Gladiator Heart by Alyssa Morgan

to her in a bold gesture.
    Valeria stared at his strong hand. He had long, slender fingers and had used them to bring her so much pleasure. Remembering the gentle feel of his hands on her body had her wanting to take his hand, to find out where it would lead, but she refused the reckless impulse. It was impossible. They belonged to different worlds.
    “Goodbye, Tristan.” Biting her lip, she had to look away from him so he wouldn’t see the tears welling in her eyes.
    “Hold the prisoner!” The Roman soldier who’d first come upon Valeria in Tristan’s tent was marching towards them. “Centurion Paulinas, hold that man.”
    Tristan took off into the forest without a word, quickly disappearing among the trees. Two legionaries on horseback went chasing after him, their red cloaks billowing out behind them.
    Please, Gods, let him get away.
    Valeria wasn’t sure if her prayer would be answered, but she wished it anyway.

Chapter Eight
    Tristan moved like the wind. Perhaps he was even faster than the wind as he cut around trees and leapt over ditches. Each long stretch of his legs carried him faster and farther into the forest.
    Had he listened to common sense, he’d be long gone from the camp with no one chasing him. Because he’d made the unwise choice of following his baser, physical appetites, the Romans pursued him on horseback.
    Valeria was not worth this much trouble. She’d lied to him, giving the name of her protector in place of her uncle’s name. Did she even have an uncle? He had to believe she’d lied about her feelings and had only shared his bed to save herself.
    Tristan could not be captured. He’d rather die with honor than become a slave to Rome. No way would he let Valeria take delight in seeing him shamed and degraded. He should have stayed true to his instincts. He should have wrung her pretty little neck, and then tossed her aside with the other prisoners.
    But he’d wanted to believe, just for a moment, that she cared for him. He hadn’t felt something like that for a really long time.
    Tristan ran until his legs ached and his lungs burned. He pushed himself to keep going, but knew he’d never outrun men on horses. He’d have to stand his ground and fight. After he killed them, he’d take both horses and gather up what was left of his army.
    But Romans didn’t fight fair.
    Rather than facing him like men, the cowards lashed at him with leather whips from atop their horses. The blows rained down so fast he couldn’t get away from them. One of the men managed to disarm him and sent his sword flying through the air. They both continued to strike him, seeming to enjoy their positions over him. His thick furs covered most of his body and spared him the worst of their blows, but when they finally grew tired, one of them lashed out, wrapping the end of his whip firmly around Tristan’s ankles. Giving a hard jerk, he dumped Tristan onto his back, then dragged him through the forest behind his horse and into the middle of camp.
    This was all Valeria’s fault. She had better pray to the Gods they killed him, because if they didn’t, he’d make her pay.
    The men released him and forced him to his feet, then removed the rest of his weapons. His whole body was racked with pain. Dragging him behind the horse had been just as effective as if they’d beaten him to a pulp with their fists.
    It was an odd feeling being ushered into his own tent and seeing a red flock of Romans among his things. Behind the table sat an older man with short dark hair, beady little eyes, and the typical chiseled Roman nose. He wore a red legionary cloak draped over his shoulders and he was looking over the maps Tristan had stolen from a Roman legion a few years back.
    In the corner of the room behind him, Valeria sat perched on top of the trunk. She still wore a fur pelt, and now had on men’s breeches under her tunic and a pair of leather boots. Part of him wanted to leap across the tent and choke the life out of her