Healer of Carthage (30 page)

She’d considered telling Cyprian the truth at the dinner the church hosted in their honor in the triclinium. But when her fiancé had finally emerged from the library, it was not to accompany her to church but rather to attend Sergia’s burial. He’d brushed her off and hurried away like she was the one with the plague and had ended up missing the dinner his friends had worked on for days. His indifference stung a bit, but she’d decided to use the pain to remind her not to play with the fire that leapt in her belly every time they got within spitting distance of each other.

Her finger dragged along the limestone railing. She’d tried to remain detached, even stuffed the obvious physical attraction she felt for Cyprian. But then she’d catch him tossing Junia in the air or sprawled across the library rug helping Laurentius color one of his drawings. This powerful man was such a contradiction of hard edges and a soft heart. She’d been dreading taking Papa into her home, and here Cyprian had generously opened his villa to Caecilianus and his family and anyone else needing a roof over their head. Cyprianus Thascius was obviously made of finer stuff than she. A benevolent and selfless man was not an easy man to ignore, let alone hate.

Lisbeth’s thoughts turned to Caecilianus’s conclusions. They were crazy, but she couldn’t quit thinking about them. Had the crusty bishop’s one God sent her here for the purpose of altering the demise of the Roman Empire? What if destiny was not a finite
theory?
Could a human being alter the preordered boundaries of time enough to make a difference? What if fate had given her an unprecedented opportunity to right her own wrong? Shame on her if she stood by and did nothing.

Far below, along the water’s edge, someone strode into view. Those broad shoulders and that determined gait could belong to only one man.

“Cyprian!” If fate had turned in her favor, clearing up his misconception of her would be one of the first wrongs she would right. Her heart did a strange little skip. “Cyprian!” Lisbeth called out again, adding a wave this time. Either he ignored her or he couldn’t hear her over the roar of the sea. Raised on her tiptoes, Lisbeth leaned over the rail and yelled at the top of her lungs.

Without so much as a backward glance, Cyprian peeled out of his toga, tossed it upon the sand, and dove into the water like a muscled torpedo.

“What’s he doing?” Lisbeth’s muttered question floated away on the wind, but the image of his almost naked body stuck tight in her mind.

Stroke after graceful stroke, Cyprian progressed toward the ships anchored in the harbor. In breathless admiration, Lisbeth watched his powerful arms slice the sea without effort. Left. Right. Left. His confidence in the water equaled his confidence in life, in the future he believed was his. A stark contrast to the doubt in her desert. Had his newfound faith given him that purpose, or had he always been a man on a mission?

From the corner of her eye, a flash of moving light on the wharf drew her attention. In the faint glow, she could make out the sheen of soldier armor marching toward the place where Cyprian had entered the water. What would they do to him if they caught him out after curfew?

He must be warned. She gathered her skirts and hurried
toward the stairwell, unwilling to play it safe anymore. Descending the stone steps from the balcony to the beach, she kept an eye on the approaching torches. Once she reached the sand, she removed her sandals, hooked the ankle straps over her finger, and quickly followed the trodden path that led to the waterfront. Gauging her proximity to the ships, she guessed herself to be very near her family’s favorite shady picnic spot . . . a circle of pillar ruins.

Crouched behind a tuft of sea grass, she waited for the bank of angry clouds rising from the horizon to obscure the low-hanging moon. Taking advantage of the hazy light, Lisbeth ventured down the shoreline in search of more substantial cover. Right where she remembered the ruins to be, she found the concrete pillars, whole and in perfect condition. The newness of everything still boggled her mind. Papa had surmised the crumbling structure held Roman gods to watch the harbor, but he’d not guessed it to be an extravagant stone gazebo constructed for the sole purpose of stealing a romantic kiss or welcoming a weary sailor home.

Stepping from the sudsy foam lapping the gazebo stone, Lisbeth scurried inside and hunched deep into the shadows. She peeked around the pillar and scanned the sea for Cyprian’s bobbing head. Across the harbor, she spotted him climbing up a rope ladder that dangled from over the side of one of the wooden ships.

A hand clamped upon her shoulder, giving her a start that launched a piercing scream.

“I told you I saw someone on the beach.” The soldier yanked Lisbeth from her hiding place and hauled her out to a broken patch of moonlight. She remembered this guy’s face from their market run-in. Hopefully he wouldn’t recognize her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She shrugged free of his hold, determined to rein in her fight-or-flight reflexes before she did something stupid. “Since when does a lady have to have Rome’s permission to stroll her
private beach?” Lisbeth tossed her loosened hair so that they could catch a glimpse of the jewels she still wore from dinner. “You are the trespassers, sirs.”

He clapped a gloved hand around her wrist. “
You
are under arrest.”

“What?” She failed to break his killer grip. “My husband won’t appreciate having to bail me out of jail.”

“Bail?” His hearty laugh rang out. “This curfew offender wants bail, boys!” His patrol buddies joined in with taunts and began shoving Lisbeth between them.

“You just wait until my husband hears about how you’ve treated me! This isn’t right!”

“Cry to the proconsul, lady. You don’t have rights.”

“Since when are prominent Roman citizens denied their rights?” Cyprian emerged from the sea, slicking his hair back with his hands. Even dripping wet he was beautiful.
Darn it.

He strode toward them. “I’d appreciate it if you’d release my bride, gentlemen.”

“Bride?” The patrol leader laughed.

Cyprian trotted out a roguish grin. “As you can see, we had plans.” One of his broad hands created a fig leaf over his skimpy undergarment. His other snagged her arm and towed her toward him, stretching Lisbeth between the two men like two dogs fighting over a bone. He was staring at her in a way that made her sizzle. “Come, my love. The water is perfect tonight.”

The soldier squeezed her arm a bit tighter, determined to win this tug-of-war. “I have my orders.”

“And do they include depriving the solicitor of Carthage his pleasure?” He gave Lisbeth a lewd wink. “My love, this is what we get for rushing the wedding night. If wagging tongues get word of us frolicking about in the surf the night before our wedding, my election hopes will be dashed.”

The soldier dropped Lisbeth’s arm. “Cyprianus Thascius?”

“
The
Cyprianus Thascius.” Lisbeth rushed into Cyprian’s open arms. He pulled her against his slick physique, and her sudden sense of panic morphed into an exhilarating tingle that traveled the length of her body. She tossed a wicked laugh over her shoulder, then threw her arms around his neck. “If the ranks are going to talk about us, let’s give them something to talk about,
my love
.”

“THANKS FOR
making an exception, boys.” Cyprian didn’t wait for the slack-jawed soldiers to go on about their patrols. “Keep up the good work.” He swept Lisbeth off her feet and tumbled into the surf with her.

She came up sputtering salt water and reacting defensively to his attempt to keep her from hightailing it back to shore. “What the—”

He snagged her arm as she attempted to bolt. “Trust me,” he whispered, noting the starfish eyelashes that framed the liquid pools of her eyes, the kind of eyes that reflected the one observing them a bit too clearly for his comfort. A quick perusal of the beach told him the soldiers were taking their time returning to their patrol beat. “Come on.” He hooked her waist with one arm and ripped single-limbed strokes that carried them into deeper water. Several yards offshore, he turned her to face him, noting the soldiers still eyeing them from the shore. He began treading water. “This is where you act like you’re having fun. Put your arms around my neck again and kiss me.” The undercurrent of warning was not to be missed in his voice.

“What?”

He gave a swift scissor kick that buoyed them like a wine cork. “Do it.”

She obeyed, flinging her slender arms across his shoulders.
Without hesitation, her lips found his. Fresh-bread soft and setting off a hunger in his belly he longed to quench. Instinctively, he moved toward her, devouring the salty taste of lips he’d imagined the flavor of honey since the first day she’d told him off. He clasped her waist, then scissor-kicked again while drawing her against him. Every curve of her body melded with his, as if the water had dissolved her tunic. Strong. Healthy. Sensual. Flesh against flesh, sucking him deep into a liquid vortex where he couldn’t breathe.

He broke from her lips, yet kept his arms under hers.

Her eyes flew open, wide and wondering. “Are we done now?”

Working to keep her afloat was more difficult now that she had stiffened. A cautious survey of the shore proved them finally alone, but he kept his voice low in case his words carried over the water. “I know where the fever is coming from.”

“What?” Now it was her turn to check for soldiers. She relaxed and drifted close again. “How?”

He put a dripping finger to her lips and lowered his voice even more. “According to my sources, the sickness originated in Ethiopia, then migrated to Egypt. But I wondered why we’ve seen such an increase in deaths despite the closure of the land trade routes.” He nodded toward the ships. “Then Sergia died. He traveled to Carthage via Egypt on a Roman frigate.”

“Is that what you were doing? Looking for measles?” Her laughter, a surprising delight that buoyed him, would also convince anyone lurking in the shadows that they were lovers. “I thought you were trying to get out of marrying me.”

“There are easier ways to dissolve a betrothal contract, woman.”

Her arms circled his neck, and their legs tangled. “Don’t ships have to go through customs or something?”

“Only the freighters.” They kicked in unison, working together to stay afloat, sharing the burden in a way he’d not
expected possible of one who couldn’t understand the intricate politics involved.

“The troop reinforcements ordered by Aspasius!” Exceptional brilliance shone in her eyes.

“Warships answer to no port authority.”

“Well, something has to be done.” Her dauntless conviction was fascinating. “The port needs to be shut down, the crews quarantined until I determine they’re fever free.”

“Even if Aspasius admitted that his military transports are hauling sickness and death, it would be political suicide to let a woman close his port.”

Lisbeth released him, and he felt himself sink. “I’m going to check it out.” She glided in the direction of the ship.

“Wait.” He darted after her and caught her arm in midstroke. “We’ve drawn enough attention tonight.”

“
We
aren’t going. I am.” Stubborn determination bubbled in her eyes.

“No.” He hauled her toward shore.

“If they have measles, you could catch them,” she sputtered.

Ignoring her pounding on his arm, he trawled to the shallows. When she found footing, she wiggled free and stood. She kicked water and sand in his face.

He wiped the salt from his eyes. “That’s my thanks for saving your life?”

“It’s for whoever is watching the show.” Lisbeth turned and marched toward the villa, her bare feet leaving angry imprints in the sand, her glistening shoulders leaving an even deeper indentation in his heart.

Tossing his recovered tunic over his shoulder, he cursed the day he’d listened to Felicissimus and bought the beautiful slave girl from Dallas . . . or wherever it was his client had found such a maddening bundle of trouble.

38

L
ISBETH’S STOMACH HAD A
great deal of experience surviving various levels of nervous discomfort. Butterflies before her move to the States. Small birds when she took the MCAT. Vultures while she waited on her residency match. But she hadn’t anticipated flying pterodactyls the day of her wedding. The few grapes Ruth had encouraged her to eat for lunch had not stayed down. Finishing the late afternoon snack of olives and cold meat Naomi had delivered was out of the question.

She didn’t need food. She needed rest. The continual replay of Cyprian’s body against hers as they kissed had kept her up the entire night. Craig’s kisses had never ignited such passion.

Infuriating as Cyprian could be, she had to admit he was right about not going to the ships with soldier patrols crawling all over the wharf. But she was right, too. If the ships did indeed harbor the virus, they needed to be burned. Somehow, winning the plague war had diminished in importance compared to a more pressing battle raging inside her.

Despite days of planning, too many things could go wrong at this wedding. Things like Laurentius blurting out something that would expose her or Mama. Or what if Aspasius suddenly remembered her from the slave cell? Or worse, she imagined Cyprian stomping to the altar and announcing that he’d changed his mind,
that the attraction they felt as he held her afloat was just part of some crazy horror show. What if he decided she wasn’t worth the risk?

Heady scents of rose, crocus, and myrtle hung in the heavy steam of the bathroom. Lisbeth sank into the tub and slowly dragged the strigil over her body, flinching as the thin blade rounded the tiny curve of her breast. Had Cyprian noted her lack of Roman bosoms and wider hips like she’d noticed every sculpted contour of him? Had he observed that his touch caused her to tremble like a willow in a windstorm?

Usually she didn’t care what men thought of her, but she couldn’t help wondering what was going on in that handsome head of his. Was he attracted to her at all? Or was the physical tension she felt every time he took her in his arms merely the adrenaline rush of the life-and-death situations her presence always seemed to bring down upon his head?