To Burn (18 page)

Again the reference to her being childlike; did he not act on his desire for her because he thought her still a girl? "I am perfectly formed by civilized standards, barbarian, with no defect, as any educated man would know."

"And you are always trying to educate me."

"With no success."

"No?" He smiled and looked out over the water, the light from the moving river reflecting and sparkling in his eyes. "You have forgotten my conversion to the Roman bath."

"A small victory, but one my nose appreciates."

"And your eyes?"

"My eyes?" she asked, pulling her knees to her chin in a gesture of unconscious protection, leaving the water to drip from her feet back into the twisting river.

"Yes, have you not noticed a change in my look? I have noticed a change in yours."

He had? He had certainly not shown it. What deviousness did he practice now? Would he not appreciate her beauty if she did not note his first? Not that he was beautiful; he was merely tall and golden and banded with muscle. Melania shook off the uneasiness in her belly; he was a typical Saxon, except that he was clean.

"Well?" he prompted, turning to look at her.

"Well," she hedged, distrusting him, "your hair is longer than it was, though I would not have thought it possible. You almost could be taken for a horse, but you lack the whiteness of teeth for it." It was not true; his teeth were very white and surprisingly even, but he could not know that and he would definitely not hear it from her.

"Well," he repeated, "I had thought the water and soap of a Roman bath would wash the spite from a nasty Roman child and reveal a woman, but no water in the world can change childish spite into a woman's warmth."

What made his insult so cutting was that he said it casually; he didn't even look at her.

"You want warmth from this woman's body, Saxon?" She smiled coldly. "Why, I have given you the heat of my hatred since I first saw your dirty face in a place where it should never have been: My home!"

"Only a child bleats always of home," he said dismissively.

"Or a woman who has been robbed of hers. I am a woman, Saxon oaf, as any of your men will swear. If you doubt, ask them." It was a vicious taunt, but she didn't care; she wanted only to strike and hurt him. As he had hurt her with his cool dismissal of her womanhood.

Now he looked at her, and it fed her fire to see the smothered anger burning in the depths of intense blue.

"What will they tell me, little Roman?" He leaned over her, and she forced herself not to lower her torso to escape him. If blue could burn, his eyes burned into hers, but she held herself rigid. She would not avoid and she would not run and she would not yield. Not to him.

"Will they tell me that you have a woman's breasts, full and soft?" His breath, scented with wine and yeasty bread, fanned her face. His lashes were long and curled and the color of wheat.

"Will they tell me that your hip is smooth and curved?" His teeth were very white against the pink of his mouth, and his lower lip was very, very full.

"Will they tell me that your hair is as thick and soft and black as fine wool?" She felt the grass under her feet and the sun on her hair as if in a dream; it was a hot summer day, yet all was frigid next to the blaze of his eyes.

"Will they tell me how soft and small your mouth is and how easily it could be devoured?" Was he saying that he would destroy her or was he saying that he desired her?

"Will they tell me anything that I don't already know?" he whispered, his lips a finger span from hers.

He was so close. She could see herself reflected in odd distortion in his eyes, eyes so blue, so completely blue that the hot summer sky seemed pale and weak in comparison. He blinked slowly, his lashes dropping down to cover that blue for just an instant, a languorous instant, and it seemed to her that he had fanned the flame in his hot blue eyes.

He desired her; she could see it, hear it, even feel it.

It was all she needed of him. All she wanted. She wanted his desire; she did not want his touch. His kiss would scorch her lungs and his touch would scald her. She could not let him touch her. It must never come to that. She would not allow it. Now that she knew he desired her, she had but to pick her moment and he would lie dead at her feet.

Melania smiled into the face of his hot desire. "You want me," she stated bluntly, not damping the glow of her victory.

Wulfred pulled away sharply and mumbled something in his barbaric language under his breath. Melania smiled more fully in the face of his embarrassment. His shame at being caught desiring her was food she could eat daily.

"I do not mock you, Saxon. You show a scrap of intelligence in doing so and should not be ashamed. Truly, this does you credit." She couldn't help grinning as she said it.

Now he studied her and she tried to control the flaring joy that flashed out of her smile. Really, she did not want to be obnoxious in her victory, because she did not want him to know how much this news pleased her. But it was so very hard not to smile.

"You declare that I want you," he said, stroking the angle of his jaw with the knuckles of his left hand, his eyes not leaving her grinning face. "And you smile with pleasure... or is it victory?" Wulfred leaned forward and brushed his knuckles against the line of her own jaw, and her smile faltered under the heat of even so casual a touch. "Will you still smile in arrogant Roman fashion when I tell you that I mean to have you?"

Melania's grin vanished as her stomach tumbled. Anger rose up to protect her against the image of his body heavy upon hers.

"You mean to
have
me?" she asked under her breath, giving air to the fire of her anger, shielding herself from the seduction of his words. "Is that some sordid Saxon metaphor?" Lurching to her feet and towering over him—and
that
was a glorious feeling—she shouted, "I said you showed a scrap of intelligence in wanting me, but you will never
have
me. I am far beyond your grubby Saxon reach!"

Wulfred jumped to his feet with far more agility than she had and grabbed her by the upper arms. His touch was bruising but she said nothing, showed nothing. She would not give him that. As long as he touched her in anger, she was safe.

He said nothing, but his eyes were violent and expressive, blazing with the blue intensity of flame. Beyond his reach? He was showing her just how easily he could take her, hold her, subdue her. She read all the power of him in his eyes, more power than the strength of his hands, though they came close to breaking her. So much angry power in him, so much turbulent emotion in those eyes, and all of it directed at her. It was enough to frighten anyone, but not her.

His anger was her ally. His desire for her was her ally. It was the growing knowledge that she saw him as a man that was her enemy. He was Saxon, she Roman; never could they forget that. She could not allow either one of them to forget.

"I will agree to nothing," she said with cold precision, though her skin burned where he held her.

He smiled. "I do not need your agreement."

"And you most definitely will not have my cooperation."

"It also is not needed," he responded, releasing her slowly.

She would not rub her aching arms with him standing right there; that would give him nothing but perverse pleasure. But then, he always seemed to want what would cause her the most distress. It had been his purpose from their first meeting, and certainly nothing had changed between them.

Except that he had admitted to desiring her. Did he
want
her violent refusal? By taking her against her will, the idea of which seemed to please him inordinately, he would be torturing her spirit. It would be a case of her punishment and his pleasure: an ideal situation for him. But she didn't think she could take their contest of wills that far. It would be better to die than to endure the claiming he was promising. Her stomach heaved at the thought and flopped around under her ribs. She could hardly catch her breath.

She had wanted him to desire her because she had wanted him groveling. He was not groveling. He was not weak with love for her. In fact, scowling up into his set face, she didn't think she'd ever seen him look stronger or more indomitable.

"I had forgotten, for a moment, that you take what you want, even though it is not given," she offered, trying to sound placid. There had to be a way out of this; there had to be a weapon, an advantage, for her. "Now you will add me to your list of destruction." Into his pleased face, she added on inspiration, "You must want me very much."

Such overwhelming desire must surely give her some power. If he was caught in the throes of passion and she stood free of it, that would give her the advantage over him. It was a very definite weapon.

"You have not such power," he said flatly, reading her thoughts too accurately.

Turning his back to her and again facing the rushing water, he said, "I will take you. As wife."

There was numbness rushing through her mind and a tingling in her fingers and toes... her vision was black in spots... she would not faint in front of a barbarian! There would be too much victory for him in that.

No, she had to think of this calmly and clearly, and she would see a way out. There had to be a way out. She most definitely would not—could not— marry a Saxon!

Of course!
She almost laughed in relief.
Of course.
It would be a Saxon marriage, pagan; not binding on her. It would be an empty ritual. Meaningless. And even if someone, somewhere, believed in its meaning, divorces were easily obtained within the bounds of Rome, and Britannia was certainly within the legal bounds of Rome. In fact, slavery was more permanent than marriage in the Roman Empire. He obviously didn't know that.

When she said nothing, Wulfred cocked his head and looked at her over his shoulder. She wiped the smile from her face just in time. Let him think he had her cowed by this pronouncement, the latest of many; his defeat would be the sweeter for its being unexpected.

"Did you have a day planned for this momentous event or is that the bride's province?" she said evenly.

Wulfred frowned at her and shook his head. "It will be when I choose."

Melania tilted her head and smiled wickedly. "And that is...?"

"Not yet." He grunted, clearly upset by her composure.

"Soon?" she trilled, edging closer, crowding him.

"You will know when I tell you."

"Obviously," she said with as much sarcasm as she could, which was considerable. "Well," she said, turning away from the river, "be certain to let me know. A girl likes to prepare for such a day. In fact," she drawled, "I can hardly wait."

That
should cause him to delay for a while, if only to spite her. In fact, she
could
hardly wait. There would hardly be a better day to kill him.

Chapter 15

"She won't go through with it."

"But how will she escape it? He hasn't shown himself to be a man who changes his mind."

"Especially not with her."

"Why marriage, though? He cannot mean to honor her—"

"Honor me?" Melania interrupted. The people of her household jumped and turned to face her, guilt and embarrassment revealed in their eyes. "How can marriage to him honor me? It is my humiliation he wants and my death he plans; marriage is but the latest means."

"Will you marry him?" Finn asked nervously.

"Certainly," she answered easily. "It will mean nothing. I do not believe in whatever pagan deity the ceremony will invoke."

Theras was not in the room, so there was no one to argue with her on that point. It could have been said that a marriage was a marriage, no matter the differences in culture. It could have been said that vows spoken carried legal and spiritual weight. But only Theras would have dared say such things to her. And Theras was checking the grain stores. She knew: she had checked on his whereabouts before coming to the kitchen.

"But after," Dorcas said softly. "What of what comes after?"

Melania's stomach tumbled end over end at the words. Of course Dorcas would ask that; her nights were full of what came after.

Melania turned quickly to Dorcas, the end of her stola swinging wildly with the movement. "What comes after also means nothing." And when Dorcas raised her brows in surprise and mild disbelief, Melania repeated hotly, "Nothing."

She would not explain to her, to any of them, that it was because the only "after" on that day would be Wulfred lying in a bloody heap on the floor. It would be perfect. He would expect to avail himself of the marriage bed; he would be vulnerable, unsuspecting, and so very close. She had often worried how to get close enough to him. The bridal night and the marriage bed would get her very close, as close as she would need to be.

* * *

"He won't go through with it."

"When have you known him not to follow through on his stated word?"

"Especially with a woman."

"Balduff, for the sake of all that's sacred, can you not once stop talking of women?"