Celtic Fire Part 7

She'd made her way to the garden to await him. He would come to her when he was able, she was sure of it. Rhiannon only hoped Lucius didn't find her first.

A pool of water shone in the center of the courtyard. Around it, rigid garden plots overflowed with clumps of a th.o.r.n.y shrub Rhiannon had never seen before. A few red-green leaves had unfurled, but many more were wanted before the unsightly canes would be covered. Nestled among the roots of the odd plants were cl.u.s.ters of more familiar greenery-betony, coltsfoot and meadowsweet, among others.

"What are you doing?" Marcus asked again.

She smiled up at him. "See this bit of betony? It can't take a breath for want of s.p.a.ce. I'm clearing a path around it."

"Do plants breathe like people, then?"

She nodded. "They speak as well, at least to those who know how to listen."

"What do they say?"

"They tell why Briga, the Great Mother, has granted them life. Like people, each has its purpose-healing, coloring cloth, or flavoring food."

The lad hunkered down beside her and c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "I don't hear anything."

Rhiannon's smile deepened. "Plants don't speak in words. It takes much patience to learn their language."

"Oh." Marcus pondered this revelation. "Will you teach me? I think I would prefer the language of the garden to that of the Greeks."

Rhiannon laughed at that. "Perhaps," she hedged. If all went well, her time in the fort would be far too short to allow it.

"I wonder if Uncle Aulus could hear them. He never wrote to me of it, but he knew a lot about plants. I'm sure he tended these himself."

"Your uncle lived here?" Rhiannon asked.

Marcus's eyes clouded. "He was the fort commander. He was killed last autumn."

So the man who had fallen to Madog's sword was not only Lucius's kinsman but also his brother. The revelation hit Rhiannon like a blast of winter wind. For a moment, she stood again in the shadow of the great stones, the dying man's b.l.o.o.d.y fingers clutching her hem, his despair echoing in her heart.

He'd spoken to her before he died. Tell him. Tell him. Had he been speaking of Lucius? Had the dying man's torment called his brother north to seek vengeance? An icy chill settled about her. Had he been speaking of Lucius? Had the dying man's torment called his brother north to seek vengeance? An icy chill settled about her.

At that moment, as if she'd summoned it, Lucius's rich voice drifted from the far corner of the courtyard. Rhiannon sought him with her gaze, heart pounding. A door giving out onto the covered walkway opened. Demetrius emerged with Lucius a step behind.

Marcus shrank down behind a cl.u.s.ter of bare canes. "Quiet," he whispered fervently. "I'm supposed to be in the library translating Aristotle. If Magister Demetrius sees me, he'll skin my hide. And take pleasure in tanning it."

Rhiannon ducked her head-she certainly had no desire to attract attention. She peered through the thorn branches and watched the two men traverse the edge of the courtyard.

Her heart tripped a beat at the sight of Lucius in full uniform. Silver armor gleamed over a tunic the color of Roman wine. A sword and dagger hung at his hip and a short crimson cloak, fastened with a gold pin, fell over his shoulders. His crested helmet was nestled under one arm. His s.h.i.+ning dark hair curled at his nape and at the edges of his strong, clean-shaven jaw. His bearing was powerful, but not overbearing as Edmyg's was. He moved with the grace of a sleek, exotic cat akin to the one portrayed in stone on Rhiannon's chamber floor.

Without her conscious a.s.sent, Rhiannon's gaze drifted lower, taking in Lucius's bare thighs and calves and the dark sprinkling of hair on his bronzed skin. Long muscles flexed as he walked, leaving her throat dry. Roman men didn't encase their legs in braccas braccas as her kinsmen did. They preferred, it seemed, to leave their lower limbs bare at all times. as her kinsmen did. They preferred, it seemed, to leave their lower limbs bare at all times.

No doubt Roman women were glad of it.

Beside her, Marcus was barely breathing. "What will you do when the healer enters the library and discovers your absence?" she whispered.

"He won't, if Fortuna smiles on me. Magister Demetrius is bound for the fort hospital."

Lucius and Demetrius halted in the foyer, before a wide portal that most likely was the domicile's main entrance. At Lucius's command, a slave stepped from an alcove and lifted the latch.

The door swung open. Demetrius pa.s.sed under the lintel into the patch of daylight beyond. Lucius made as if to follow, then stopped. He looked to the right, then the left, then pivoted in a full circle as if looking for someone. Rhiannon's brow furrowed. He'd performed the same odd movements in her room the day before.

A scowl appeared on Lucius's brow. "Go on ahead, Demetrius. I will follow shortly."

The door closed. Lucius wheeled about and walked to the edge of the courtyard, his attention fixed unerringly on the shrub behind which Rhiannon and Marcus crouched.

"By Pollux," Marcus muttered.

The lad's attempt at manly disgruntlement had Rhiannon stifling a laugh. Her amus.e.m.e.nt rapidly diminished as Lucius closed the distance between them and circled the shrub. His gaze flicked briefly over her and settled on his son. Marcus jumped to his feet, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

Rhiannon tried to rise. Dull pain shot through her thigh, accompanied by a rush of lightheadedness. She'd eaten little since her capture, not trusting her churning stomach to retain the rich Roman food. Her body was beginning to feel the effects of her fast.

She swayed on her feet, putting out one hand to catch Marcus's shoulder. She missed and would have fallen if Lucius hadn't stepped forward and caught her. She felt his touch far more keenly than she should have. His grasp was firm yet gentle, gifting her with the unconscious strength that seemed so much a part of him.

He steered her to a bench at the edge of the fountain. Rhiannon sank onto the smooth stone. She felt his steady scrutiny, but dared not lift her eyes to meet his gaze. If she did, she would see the eyes of his brother as she so often had in her nightmares. So she kept her face averted, staring at the ripples on the surface of the water.

"How in Hades did you get down the stairs?" he asked her.

"Slowly." She dared a quick peek at his face. His frown could have blistered the hide from a pig. No doubt it sent enemies and allies alike into spasms of terror but, curiously, Rhiannon felt no fear.

"You might have reopened your wound," he said. "Are you mad?"

"No. But another hour in that chamber might have made me so."

"Ah. You sought the garden."

"Yes." Rhiannon glanced toward Marcus, who was watching the exchange with undisguised interest.

"You are welcome to it, then. Stay as long as you like," Lucius said.

She nodded, keeping perfectly still while his gaze raked over her. Her unruly heart calmed only when he turned his attention to Marcus.

"Why are you not in the library?"

Marcus seemed to shrink under his father's disapproval. "I needed to visit the latrine," he mumbled. "I was just on my way back."

Lucius's gaze narrowed. "By a roundabout path, I see."

Marcus's blush deepened. "Yes, sir."

"Then continue on your way, by all means. Aristotle awaits you. Impatiently, I'm sure."

The lad wasted no time in fleeing the courtyard. Lucius watched him disappear through a doorway near the foyer, then sighed. He turned back to Rhiannon. "I must depart. If you've need of anything, hail one of the slave women. They've been instructed to serve you."

Alone once more, Rhiannon tugged another weed from the betony. She'd expected rough treatment from her captor. Instead, he gave her careful politeness. His respect was perhaps more unsettling than violence. It diluted the terror that had sustained her in the first hours of her capture and left room for her to feel the other, more disturbing emotions he invoked.

She pulled another root free from the dirt. He'd ordered the household staff to serve her. Another surprise. She'd expected to be given a slave's work. Instead, she had been handed more leisure than she'd had in her entire life. Of course, her true duties, those to be performed in Lucius's bed, hadn't yet begun.

She imagined his strong, gentle hands on her bare skin, and a pleasant ache settled in her loins. What would Lucius's loving be like? She sensed it would not resemble Niall's fierce coupling. The Roman's whispered words of two days before flooded through her senses. He'd said he wanted to taste her. Dear Briga ...

Her musings fizzled in a rush of horror. Did she want this man in her bed? How could she view her clan's enemy with anything less than loathing?

Leaning forward, she splashed her fingers in the cool waters of the garden pool to steady herself. Water was the sacred gift of the Great Mother to her children. Even here, surrounded by Roman walls, Briga's peace flowed.

A door at the rear of the courtyard opened. Bronwyn appeared, arms laden with linens. A squat figure of a man followed, a misshapen brute with limbs half the length of Rhiannon's. His hands and feet, however, were huge. His head perched on his shoulders like a precarious boulder ornamented with dirty blond hair. His eyes, sharp and blue, glittered in his face like gems on the bottom of a still pond. Despite his small stature, he hefted an impressive load of firewood in his arms. Rhiannon s.n.a.t.c.hed her fingers from the water, her heartbeat accelerating.

Cormac.

She started to rise. Edmyg's brother swiveled his head in her direction. His gaze caught hers briefly as he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. She nodded and sank down again on the bench.

"Come along, ye lout!" Bronwyn's tone was teasing.

Cormac leered at her, showing a wide gap in his front teeth. He murmured a lewd suggestion.

To Rhiannon's surprise, Bronwyn giggled and blushed. "Lucky it is that yer c.o.c.k is as strong as yer wits are weak," she said.

Rhiannon's brows shot up. Cormac, witless? Hardly. He was the eldest of the three brothers and the cleverest by far. He had far more cunning than Niall or Edmyg, though he barely cleared his brothers' navels. If he'd been born without deformities, he would have been chieftain. As it was, she'd heard tell that he'd barely escaped being killed at birth.

The pair disappeared through yet another doorway. Rhiannon eased off the bench and onto the ground, renewing her efforts to free the betony from the grip of the weeds while watching the portal for Cormac's return. Now that she'd found him, it was possible she would escape the fort before the day was out.

She'd finished weeding the first garden bed and had moved to a second before he reappeared. Rhiannon nearly jumped out of her skin when Cormac crept around one of the columns lining the edge of the courtyard and whispered her name. Though she'd been watching, she hadn't seen his approach. He carried a large wooden bucket in his hands.

"Ye must get me away," she said.

"How is your leg?"

"Better."

He eyed her speculatively. "And the Roman? Has he bedded ye yet?"

Rhiannon nearly choked. "No! Nor will he, if ye get me free of these walls before nightfall."

"I've sent word of yer capture to Edmyg." His tone turned mocking. "I await my n.o.ble chieftain's instruction."

"Instruction? Are ye daft? He'll be telling ye to bring me home."

Cormac flicked one sausage finger in a dismissive gesture. " 'Tis not possible for ye to leave this day."

"Then when?"

He shot a glance across the courtyard. "Lower yer voice, woman. The entire household will be hearing ye."

Rhiannon grasped a particularly stubborn weed and gave it a sharp tug. "I must get out of here," she said through clenched teeth. "Now."

He lifted his bucket and approached the fountain, brus.h.i.+ng Rhiannon's arm as he pa.s.sed. "The guard at the gates has been doubled. Every Celt who approaches is questioned at length. I'm able to pa.s.s only because I a.s.sist the Roman cook in her endless quest for fresh vegetables."

"Smuggle me in a cart, then."

"A fine plan, sister, if my sacks were nay empty on the way out."

Rhiannon smothered a sound of frustration. "There must be another way."

"I might persuade the village laundress to claim ye as her a.s.sistant. But nay until the guard is lightened."

"How long before 'tis safe to try?"

"No telling." He hopped up on the low wall surrounding the fountain and slid his bucket under the stream of clear water that spouted from the mouth of a fish. "Perhaps in a sennight if my idiot brother lies low and doesna provoke the Romans further. Ye'll have to make the best of it 'til then."

Rhiannon's heart gave a strange shudder. She was sure Lucius's careful politeness would not last seven more nights. He'd said he wouldn't force her to his bed, but he was a man, after all, and she had seen the heat in his eyes. And, to her shame, had felt her own body warm in response.

She watched water bubble over the rim of Cormac's bucket. "A spring within walls," she said, trying to turn her thoughts from Lucius. "A splendid convenience."

"No spring," said Cormac, scuttling back to the ground. He lifted the full bucket as if it weighed nothing. "This water's diverted from the burn."

"The burn that runs through the valley below the fort?" Rhiannon could not hide her amazement. "Are the Romans so powerful that they command water to run uphill?"

Cormac shrugged. "I ken not how the dogs manage it." He nodded toward the chamber into which he had carried the firewood. "But beyond that door the stream runs through their bathing rooms and latrine."

"They bathe within the house?" Rhiannon couldn't fathom it. She washed in a clear lake under the sky. Did Romans enclose their entire existence with flat walls?

"Aye, in a great pool of steaming water. Even the slaves are permitted-nay, required-to make use of it one day out of thirty."

Rhiannon imagined floating in such a cus.h.i.+on of warmth. Like a babe not yet born, surrounded by the waters of its mother's body. Surely even the G.o.ddesses of Annwyn did not know such luxury.

The door to the baths squeaked open a bit. Cormac caught Rhiannon's wrist and drew her down behind one of the thorn bushes. "Tribune Vetus emerges from his bath at last. Have ye seen him?"

Rhiannon shook her head.

"He pa.s.sed the entire winter with his a.r.s.e submerged." Cormac snorted. "No Roman lady could be finer."

He fell silent as Vetus emerged from the bathing room. A billow of perfumed steam followed him. A dark man, shorter than Lucius, with features far less handsome. He wore the crimson tunic of a Roman soldier, but moved with a graceful gait more suited to a woman. His short black hair, slicked with moisture, clung to his scalp. His chin was as smooth as a babe's. As she watched, the tribune glided to the corner of the courtyard and disappeared up the stairs.

"Hardly a man at all," Cormac said, spitting into a flowerbed. " 'Tis to be wondered why his c.o.c.k doesna shrivel and fall off."

"The First Cohort of Tungrians is a disgrace to its standard." Lucius placed his palms on the scarred desk in his office and leaned forward, fixing Aulus with a scowl designed to bring him to his ghostly knees.

Aulus responded by glancing down and rearranging the folds of his toga.

Lucius's ire rose. He'd spent the better part of the day inspecting his brother's miserable troops, an activity that had left him disinclined to cater to the moods of a dead man. "If you were standing here in the flesh, I would throttle you."

Aulus made a rude gesture.

Lucius swore. "I'm sorry I ever wrote the recommendation that got you this command. I was a fool. I'd thought your years in Egypt had made a man of you." He rounded the desk, advancing on Aulus. "I was mistaken. You failed in your duty to Vindolanda."