residence, the force of his blow was controlled, the sound precise.
The porter, a lean Celt with an unruly mane of blond hair, admitted him immediately. Lucius gave instructions for a late supper to be laid in the dining room. The man bowed and hastened in the direction of the kitchens.
Habit prompted Lucius to approach the house altar, where he lifted one of the lares at random and murmured a rote prayer he didn’t believe would be heard. It was only when he replaced the figurine on the stone table that he took a good look at the brass god. An unclothed man in his prime, sporting a grotesquely huge erection.
“Potency.” Lucius glanced toward Aulus, anticipating his brother’s smirk. A warm wash of air, rather than the chill to which he’d grown accustomed, caressed his skin. The foyer was empty.
His gaze immediately sought Rhiannon. Did the Celt nymph wield some dark power over the dead? Could she be a witch? The thought unsettled him. She hardly fit the description of such a creature that Horace had given in his
Epodes.
He found her in the courtyard garden. She was sitting on a bench near the fountain, so still she might have been chiseled from marble, save for a wary flicker in her golden eyes. He drew closer, removing his helmet and abandoning it at the base of a rosebush. Perhaps she would be more at ease if his head was bare.
She’d tamed her fiery mane into a thick braid that fell over her shoulder to curl at her waist. Lucius much preferred it unbound. He imagined sifting his fingers through the strands and spreading them over her naked body like a curtain of flame. He’d gladly plunge through such a barrier to claim her.
Never before had a woman stirred Lucius’s lust so completely. Julia had not, and Lucius had wanted his first wife with a rare fervor, even though their marriage had been a political pact arranged by their fathers. Once married, however, he’d found Julia to be spoiled and petulant, more of a girl than a woman. After Marcus was born he’d hardly cared when his wife barred him from her bed. The brief sorrow he’d felt at her death had been purely for his son’s sake.
The women of the East, in contrast, had been lush and inviting, and knew bedchamber secrets unheard of in Rome, but Lucius had found their docility tiring. Now, faced with this slip of a woman who hadn’t hesitated to put an arrow in his ass, his rod hardened so painfully he feared it would snap. If he slaked his need on her body, would his obsession fade?
He seated himself beside her on the stone bench. She made no response to his presence.
“The night falls far later here in the north than it does in Rome,” he said at length.
She did not answer.
“Have you eaten this evening?” When she didn’t respond, Lucius sighed and stretched out his legs. The dusk settled silently around them. He was prepared to wait all night for her response, but he doubted it would be necessary. No woman could remain silent that long. In the meantime, a few moments free of his brother’s unrelenting presence would be pleasure enough.
A slave exited the kitchens and made the rounds of the courtyard, touching a lit taper to the pitch-soaked torches set about the perimeter of the garden. Lucius waited until the man had disappeared before placing his hand on Rhiannon’s arm.
Her head turned and her gaze met his. “Do not touch me.”
Lucius smiled. “The hour grows late. You should be seeking your bed. I’ll carry you above stairs.”
“I prefer to sleep with the kitchen women.” She shook off his touch and rose.
“Ah, so the little bird can hop from its perch. I’d begun to wonder if you’d spent the entire day motionless on this bench.”
Rhiannon’s chin went up, accentuating its sharpness. “Hardly that. I cleared your garden.”
She’d been pulling at weeds when he’d found her with Marcus this morning, Lucius recalled. He couldn’t fathom it. He’d given no order for her to do so.
“Why?”
“The herbs
The porter, a lean Celt with an unruly mane of blond hair, admitted him immediately. Lucius gave instructions for a late supper to be laid in the dining room. The man bowed and hastened in the direction of the kitchens.
Habit prompted Lucius to approach the house altar, where he lifted one of the lares at random and murmured a rote prayer he didn’t believe would be heard. It was only when he replaced the figurine on the stone table that he took a good look at the brass god. An unclothed man in his prime, sporting a grotesquely huge erection.
“Potency.” Lucius glanced toward Aulus, anticipating his brother’s smirk. A warm wash of air, rather than the chill to which he’d grown accustomed, caressed his skin. The foyer was empty.
His gaze immediately sought Rhiannon. Did the Celt nymph wield some dark power over the dead? Could she be a witch? The thought unsettled him. She hardly fit the description of such a creature that Horace had given in his
Epodes.
He found her in the courtyard garden. She was sitting on a bench near the fountain, so still she might have been chiseled from marble, save for a wary flicker in her golden eyes. He drew closer, removing his helmet and abandoning it at the base of a rosebush. Perhaps she would be more at ease if his head was bare.
She’d tamed her fiery mane into a thick braid that fell over her shoulder to curl at her waist. Lucius much preferred it unbound. He imagined sifting his fingers through the strands and spreading them over her naked body like a curtain of flame. He’d gladly plunge through such a barrier to claim her.
Never before had a woman stirred Lucius’s lust so completely. Julia had not, and Lucius had wanted his first wife with a rare fervor, even though their marriage had been a political pact arranged by their fathers. Once married, however, he’d found Julia to be spoiled and petulant, more of a girl than a woman. After Marcus was born he’d hardly cared when his wife barred him from her bed. The brief sorrow he’d felt at her death had been purely for his son’s sake.
The women of the East, in contrast, had been lush and inviting, and knew bedchamber secrets unheard of in Rome, but Lucius had found their docility tiring. Now, faced with this slip of a woman who hadn’t hesitated to put an arrow in his ass, his rod hardened so painfully he feared it would snap. If he slaked his need on her body, would his obsession fade?
He seated himself beside her on the stone bench. She made no response to his presence.
“The night falls far later here in the north than it does in Rome,” he said at length.
She did not answer.
“Have you eaten this evening?” When she didn’t respond, Lucius sighed and stretched out his legs. The dusk settled silently around them. He was prepared to wait all night for her response, but he doubted it would be necessary. No woman could remain silent that long. In the meantime, a few moments free of his brother’s unrelenting presence would be pleasure enough.
A slave exited the kitchens and made the rounds of the courtyard, touching a lit taper to the pitch-soaked torches set about the perimeter of the garden. Lucius waited until the man had disappeared before placing his hand on Rhiannon’s arm.
Her head turned and her gaze met his. “Do not touch me.”
Lucius smiled. “The hour grows late. You should be seeking your bed. I’ll carry you above stairs.”
“I prefer to sleep with the kitchen women.” She shook off his touch and rose.
“Ah, so the little bird can hop from its perch. I’d begun to wonder if you’d spent the entire day motionless on this bench.”
Rhiannon’s chin went up, accentuating its sharpness. “Hardly that. I cleared your garden.”
She’d been pulling at weeds when he’d found her with Marcus this morning, Lucius recalled. He couldn’t fathom it. He’d given no order for her to do so.
“Why?”
“The herbs
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