To Burn (23 page)

"You're always telling me what to do," she blurted out without thinking. She couldn't think. She felt sick to her stomach.

How much worse it would have been if she could have clearly seen him as she had seen him all summer: blue eyes heating the air between them as he stood unmoved by her taunts and dares, hands sometimes clenched in anger but never striking, shoulders that could carry laughing boys, and the light sweep of yellow hair—all before her eyes. Her father's face was fading and Wulfred's had taken its place.

"I only remind you of what you told me. Is this not to be a session of fondling?"

Her stomach heaved and her breath came out in a sickly rattle. Could she not have picked a better word?

"Fondling is not groping," she answered.

"And keeping your distance is not fondling," he replied easily. How could he be so calm? "Would you prefer me to begin it?"

"No! I'll do it!"

"Then do it. Here I am. Or can't you find me in the dark?"

"Oh, I can find you. My nose will lead me." He could not know that she did not mean it as an insult. This time.

She had meant to seduce him, to flirt with him as she had seen Dorcas flirt with Cenred; instead she found him daring her to touch him. Daring her, as if it were a contest of wills.

Worse, she responded more easily to his challenge and his voice than to the dictates of her own reasoning.

"Lost?" he prodded.

Only my reason
, she thought. "Of course not. You're a difficult target to miss."

There was no point in delaying the inevitable any longer than she already had: she would have to touch him. He was only a step away, one step that was both unnaturally large and uncomfortably close. Taking a breath to steady her fraying nerves, she took that step.

Now the smell of soap mingled with another, nameless scent, and the heat she had felt emanating from him intensified. How to begin? What had she seen Dorcas do?

Oh, yes.

Raising a hand that trembled only slightly, Melania ran the fingertips of her right hand down the uneven planes of his chest. Could skin burn? He was so hot to the touch... and smooth. And hard. And bare.

Wulfred said nothing.

Both hands now, from collarbone past chest to ringed abdomen until her hands brushed the leather that bound his hips. He was so hot. No wonder he never wore a tunic. She had wondered how he would feel under her hand. She had wondered if skin could be smooth that sheathed such rippling power. She had wanted to touch him. It truly was better that her father had died; he could not have lived and known that his daughter was touching a Saxon, alone and in the dark.

Wulfred did not move.

Her hands skimmed up his torso, rubbing the muscles she had seen so often. Hard. Smooth. Hot.

His throat was a massive column, with a pulse that seemed very fast and strong.
So hot here.

His hair hung down around his shoulders and she brushed it back; it was so very soft and thick. Capping his shoulders with her hands, she felt the muscle knotted there; Flavius and Petras had ridden on these shoulders. His arms were long, the muscle fiber lying in rippled twists and creating hills and valleys on his arms that did not exist on hers.

She ran her fingers over his right hand, noting the calluses, feeling the bulge of muscle at the base of his thumb, touching the hard edge of his fingernails. Lifting his hand, she unknowingly caressed it and mindlessly brought that warrior hand to her mouth.

She kissed the palm.

She felt him jump.

Heard the sharp intake of breath.

Felt him move.

And then his hands were in her hair and her body was in his arms and his hands cupped her bottom and his breath covered her face.

Until his mouth touched hers, and then his breath became a part of her. His breath and hers, breathing together, one.

His hands slid in a firm caress up her body, over round buttocks and slim hip and narrow waist and flaring rib cage to slender neck, and he held her there, one hand at her hip and the other at her throat, holding her against the length of him, the hard, hot length of him, while his mouth learned hers and his breath poured heat into her bones and blood.

Her feet dangled over the tile floor.

Her hands tangled in his thick hair.

Her mouth was hot against his and wet, and there was nothing in her mind but that she wanted to be hotter and wetter still.

More of this.

More of him.

More.

She wanted more.

He let her slide down the length of him, her breasts hot and hard at the friction, her legs weak, her hands clutching his hair, pulling him down to her, keeping his mouth on hers. She needed his breath to breathe. She needed his heat to keep her alive. Without this contact, she would grow cold and die.

His tongue was between her teeth, in her mouth. She tasted beer for a moment and then the taste was in her mouth, was on her breath, and there was no distinguishing between his mouth and hers.

His hands spanned her ribs and moved upward. Her breasts were on fire and tingled, each nerve alive and clamoring, wanting his touch, wanting to feel his hands on her. She arched into him with a throaty whimper and wondered where the sound came from. Her nipples were hard and distended, ready for him, ready for whatever he would do. She wanted his hands upon them, upon her, mindless of any other need.

He did not make her wait. His thumbs brushed across the rigid peaks in firm ownership and she almost lost her footing, moaning as she collapsed against him. She wanted more immediately.

More.

His hands slid down. Anger flared at his stupidity—until his fingers brushed the apex of her thighs. Fire scorched her. She throbbed and ached. He traced her there, and if he had not held her around the waist with his other hand she would have fallen at his feet.

She lurched against him, throwing her arms around his neck to hold him to her and continue the hot, wet kiss he had begun an eternity ago.

And as she did so, as she threw herself more firmly against him, she felt the knife shift in her pocket.

The knife.

To kill him.

The knife to kill the Saxon.

Saxon.

Reason fought for life in the blazing heat. She could not think; her brain was on fire. She could not see. What was wrong with her eyes? She could not breathe.

There would be no better time. He was close, he was relaxed, or at least his guard was down, and she had a knife.

Her right arm slid down as her left held him close. The kiss continued, confusing her, distracting her. But he would never be closer. She clumsily found the knife and gripped it. It was hard and cold; it helped to anchor her to her plan. The kiss lightened, changing, and he kissed the corners of her mouth and the spot just below her lower lip. A tingle ran down between her breasts and landed in her belly, where it sparked.

He was so close.

She had the knife.

He was a Saxon.

The
Saxon.

Justice was due.

Overdue.

She pulled the knife free, thankful again for the darkness, and leaned away from his kiss. She had to strike for the face, the eye. It had to be a mortal strike. Perhaps the throat so that he could make no cry and she could run to the west. To Marcus.

She did not make the mistake of pulling back to add strength to the blow. This was not a blow of strength; this was all placement. She did not make the mistake of shouting her intent to raise her bloodlust. Her bloodlust was high enough. She did not make the mistake of hesitating. The Saxon was quick, too quick for her to falter.

No, her mistake was in choosing her opponent.

The knife was out of her hand and in his before the kiss had truly ended.

His holding her knife in his fist effectually ended the kiss.

"Do Romans use knives when they fondle?" he asked in a growl. "It is no wonder the population dwindles."

For perhaps the first time in her life, she could think of nothing to say.

"Come, Roman. We have lingered in the dark long enough," he said, anger edging into his voice. But she had heard him angrier.

Gentleness gone, he dragged her by the back of her stola, propelling her ahead of him. She blinked in the mild light of the torches lining the portico and was momentarily blinded by the whiter light of the triclinium. Was this where he would kill her? It was late. The triclinium would be deserted.

Or so she had thought.

The triclinium was filled. Every person who lived within the confines of the villa was present. And all were staring at her.

Wulfred held the knife, her knife, in his fist and raised it high for all to see. He would kill her with it. She knew it. In just a moment her earthly life would end, and end in defeat. She would die by his hand, at a time of his choosing, having failed to kill him first. But at least she would die. At least this misery would be behind her.

And she would die proudly.

Standing straight, head erect, she looked out over them all. No tears marred her vision. No hands begged for leniency. No knees collapsed with fear. She would face her execution bravely and would shame them all with her courage. He would get no satisfaction from her.

"The knife is Melania's," he said into the silence. "She has given it to me. A gift of arms."

A gift? It was no gift...

Blond Saxon heads nodded in affirmation.

A snort and a rattle of harness was her only warning before Optio was brought into the triclinium and right up to her. She had to sidestep or the beast would have knocked her over.
Unnatural animal.

A single shout and she jerked instinctively. Then the room erupted in shouts, the Saxon horde banging sword and seax to shield until she thought the plaster would crumble off the walls. Stupid Saxon pigs, could they not even kill someone with dignity?

"Do I have to lose my hearing as well as my life?" she barked, trying to jerk free of Wulfred's hold.

"You will lose neither your hearing nor your life, Roman," he said, grabbing her firmly by the elbow. "You have just gained something."

"A headache?"

"A husband."

Chapter 18

"Impossible!" she exploded, pulling free of his touch. "You hold a knife to my throat and tell me that by some hideous miracle we are now married? When did this miraculous transformation occur? And when will you kill me, for surely you must know that... that what I did... what we did... that it was not real? I was but maneuvering you onto the point of my knife!"

He smiled down at her with his eyes of brightest blue and clasped her gently by the nape. "And look how close you came to maneuvering yourself onto the point of mine."

"You're disgusting." She tried to wrench herself free of him, but he held her fast.

"How changeable you Romans are." He smiled, fingering the knife. "Unless I am not translating you correctly. You did say disgust? Or was it lust?"

"Will I prove my point if I throw up all over your dusty feet?"

"Is that how Romans show their desire? Or is it only you?"

Melania pried his fingers off her neck and clenched her fists, mutely daring him to touch her again. "Will you kindly tell your murderous friends to stop banging away on their toys! I can hardly think!"

"They only show their approval of our bonding," he said as he tucked the knife—her knife—into the waist of his pants.

"We can't be married," she stated, crossing her arms over her chest, willing it not to be so. "There has been no ritual to bind us."

He obviously thought otherwise.

"You gave me a gift of arms. I gave you a horse. It was witnessed. We are one."

"That's... that's not a marriage ceremony," she stammered. It was as she had feared: a Saxon marriage ceremony was as flimsy as cloud trails across the face of the moon. She should have wagered gold that a Saxon bonding ceremony would include a knife. "And Optio is
my
horse!"

"My horse, by conquest, given to you as a gift.
Now
Optio is yours."

"This farce of a ceremony is not binding by Roman law, the most just law ever—"

"You live in Saxon-controlled land now, Melania," he said, turning her to face him, holding her by the arms when she tried to move away from him.

"Saxon law rules this land. By Saxon law you are my wife."

"I am Roman. I know nothing and care nothing about Saxon law. This" —she waved her hand all around her— "means nothing."

Wulfred let her go and stood looking down at her. His expression was solemn, almost rigid, and she found herself trapped by his look more than by anything his hands could have achieved.

"You accepted my intention to marry you. You gave me a gift of arms. You are on Saxon land ruled by Saxon law. Will you stand by the bond or ignore it because it does not match your own customs?"

There was far more subtlety to this barbari than she had at first thought. She could see no honorable way out.

The noise of the barbarians had stopped. Their drinking had not. Balduff toasted her loudly, his light blue eyes gleaming in amusement. Cenred and Cuthred and Cynric drank to his toast, but their faces were wiped clean of emotion, any emotion, and they regarded her with a look that spoke clearly of distrust. Only Ceolmund, of that group, eyed her warmly. He said little, but he seemed almost to respect her. Of them all, she considered him the least offensive. And the most intelligent.