Barbarian's Soul (35 page)
“That is what he says,” Bran agreed, chucking his nephew under his chin. The baby laughed.
Bryna made a face. Goddess, had her brother finally lost his wits? “Bran, are you not upset? You do know this means you cannot leave till another year is gone.”
Bran rose from the divan. “I know well what it means, sister,” he said calmly. “It means I cannot sail for Eire for another season.”
She tried to call her sight, but as when she’d first been enslaved it failed to manifest. She gave her brother a measuring look. There was a peace about him, a calmness of spirit. He looked relaxed, his eyes were bright instead of brooding, happy even. “So it does not vex you that you cannot go home?”
Bran smiled. The same type of carefree, dazzling smile that had always charmed her before their captivity. “Home is not necessarily the place you live. Is that not what you told me, Bryna, when you married your Roman?”
She nodded mutely.
Bran stood up and leaned over to press a kiss on her cheek. “Where is Adria?”
Bryna’s own lips curved into a smile. “Ah,” she said just to annoy him though he looked exceedingly not annoyed. “She is in the peristyle garden.”
*****
Adria sat cross-legged on the ground next to a sunken pool, a pile of papyrus scrolls beside her—proud offerings from Julian who was thriving under the tutor Jared had hired. To keep the boy occupied, Bryna had explained, while she and Bran recovered in their home. Cyma too was occupied, tending a new litter of Cuini’s kittens, all of whom she’d named Penelope.
She touched the crude pendant hanging from her neck. The gold was misshapen, the stone rough but it was Linus’ first attempt at crafting jewelry. Tears welled in her eyes at the memory of his presenting it to her. It wasn’t so very fine, he’d stammered, he would make a better one once Bran was able to teach him. That would be all well and good, but Adria would not trade this one for any amount of coin.
Sighing, she lifted her face to the sun. It was the first day since their ordeal that she’d felt well enough to spend time outside. The days would soon grow too cool to do so. She’d have an abundance of solitude then.
Alone. Without the children. Without Bran.
They both had spent several weeks recovering from their encounter with the thieves. Bryna coddled them, decided on poultices to heal their wounds, listening when Adria recommended a certain herb that her father had used. Linus had been her stalwart companion, still suffering guilt over his role in her suffering. He was only now, Adria thought, beginning to see that neither she nor Bran held him responsible. And such an attentive brother he had become to Cyma and Julian, the younger children thriving.
She missed the little hellions.
Bran had insisted that they convalesce in the same room. She’d known the minute he’d felt better when she’d found him beside her, nuzzling her neck and asking with too-serious eyes if it was too soon. Adria had welcomed him, and despite her assurances of health, he had made love to her in the gentlest, most tender, passionate manner. The only part of her that still suffered was her broken heart.
For Bran was sailing for Eire. She’d overheard he and Jared discussing it. The pain of it had been too great and she’d fled, unable to listen to more. After she and Bran’s declaration of love—well, her declaration—a small part of her had hoped he would change his mind, stay with her or...or ask her to go with him. Gods, what would she do without him?
“It is good for you to be out. The sun will help you in your healing.”
Adria forced a smile to her lips as Bran settled on the ground next to her, the warmth of his closeness filling her as did his scent. “Yes, I’ve always thought it to be so.” She cleared her throat. “I’m sure the sun in Eire will be just as healing.”
“It probably would be,” he agreed.
Adria creased her brow. “It will not be long before you’ll find out for yourself.”
Bran tossed a pebble into the pool. “I think not.”
Adria’s heart tripped. “Has something happened?”
Bran turned, his full mouth curving in that devastating half-smile that always made her heart stutter. He traced the bottom of her lip with his thumb, studied her face and looked into her eyes. “Yes, something has happened. Something impossible to believe. Something too wonderful to contemplate for long lest it vanish in a wisp of cloud.”
“I was not aware barbarians were so poetic,” she breathed, cupping his cheek with her hand. She searched the emerald depths of his eyes, saw a mixture of emotions reflected back to her, the most amazing of which was tenderness so raw it made her heart clench. “What has happened?”
“I’ve fallen in love with a Roman,” he whispered. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear he held her gaze. “Adria, I would ask you to be my wife.”
Stunned did not begin to describe how she felt. Adria smiled broadly and grasped him by his warrior’s plaits, caught his mouth in a deep, hot kiss. “Roman and barbarian? I did not feel the world shatter,” she said smoothing his hair back and drinking in the joy she saw in his eyes. “Yes, I will be your wife.”
***
Three days later, Bran stood in his sister’s garden, watching his woman walk down the path her gaze fixed on him. She was dressed in a
stola
of fine woven woolen, her hair draped in Roman tradition with a diaphanous flame-colored veil and a girdle knotted about her waist for good fortune. She could have been dressed in nothing—the thought had merit—and he would have been satisfied.
But Bryna, in her wisdom, pointed out that they were as blended a couple as she and Jared and both of their traditions must be honored. In concession to that, he’d spent too much coin on a new tunic, dyed at Adria’s insistence, the same emerald hue of his eyes. Vanity that he had little patience for, yet he decided to bring his own traditions to the ceremony weaving small, solid gold balls into his plaits. Around their necks, they wore matching medallions, each etched with an intricate spiral design, one with no beginning and no end. A symbol representing their union and their lives intertwined. Bran swallowed. An everlasting love.
Adria stopped, allowed Julia to lift her veil, then tilted her head up to him and smiled. Gods.
Without prompting, Bran held out his right hand and Adria responded in kind. Bryna, her face radiant, took a golden cord and tied their wrists together, as was the custom of his people.
Bran spoke first, his voice strong and sure. “I am yours until my heart cease beating, until the sun dies and the moon falls from the sky. I will honor you and protect you and keep you unto myself, always.”
Adria’s smile broadened. “I, too, am yours until time ceases, until the stars disappear, or the oceans dry into dust. I will tend your hearth, support you in all things, bear and raise your children—” she smiled wryly “—build you a home. Until the end of my days, I will keep you unto myself.”
Bran caught her in his arms and took her mouth with a growl. Some vague sense of the jubilation surrounding them filtered through the swell of love that threatened to do what no opponent had ever done—bring him to his knees. With great effort, he broke their kiss, glanced at Jared holding a tearful Bryna in his arms. Damon embraced Julia and their infant daughter Marias, while Cyma skipped around tossing clumps of flower petals. Julian stood guard and Menw beamed alongside a cheerful Linus. He raised a brow. And a shy Judith who slipped her hand in his clansman’s.
He gazed down at Adria. “You are no longer Roman. I no longer a barbarian, a gladiator,” he whispered against her ear. “You are my wife, you are my heart. You are my soul.”
Author Bio
Joan Kayse believes love spans the ages. She crafts stories that transport readers to other time periods and other realities. She lives in Louisville, Kentucky where she shares her home and keyboard with two baby cats, Cricket Marie and Grayson the Monkey Cat.
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Also By Joan Kayse
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The Patrician’s Fortune
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Copyright
Copyright © 2013 By Joan Kayse
Formatting by
Ink Lion Books
Release date: Aug 2013
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Cover by Lyndsey Lewellen
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