To Burn (20 page)

She could not admire a Saxon. She could not yearn for such tenderness to wrap itself around her as Wulfred's arms had wrapped themselves around Flavius. If she did, if she gave in to her growing desire for laughter and tenderness and respect from the man who was responsible for the death of her world, she would kill the very essence of her father's life as surely as the Saxons had taken his breath. She could not kill the memory of her father and the legacy he had striven for. She could not be such a weak and emotional Roman daughter.

"Will you?" he asked again, his brown eyes solemn.

Melania smiled and crossed her arms over her chest playfully. "Have I not told him I would? Does he not believe that I will?"

"I think... I don't think he believes that anyone can defy him, especially a Roman," Flavius murmured, his stick making a hole in the dirt.

"How well you know him," Melania murmured in reply, her smile rueful. "But what do you think, Flavius? Do
you
think that I will be a docile Saxon wife?"

"No." Flavius smiled suddenly, tossing his stick in the air so that it tumbled end over end until it fell back into his hand. "I don't think anyone thinks that."

"Not even the oaf?"

"Especially not him."

"Yet he will marry me." She shrugged, losing her lightness of mood though she struggled to keep it wrapped around her. "Or so he says."

Flavius said nothing. Poor child—the world was as confused for him as for her, yet he bore all bravely and with little show of fear. Initially, all had feared the worst of the Saxon conquerors, most especially the children. But time had eased such worry. The Saxons had been temperate, even kind... loving, toward the children of her villa. The image of Wulfred holding Flavius in his arms, gently stroking, assuring the boy of his protection, comforting his tears, assaulted her again. Her father would never condone such a memory or the confused longing that accompanied it.

"Tell me, Flavius," she said, throwing off her melancholy, "how should a proud and fearless Roman—"

"He says you are not fearless," Flavius burst out, and then bit his lip in embarrassment.

"Proof that he does not know me at all," she answered quickly, stung by the indictment.

Flavius looked up at her, his stick twitching at his side, his lip caught between his teeth.

"Tell me all he said and I will negate each point with proper Roman logic," Melania prodded, eager to defend herself and ease the boy's fears.

"It was when I told him that you were never afraid, right after the sword missed me. He told me it was all right to fear. I told him that you were never afraid and he told me... he told me..."

She remembered the moment, that whispered moment. She had wondered what the oaf had whispered to the child. Now she would know.

"Yes, he told you...?" she prompted.

"He told me that you were more afraid than anybody, but mastered it better than anybody and so you were the bravest person he had ever known."

Proper Roman logic collapsed. She did not know if she'd been insulted or complimented. Remembering the source, she decided it had to be an insult. And a lie. She was not afraid, not of any of them, and certainly not of him.

He thought her brave?

There was no logic in that, just as there was no logic in the warmth those words generated in her. Did she expect logic of a Saxon? Did she expect praise from Wulfred?

"Melania?" She jerked her thoughts back to Flavius and gave him a weak smile.
"Are
you afraid?"

"Not of him." It was the stark truth. "Then... you will marry him?"

"I've said I will." A marriage that would not last an hour.

"Do you think... do you think he might... like you?"

"Absolutely not."

A logical answer, deeply rooted in evidence. Her training dictated that she allow no other impressions to cast seed in her mind. Her father would have been proud.

Chapter 16

Time passes slowly to those who wait, but the summer was waning fast, and Wulfred had still not said one word as to when this mock marriage would occur. How long had she been made to wait? Two weeks? Three? And how much longer would she be forced to wait in ignorance?

Until he had enjoyed her frustration to the fullest, of course. Not that she wanted to marry him, but this waiting for him to pronounce that today or tomorrow would be the day, as if he were God himself, directing the fate of all mankind... it was so very typical of him.

Oafish pagan.

Drooling imbecile.

Murder victim.

Oh, yes, that was truly what he was. Though it would not actually be a murder, but an execution, and she the happy executioner. It was so difficult to wait for him to tire of making her wait; she had so much true eagerness for the day to come, and yet she knew that if she displayed even the smallest part of her impatience, he would spin the waiting out even longer, happy in his torture, delighting in her defeat. And so she waited. Patiently.

Well, as patiently as she knew how. Unfortunately, patience was not one of her gifts and, also unfortunately, she was not getting any better at it with practice.

Still, he was such a barbarian, how would she even know if the thing had been done? Saxon ways, hardly above the animal, were inexplicable to her. Perhaps she was already married.

Impossible.
He would have forced her to bed, if only to humiliate her. In fact, she couldn't help wondering why he hadn't forced himself upon her already. It was amazing that a barbarian could show such restraint.

Unless it wasn't restraint. Indifference? She ran her hands up the nape of her neck, smoothing her hair.
Impossible.
He had all but admitted that he desired her, and she had felt his heat herself that day by the river. But since that day, he had kept his distance from her—for which she was grateful, certainly. It was not as if she wanted the oaf near, spouting words of seduction and desire, touching her, perhaps even kissing her....
Ridiculous!
She was profoundly grateful that he was keeping the distance that she demanded.

She had asked Theras days ago for information about the ritual of Saxon bonding, and he had promised to find out what he could. Obviously he had found nothing yet. Perhaps there was nothing to know. It was probably based on something as primitive and improbable as the color of the moon or the pattern in a stone toss. Dorcas had known nothing either, claiming no Saxon had said anything to
her
about marriage. A sharp enough answer for a simple question, Melania had thought.
Someone
had to know about Saxon marriage rituals. Oh, yes,
someone
did, but she wasn't asking him.

Melania sat up straighter on her stool and consciously eased the tension in her shoulders and across the top of her back. The Saxon was to blame for that. She had never had a moment of tension until his appearance in her life; at least none that she would admit to.

She had taken refuge in her favorite pastime: jewelry making. It was fine work and required total concentration. An excellent method for forcing thoughts of a blond, near-naked barbarian from her mind—a barbarian too big to be physically managed, too ignorant to be reasoned with, and too naked to be comfortably ignored.

Obviously, jewelry making was not a perfect method of controlling her thoughts.

A hand on the back of her neck almost sent her vaulting off her stool. Only one hand, one touch, one man caused such a violent response in her.

"Oaf! Can't you see I'm working?"

"I see you playing with bits of gold. Hardly work."

She would not look at him. She would ignore him. She would patiently hold her tongue until he left her alone.

Patience was not one of her gifts.

"It takes great skill, not to mention creativity, and it is also one of the few tasks you have authorized as acceptable for me. Or had you forgotten?"

"Only a lazy Roman would call this work. It is pointless."

She ignored him, or tried to. His hand still lay lightly on her nape. His legs pressed gently against her stiffly erect back. She could hardly breathe for his nearness.

"Only a stupid barbarian would demean artistic effort."

"Perhaps that is because I see nothing artistic about it."

An insult? He was insulting her creative ability? Her skill as an artisan?

"You would have me believe that you Saxons have none among you who fashion articles of adornment for the dual sake of beauty and function? Are you truly so bestial? And let me hasten to add that I would have no difficulty in believing it."

She looked up at him as she said it, unable to resist the desire to insult him to his face. It might have been a mistake.

He towered over her, his loins at her eye level as she sat upon the stool; she couldn't help staring at the tiny golden hairs that swirled in flowing precision below his navel. A lump rose from her chest to fill the small space at the top of her throat. With effort, she forced her eyes to his face. That might also have been a mistake.

The Saxon smiled down at her with sickening superiority before idly contemplating her efforts. He stepped even nearer to do so and bent down so that his broad chest was a handspan from her face. Surely that had not been necessary. The lump in her throat began throbbing in rhythm with her heartbeat.

"No," he answered. "We also have jewelers among our people. Skilled artisans."

"Workers of gold?" she asked skeptically, closing her eyes against the sight of him.

"Workers of gold. Of bronze. Of copper. Of steel."

He straightened and moved slightly away. She thanked God.

"Stolen metals, I would guess," she managed.

"And where did you come by your tiny hoard of gold? Dig it yourself?"

"We traded for it."

She kept her eyes on her work. She would not look at him again. She was heating the golden circle so that the tiny balls would fuse to it. He was trying to distract her; he wouldn't.

"Ah, yes, the famous Roman trade. 'Give us what we want and we'll let you live on the land of your ancestors.'"

She looked up at him swiftly, her concentration broken. She set aside the gold, removing it from the heat.

"And what of the Saxon trade? 'Give us what we demand and you may live another day.' "

"But Roman," he said under his breath, running his hand through the coils of her hair, "you have not given me what I want."

"And I do not want to live another day." It was not exactly true anymore, but she had said it so often that she could think of no other reply to his taunts. "I also do not want you depositing your fleas in my hair! What took an hour to achieve you have destroyed with a single touch! How very Saxon of you."

"I like your hair better the old way: loose and dusty." He smiled, pulling and tugging until her careful coiffure hung in a tangle down her back.

The very nearness of him jolted her. His touch almost brought her to her knees in a spasm of what she could only identify as nausea.

"Stupid,
stupid
barbarian!" she said in a snarl, backing away from him. "You have no culture and certainly no taste!"

"I follow my own tastes," he said, watching the distance she was putting between them, learning from it. "I like a woman's hair down her back, either loose or braided, but not twisted and tortured to sit atop her head."

"Uncivilized," she spat.

"Beautiful," he said softly.

Beautiful?
Tickles of nervous fire swirled in her belly and her mind shouted alarm. This was not a word she wanted of him. This word,
beautiful,
was not adversarial, and he was her adversary. He would always be her adversary. She did not want to hear
beautiful
on his lips. She did not want to see his gaze of intense and impossible blue skim her body and pierce her eyes as surely as his sword had pierced her ordered Roman world. She did not want to see him close the distance between them. Did not want him to ease the tangles from her hair with his battle-roughened hands. Did not want him to run a gentle finger down the length of her left arm. Did not want him—what was he doing?—to touch the tip of her breast.

And she did not want to feel the fiery shiver that ran like a wild flame through her core as her nipple hardened in response.

She reacted instinctively. She hit him.

He reacted as always. He did not move.

She hit him again, a ringing blow across the face.

He did not move. He smiled. Slowly and confidently. Knowingly.

God, God,
God
, how she hated him.

"You never disappoint me," she said coldly, pulling away from the scorching nearness of him. The hauteur of Rome clung to every word. She walked away, leaving him, since he was so obstinately immovable.

"And you, little Roman, never disappoint me."

The worst of it was that he said it on a laugh.

Oaf.

Animal.

Imbecile.

Saxon.

Melania made her way as straight as the arrow flies to the kitchen. No more pretense. No more subtlety. Oh, yes, she had held herself in check with him. None could have done better. She had tried to get along with him, stupid savage that he was, but he was impossible. Untrainable. Wild. Savage. There was only one response to such a beast. Without a word to anyone, without a thought for the strange looks she was receiving, without heeding the gasps of dismay, she took a knife from the table. Let him touch her again. Let him touch her and he'd feel his own blood before he choked on it. Let him touch her again. Just let him.