bath defending herself to a naked barbarian.

  “You cast stones at me?” she repeated, taking a steadying breath. “Have you never had to make a choice in order to survive?”

  Something shifted in his eyes. The stubborn mocking glint flashed away, replaced by an emotion so raw that Adria felt the searing ache of it like a blow.

  He threw the sponge out of the tub. “Go,” he said, his quiet tone betraying no hint of what she’d seen in his eyes. “Clothe yourself.”

  Adria stared as he shifted in the pool, giving her his back and the privacy she desired. She hesitated, confused at the sudden change in his demeanor and unable to shake the idea that she had somehow caused him pain.

  “The night is coming to an end as is my patience,” he warned through clenched teeth.

  Adria scrambled out of the bath, looked frantically for her own ragged tunic only to find it had been replaced with a soft woolen dress. She snatched the g
arment up and slipped it over her head, cursing when it clung to her wet skin. Behind her, she heard Bran suck in a deep breath. Without a glance back she dashed out of the room.

  ***

  He needed more wine.

  Bran draped an arm across his eyes and tried to concentrate on sleeping. He’d already consumed all that Menw had secreted away and still he lay fully awake, his thoughts tumbling round and round as they had all night and every one of them revolved around the beautiful thief. He blew a frustrated breath between his teeth. Wine would not purge her from his thoughts. Not when she lay a mere ten paces from his bed.

  The sound of slow, even breathing told Bran she’d finally fallen asleep. He tamped down a stab of envy and took solace that her slumber had come only after much tossing and turning and fuming at the sleeping arrangements offered by Menw. Oh, she had argued. Bran snorted to himself. As if anyone could win an argument against Menw. The man should have been sound asleep himself but had been waiting in the hall outside the bath when Bran emerged, already placating an irate Adria. The children’s room was too crowded, Menw had countered when Bran had instructed him to see the girl bedded there. The only other choices, his clansman had pointed out, were the small atrium or the kitchen with their unguarded doors. In his calm, even manner he’d asked if his master would have her make a place there?

  Bran rolled his eyes at the memory of Menw’s smug expression when he’d hotly refused that suggestion.

  He glanced over at the pallet in the corner and the form curled up beneath its cover. His gaze lingered on the enticing arch of her buttocks just visible in the moonlight streaming through the opening above. Gods, the material of her shift had molded against her wet skin when she’d left the bath, outlined those very curves. The memory caused his groin to tighten. He bit back a groan as he shifted himself with one hand to relieve the strain. A temporary solution to a vexing problem.

  He shifted his gaze back to the ceiling, studied the cracks just visible through the pale light of the new day slanting through the grated skylight above. He’d spent many sleepless nights in his gladiator’s cell staring at the confining walls, at the muted shadows, awaiting the dawn and the matches he would face that day. He’d felt such emptiness, such despair in those quiet morning hours, contemplating the men he would kill. Men as helpless as he in their choices, slaves who earned the right to live another day only by slaughtering their opponents.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He had survived, but at the moment he was uncertain he’d survive the assault on his senses by the Roman witch and her alluring body so close at hand yet as far away as Eire.

  A soft sigh drew his attention away from the edge of the black abyss to Adria. She began to mumble, her left foot kicking free of the blanket. Bran raised up on one elbow and watched as she wrestled with the covers in earnest. She began to toss back and forth finally rolling over in his direction. Her delicate brows were drawn together, her lovely mouth twisted in a grimace. He plopped back onto the bed. A bad dream was no more than she deserved. After all, her actions were causing his own to last weeks—or longer. A hard shudder shook him. If they did not sail before the Idus of November they would be forced to remain in Rome an additional four months.

  Gods.

  Adria whimpered then cried out, the terror beneath the sound unmistakable. Bran swung his legs to the side of his bed. Damn the girl.

  He padded across the stone floor and crouched down beside the pallet. Adria was pale and shaking. A flash of concern surprised him but with practiced ease, he squelched it. “Thief,” he said gruffly, “wake up.”

  “No!” she shouted. “Leave me alone!”

  She could be speaking to him, Bran mused, if not for the fact her eyes remained closed.

  She let out a guttural noise, flailed her arms in a wild circle, hitting Bran flat in the chest. He caught her wrist before another blow could find its mark, held it loosely as she circled the same arm in the air. As irritating as the girl was, no matter what punishment he might wish to dole out, he understood the terror of nightmares. “Thief,” he repeated firmly, “rouse yourself.”

  Adria gasped and lunged out, grabbing him around the neck. The sudden movement caused every muscle in Bran’s body to tense. The impulse to defend against attack surged through him, the air around him spun like a maelstrom and the instinct to survive at all cost constricted his chest. Only the clean fragrance of her hair and her own sweet female scent kept him from throwing her against the wall.

  He was shaking along with her as his mind convinced him bit by bit that he wasn’t in the arena, was not facing an opponent that must die by his hand. Bran took a ragged breath as the roar of the crowd dissolved into the sound of weeping.

  Hot tears trickled down his bare skin where Adria’s cheek pressed against his chest. Her eyes were still closed in sleep, one slim hand clutching his upper arm. She was holding on as if her life depended upon it. A wave of protectiveness washed over him, caused his own heart to pound. Ruthlessly, he shoved it away.

  “Thief?” he whispered, appalled at the shakiness in his voice. He blew out a breath and spoke firmly. “Adria, it is but a dream.”

  Adria shuddered. A long-buried instinct drove Bran to pull her into his arms, an action he regretted in an instant when she sighed and snuggled against his shoulder.

  Bran had never felt as trapped as he did now, not even when he’d been forced to fight alone against six Myrmillos with their fish-crested helmets and lethal swords. The only memory he held of that match was the blast of rage he’d let loose and the spectacle of six bodies being dragged from the sand by arena slaves.

  Adria shifted her head, her silky tresses brushing against the stubble of his chin. Bran’s eyes drifted closed. He inhaled her scent, realized there was more to it than the fragrance of the bath oil; sweet musk blended with a sparkling freshness that reminded him of the mountain streams of home.

  His eyes snapped open. Gods, the madness he feared had finally surfaced. What other explanation for comparing a woman of Rome with something so pure as Eire?

  Even in sleep this woman was causing havoc. Bran started to give her a good shake as much to satisfy his annoyance as to wake her but his hand stopped in midair when she sighed again, a sound filled with relief.

  He angled his head so that he could study Adria’s profile. She looked so damned vulnerable asleep, not like the prickly female he knew her to be. Long, thick lashes, black as soot fanned out in a crescent over cheeks flushed a perfect shade of pink that complemented the light-olive tones of her unblemished skin to perfection.

  And her mouth. Gods, that mouth. He ran his tongue over his teeth as he contemplated those rose-tinted lips. The lower one was fuller than the upper, perfect for nipping, he mused. Bran released his own sigh. Wine would not be necessary if he could but drink from such a mouth. One taste and he’d be lost.

  And you’d never get your fill.

  Bran frowned at the errant thought. He’d kissed many women, a necessary prelude to the couplings he craved. Only a few girls from his youth and Beatrix had ever given him cause to linger for a more thorough tasting. It took a moment for Bran to realize that Adria’s body had gone stiff in his arms.

  “No!”

  The cry was primal, filled with a panic Bran recognized all too well. “Thief! Wake up!” She did not respond but began to twist in his arms. Bran tried to keep her contained, fearful that she would fling herself against the sharp stone edges of the wall but she fought like a madwoman. He hissed as her nails raked across his neck. Usually when a woman scored him it was during the height of passion. This was like wrestling a lion.

  Bran swung one leg across her lower body and used his weight to still her flailing legs while holding her wrists close to her belly. Her eyes were still closed, her breathing rapid and her cheeks flushed bright red. Bran’s breath hitched. Gods, she was beautiful. Distracted, Bran loosened his grip. A fist, small but hard as a stone, shot upward.

  “Damnation, witch!” Bran snarle
d, rocking back on his heels, his palm pressed to his throbbing right eye.

  Adria’s eyes fluttered open then widened. “Wh—what are you doing?” she asked in an accusing tone. She began to wriggle beneath him. “Do not touch me! Let me go!”

  Bran leaned forward, held her captive with his thighs, his initial arousal withering as she fought. He glared at her with his good eye. “You were having a nightmare.”

  She gave an indelicate snort. “That is a fine excuse. I do not have nightmares.”

  “Excuse? I have no need for excuses.”

  “You had your hands on me.” She swept her gaze over him. “You still do! Release me!”

  He did not attempt to hide his amusement at the shock in her eyes when he did just that, causing her to tumble back onto her appealing little ass. And to think he’d thought her soft and vulnerable only moments ago. “Sheath your claws, woman.” He could feel the skin beneath his eye swelling. “You were making an unholy noise in the throes of the nightmare you were not having and disturbed my rest.”

  A look of uncertainty flashed across her features as if she were trying to remember. Why she would want to, he could not fathom. He’d not had a night of restful sleep since the day he’d been captured, so vivid were his own sleep terrors. Bran fisted his hands against the unreasonable urge to comfort her when she shuddered again.

  She met his gaze evenly. “I was not having a nightmare.”

  Stubborn as ten mules, he thought. No effort on her part could hide the fear and pain the dream had rendered. It was there, written plainly on her beautiful features. He started to point out to her that her pride was misplaced when a streak of red shot across his vision, an image of Tiege flashing in his mind. Bran squeezed his eyes shut, the sharp sense of danger subsided but not before he saw a shadowy figure behind the master thief. When he opened them again, Adria was studying his face, a small smile playing along her mouth. “Did I do that?”