The Patrician (11 page)

Eda swung away from the door, undulating her bony hips in invitation. Baal’s relief was audible, while Bryna felt none as he turned his attention back to her.

“Tend his wounds,” he snapped irritably.

“Tend him?” She blinked, unable to keep the accusation from her voice. “He has been gravely injured.” She glanced down at his battered form, swallowed past the tightness clogging her throat. Aye, injured by her lies.

Baal stepped closer to her. “If he dies, I’ll cut his cost out of your worthless flesh.”

The overseer’s eyes were hot with lust. Bryna kept her gaze on him, willing herself not to move, not to give him any excuse to attack. She pressed her lips together when he grabbed her chin, slid his hand down her throat, pausing to give it a meaningful squeeze, then slipped it beneath the loose neckline of her dress. She sucked in a sharp breath at the hard pinch to her nipple. Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the room.

Bryna swallowed her gasp of outrage.
Foul, filthy pig!
The words rang in her head but she dare not speak them. She bunched the neck of her tunic against her chest and stared at the empty doorway for what seemed an eternity, her heart pounding so loud she was certain it could be heard in the courtyard.

She’d been certain that Baal would have moved onto another victim, willing or not and forgotten about the barbarian whose station was lower than all others in his master’s household. Was it a matter of pride? Did he fear she would tell others of his failure as a man?

Gods.

What had she done to deserve such misfortune? The overseer’s attention took the plan of her escape and cast it awry like dice in a game. Any certainty she held of its success was gone. And then there was
him.

Bryna averted her gaze and edged around the prone figure on the floor. She paced back and forth, trying to rub warmth back into her ice cold arms. This could not be happening.

Perhaps now was the time to flee. Baal would suspect nothing, convinced she obeyed his orders and cared for the man. She would wait until nightfall, gather her supplies and slip away. It would be hours before they discovered her missing. Yes, that was a good plan.

A moan from the center of the room stopped her in mid-stride. She stared at the wall, refusing to look at him. If she didn’t see him, then the sense of responsibility that threatened to choke her could be tucked neatly away and ignored.

Another moan, rippled with pain, filled the tiny room and prodded her conscience like a spear. It had never been in her nature to leave someone in need.
That was your old life
, a voice in her mind whispered.
Everything is different now. You are different.

A knot formed in her chest. In some ways, she could not argue that she was changed. After all she’d seen, all she’d experienced, aye she was not the same witless girl who’d never dreamed Rome existed, who acted on hurt feelings without thinking.

The moaning stopped, the only sound his ragged breathing.

Bryna walked over to the man, forced her gaze down. His back was a gaping mass of cuts and bruises. Many of the welts had begun to crust over, but some of the deeper wounds still oozed bright red blood, soaking the remnant of his tunic, now in tatters around his waist.

Her legs shook and she slipped to her knees beside him, her guilt overpowering any compassion. This
was
her fault. If she’d only stood up to Coeus, refused to follow his orders, this man would not be here now, near death, in chains, a slave. She ran both hands through her hair. If only she’d warned her brother in time, neither of them would be here at all. An image of Bran by the river, this man looking down at her in her cell flashed like lightening through her mind.

She kept her trembling hands tucked beneath her folded arms, refused to touch him. If her sight was returning, she didn’t want to risk the connection, didn’t want to know the depth of his hurt. She concentrated instead on what she could see. Beneath layers of grime, his arms and legs were too lean but still corded with muscles. Even the marks of the lash could not hide the strength beneath the wide expanse of his shoulders.

His face was turned toward her, hidden by a knotted length of filthy black hair. Unable to resist, she lifted a tangled lock away with the tip of one finger. Her breath caught in her throat.

Those piercing eyes were closed, the right one swollen completely shut now. His brows were puckered into a frown, thick with clotted blood that still seeped from a gash on his forehead. Bruises at various stages of healing were scattered beneath the shaggy beard that covered the line of his jaw, strong and chiseled despite his injuries.

A rush of anger flooded Bryna. Anger at the Romans, at Baal, at slavery as a whole, but most of all at the man lying in the dirt before her. In her mind he had been dead. That would have been hard to live with, yes, but not nearly as difficult as seeing proof of the suffering her deception had brought him.

Damn him.

She sat back on her heels and considered him. She had some knowledge of healing, but that had been of little use in this strange Roman world. Her resources were limited, her choices merely nonexistent. She couldn’t help this man.

He moaned again, fisted his hands in the loose dirt, every muscle in his body tensing as if he were still caught in the struggle with the overseers. She rubbed her eyes with one hand, the fatigue of the last few days—the last months—washing over her. She couldn’t just leave him here, unattended.

Careful, lest she cause him pain, Bryna skimmed her hands over his body, checking for hidden injuries. Beneath her fingers, his muscles were like rock, streamlined by whatever hard labor he had endured. She recalled his claim of being a merchant, but she wondered at that for he had a warrior’s body. Her gaze lingered on his hands—large, strong hands that in the vision had stroked her skin possessively setting her blood on fire.

She shook her head in disgust. That had been an illusion, a dream, not a vision. It hadn’t been real. It would never be real. She’d rather die than let him touch her in such a manner.

Then why were her cheeks flushed, burning with heat?

Jumping up, as much to distance herself from the energies emanating from him as to gather the items she’d need to tend him, she caught a glint from the corner of her eye. It was a round medallion, made of silver, stained with dried blood and looped around his neck with a frayed length of cord that had been knotted multiple times. A talisman, a symbol of some sort to ward off evil. She blew out a breath. Not a very effective one if his luck was any indication. She reached over and traced the etched design with her finger.

A cold chill engulfed her, her vision blurred. A flash of a ship, a bright sun beaming down on a marketplace, a cloud of dust mixed with unbearable heat. She was standing on an auction block as she’d done twice before only this time the potential buyers were not looking at her. Turning her head, she saw the man in chains beside her, glaring at the crowd. Black fury fueled by a desire so deep for revenge that it nearly sent her to her knees had Bryna struggling to breathe.

As quickly as it had come, the vision dissipated, leaving her numb. Hands trembling, she brushed her hair away from her eyes. Her sight had returned with a ferocity she had never experienced. It bordered on the terrifying.

Bryna took a steadying breath, stared down at him. Every emotion had been powerful and unforgiving. The strongest had been his thirst for vengeance. Scrambling to her feet, she headed out the door, pushing aside the certainty that she was the target of that vengeance.

An hour later, she returned to the storeroom, noting with some concern that he had not moved while she was gone. She knelt beside him and dipped a scrap of cloth into a bowl of water. Hesitating for only a moment, she gently began to cleanse his wounds.

He jerked violently as the coarse cloth made contact with his wounds, biting out what she knew must be curses in a strange language, but he did not open his eyes. Her hand shook, but she kept to her task.

They were not as deep as she had feared and would not require stitching. But there was great danger of a life threatening fever. She reached for the jar of vinegar she’d stolen from the cook. She’d seen the old crone who tended the slave’s hurts use it to prevent festering. Drawing a deep breath, she poured it onto his back.

He cried out writhing, the agony in his voice chilling her to the bone. His pain seemed to throb inside her and, frantic for him to be still, Bryna reached out for his arm. Like lightening, his hand shot out, catching her wrist in a vise-like grip.

She tried to pry his fingers off, but they only tightened with the effort. Her hand was starting to tingle. Leaning close she softened her voice and spoke into his ear. “It’s all right. Everything is all right.” She stroked his hand crooning soft reassurances, lightly tracing a path over his bronzed skin. It took a few minutes but he finally relaxed. Bryna jerked free, completely unnerved.

His breathing steadied and his skin remained cool to the touch. There was no fever. Yet. The next few hours would be crucial. If he awakened by morning then chances were good he would recover.

But for what reason? To live his life in chains, bent under the lash, nothing more than a piece of chattel with no rights, no freedom? Would he thank her for saving his life? She sighed. Most likely not.

Eventually, he quieted. With the creases of anger and pain eased from his face, he reminded her of a small boy. Gently, she touched the crescent shaped scar on his temple.

Lean, bronze fingers snaked around her wrist, clamping down with such force that she cried out. Her gaze clashed with his. Hard. Golden. His lips twisted into a snarl.

“You!”

“R
elease me!”

A demand. The little bitch was actually making a demand.

Never, in all the scenarios he had conjured of this moment, had Jared pictured her having the audacity to make a demand. Cowering in fear, begging for his mercy—which no longer existed after grueling months in the quarry, chiseling and hammering at solid walls of marble till his hands bled, his muscles screaming for relief, his lungs choked with dust—pleading for her life, those images he had envisioned. Not staring down her nose at him like a royal princess and making a demand.

Fuck her.

Jared tightened his grip on her wrist, felt satisfaction at her sharp intake of breath. The bones were tiny and fragile beneath the calluses’ of his hand. It wouldn’t take much to crush the delicate joint. How much better it would be if he had her throat in his hands. His vision blurred. But that would require more strength than he could muster at the moment.

“Release. Me.” She pushed at his shoulder with her free hand.

He gritted his teeth against a sharp wave of pain that shuddered across his back. She lifted her hand again. Cursing, he let go of her arm.

She pulled away, rubbed her wrist, those extraordinary green eyes wide with surprise and suspicion. A shock, no doubt, to see someone raised from the dead. Especially someone purposely sent to die.

“I’m...I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you,” she stammered.

Her Latin had improved dramatically from their last meeting. Jared scowled, wincing at the pain of doing so. She’d probably been raised speaking the tongue and used the enchanting accent to lure unsuspecting victims to their doom.

“Didn’t you?” he rasped, closing his eyes briefly against the shredded pain in his throat. He hadn’t heard his own voice in months. The overseer of the quarries believed slaves were more productive working in silence. “I’ve not had a day without pain since last we met.”

Planting his palms on the ground, Jared struggled to push into a sitting position. Every muscle in his arms and legs trembled violently. He sent her a slicing glare when she reached to aid him, which sent her shrinking back. After what seemed like hours, he managed—barely—to accomplish the simple feat.

Gods, he felt awful. He was weak as a newborn babe. A dull ache filled his brain and if he moved too quickly, the room spun. Every movement was stiff and painful. He closed his eyes as intense nausea gripped his stomach. He had never been so miserable. And that was saying a lot since he’d been a slave close to four months.

He shot a look at the girl. Oh yes, he knew exactly to the day, the hour, the minute how long he’d been enslaved.

He raised shaking hands to his head and froze, unable to take his eyes off of the thick cuffs of iron circling his wrists. The chain connecting them swung in front of his face, mocking him.
You’re nothing but a fucking slave.
The quarry overseer’s voice echoed in his head. He lowered his arms, fingers curling convulsively around the cold links as he shifted his gaze to the fetters on his ankles.

“The blacksmith is very good at what he does.”

He narrowed his eyes, pinned her with his fiercest glare—as fierce as he could manage with one eye swollen shut. “
He
was not the one to put me in chains.”

The color drained from her face. She bowed her head. “I regret that such a thing happened.”

“Regret!” The word caught like a burr in his parched throat, prompting a fit of coughing that sent his body into painful spasms.

She poured water into a bowl and offered it to him. 

His arms quivered as he took the dish, sloshing half the contents on the floor before she steadied his hand with her own. Her fingers were long and graceful, the skin pale against the caked grime of his own. Her touch was soft, comforting and it infuriated him completely. He blocked it from his mind focusing instead on the coolness of the water as it sluiced down his dry throat. The ambrosia of the Greek gods could not possibly taste as good.

When Jared finished, he pushed her hand away, watched her chin tilt up, saw a glint of that fire he remembered oh so well from their first meeting flash in those emerald eyes. “You could not possibly regret it more than I regret the day I laid eyes on you.” He bit his lip against the effort it taken to speak but savored the shock reflected in her expression. He scooted back against the wall, managed to find one small patch of skin on his back that didn’t burn like fire. He closed his eyes and tried to think past the throbbing in his head.