For a moment Carys stared at him, as if his appearance completely unnerved her. An unsavory thought skulked through his mind. Had she been planning to leave him, yet again?
“Maximus.” She smiled at him and placed a knife on her plate. The cynical section of his brain noted it made an effective weapon.
He strode toward her, banishing his suspicions. Even if Carys had planned to leave, she certainly couldn’t now.
“You look well.” He took her hands and caressed her knuckles with his thumbs. “How do you feel?”
“Much better.” She responded in Latin and glanced at Branwen, as if uneasy by the girl’s presence.
It didn’t make sense. He knew they were acquainted. It was the reason he’d insisted on the girl in the first place. So that Carys would wake to a familiar face.
But she obviously didn’t want Branwen privy to their conversation, and so he reverted to Latin. “I’ve arranged for domestic help. A cook will arrive later to prepare our dinner.”
“I’ve just eaten.” She attempted to free her hands.
“Fruits and bread.” He dismissed her recently eaten meal with a jerk of his head before turning to Branwen, who, by the look on her face, appeared in mortal agony.
“That will be all, Branwen,” he said in Celtic. “You may return in the morning to tend to your mistress.”
Both women tensed as if he’d just uttered something outrageous. But neither said a word as Branwen bobbed her head and scurried from the room.
“Why does she pretend not to know you?” He released Carys and began to remove his armor.
“Perhaps she thinks it unsafe to confide in Romans.”
He grunted. “Then she needs to become more proficient at lying.”
“Branwen believes you intend to dishonor me.”
He linked his arms around her waist and pulled her toward him. The scent of her hair reminded him of summer forests. “Is that what you think?”
She slid her hands over his chest and rested them against his shoulders.
“I think,” she said, as her fingers played a seductive tattoo against his shoulder blades, “if you were going to dishonor me, you would have done so already.”
His lips brushed her forehead. He had an erotic encounter planned for Carys tonight, and it didn’t entail taking her while he was sweaty from the day’s exertions.
“You’re safe from abuse now.”
“I was always safe from abuse before.”
Why did she always throw that in his face? Times had changed. She no longer lived in that world where her status as a noble’s daughter protected her from the base lust of man.
He refused to acknowledge the tug of guilt. If his Legion hadn’t conquered Cambria, then another would have.
“By morn, all will be aware you’re my mistress. Any lack of respect shown to you will be a personal affront to me.”
He’d planned on saying more, but the confusion on her face gave him pause. “Do you understand?” He wasn’t sure she did.
“Yes. But I’m not your mistress, Maximus.”
Did she truly have to disagree with every word he uttered? He sighed heavily and attempted to make her see reason.
“It’s the only way I can protect you.”
She opened her mouth, as if to dispute his words. And then a faint blush stole over her cheeks and her gaze wavered.
Instead of triumph at the knowledge she recognized his words as truth, only bitter-tinged regret coursed through his veins. He wound a lock of her hair through his fingers and gave a gentle tug.
“I can’t turn back time. This is all I can do for you.”
“My people won’t view it as a token of respect.” She traced a finger along the line of his jaw. “They’ll only see that—that I’ve been subjugated by the enemy.”
The word grated his bones, offended his sense of honor. He’d made Carys his official mistress today to ensure every Roman knew her worth, accorded her due respect and accepted her position in his life.
He hadn’t considered the feelings of the Celts, since they were of little consequence.
Except they were of consequence. To Carys.
“They’ll soon learn you’re far from subjugated.” Why had she used that word? The more he considered it, the more it irked him. “I doubt you could subjugate yourself to any man, even if your life depended on it.”
“I know that.” She sounded serious, whereas he had spoken half in jest. Then again, she was so proud, perhaps she would rather face death than slavery.
Irrationally the thought pleased him.
“We both know I’m with you because I want to be with you. But as far as Branwen can see, as far as any of my people will see, I’m your prisoner.”
“In that case I’ll arrange for you to be clapped in irons first thing in the morning.”
Instead of smiling, she frowned as if she didn’t think much of his humor. “This is no laughing matter. I didn’t want my people to see this.”
His amusement with their conversation vanished. “Because you’re ashamed to be seen fraternizing with the enemy.”
It was scarcely a revelation. And yet the knowledge scraped through his gut, leaving an odd pain in its wake.
“Ashamed?” Carys’ frown intensified, as if she struggled to comprehend his meaning, and then her face cleared and she sighed. “I should be ashamed of my actions. But I’m not. And.” She hesitated for a brief moment before flicking him a strangely furtive glance. “I know I betray my people every time I come to you, every time I even think of you. But I can’t help it.”
Something, a band of unused muscle perhaps, contracted deep inside his chest, causing a peculiar sense of serenity to seep through his limbs and soothe his brain.
He cradled her jaw. “You’re not betraying your people. In time, Romans and natives will come together as they are in Britannia, as they did in Gallia. It’s the way of the world, Carys.”
Pain shimmered in her unearthly eyes. “It’s the way of the Roman world. While you strip my land of her gold.”
He refused to tell her where they were going. Carys gave up asking and wound a length of linen over her head and across her shoulders.
“There’s no need to cover yourself so.” Maximus sounded irritated, as if he wanted to show her off like a coveted prize.
She hooked a finger into the linen draped across her mouth and pulled it free. “I’ve explained my reasons to you. The least you can do is respect them.”
“It has nothing to do with respect. Sooner or later your people will have to come to terms with your new status. I don’t see why that can’t start now.”
It couldn’t start now because she had no intention of ever letting her people see her with Maximus. The knowledge caused a dull ache deep in her heart but that was something she knew she’d have to learn to live with.
“Not tonight, Maximus.” Her voice was soft. She knew it would take nothing for him to rip the linen from her head, to march her from this dwelling to wherever he wished them to go.
She also knew he never would. Her Roman was strong, proud and honorable and, although she couldn’t explain her conviction, she knew for him to use his physical strength against her would somehow diminish his worth in his own eyes.
His features softened, almost imperceptibly. “Keep your disguise tonight, if it means that much to you.” He tugged the linen across her mouth. “Perhaps it will stop you answering back so readily.”
They walked along the broad main street where earlier that day the markets had flourished. Again she marveled at how swiftly the Romans had constructed such a massive stronghold on her land, a walled town with so many stone buildings she could scarcely believe it.
Gawain was right. They should have stood up to the enemy from the start, not given them time to build this formidable fortification.
But then she would never have met this fascinating, intriguing man by her side.
They stopped outside a large building set back from the road, and Maximus rapped on the door, which was immediately opened.
He ushered her into the dwelling and, despite herself, she couldn’t help admiring the luxurious interior with its polished slab flooring, so different from the home where she had grown up. Did all Romans live in such style?
“Maximus.” A male voice jerked her from her reverie, and she glanced up to see a dark-haired middle-aged man dismiss a slave with a flick of his hand before turning back to them.
“Sir.” Maximus’ fingers tightened around her shoulder, as if he half expected her to flee. Or perhaps he was more concerned she might attack?
She pulled the linen aside and lifted her head, forcing eye contact with this Roman barbarian, and satisfaction stabbed through her as shock rippled over his features.
“My name is Carys of Cymru.” Her Latin was perfect. She’d been taught it from a babe, one of the few requests of her absent father who’d traveled through Gaul as a youth and foresaw the power of articulating the encroaching enemy’s language.
The Legatus’s eyes gleamed with appreciation, and before she realized his intention, he took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Carys of Cymru.” His lips brushed her knuckles before he relinquished his hold. “I welcome you into my home.” He continued to look at her, but spoke to Maximus. “Everything is prepared. You won’t be disturbed.”
Maximus wound his arm around her waist as he led her farther into the house. She didn’t want to admire the Roman architecture, but the galling truth was that this home of the conquering Legatus, a home that, less than a year ago, hadn’t even existed, far surpassed her own now-abandoned dwelling that had been in her family for generations.
They entered a small courtyard where a single building stood, with a slave who opened the door at their approach.
Carys stiffened and fumbled for her linen that draped over her shoulders.
“There’s no need to fear,” Maximus whispered against her ear. “All the slaves are from Rome. Your secret remains safe in this house.”
She heard the edge of mockery in his voice but decided to ignore it. “I trust you’re right.” Because if word escaped that she was a willing guest in the home of the Commander of the Legion, the repercussions would be horrific.
“I’m always right.” His breath tickled her ear as he ushered her through the door.
She stumbled over her feet and stared at the vision, speechless with awe. Her tutor had told her of such luxuries, but secretly she always assumed he exaggerated. But he hadn’t. A room, so large she could scarcely comprehend, spread before her with countless lamps flickering and smooth columns soaring to the ceiling.
And taking up a vast expanse of the multicolored, tiny-tiled floor, was a sunken, water-filled lake.
Maximus eased her farther into the bathhouse and shot her a glance. The look of disbelief on her face was priceless.
“Nothing to say?” He hid his amusement, immensely satisfied his surprise appeared to enthrall her.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Her voice was hushed, as if she spoke in the presence of the gods.
He cast a cursory glance at the bath, and tried to see it through her eyes. “You should see the public baths in Rome. Now, they are truly magnificent.”
“This is magnificent.” She shot him a scandalized look. “And it grieves me greatly to admit that.”
He grinned and unwound the linen from her shoulders before handing it to one of the attending female slaves. “This is but a small private bath. Barely large enough to satisfy the Legatus’s family.” Its construction had been a priority for the comfort of the Commander’s wife and daughters, but its minuscule scale and lack of marble was, he knew, an irritant to the patrician ladies. “But more than adequate for our needs tonight.”
She angled her head and appeared to be studying the mosaics adorning the floor. “It’s very pretty.” She sounded as if the confession pained her.
He gripped her shoulders and pulled her toward him. “Don’t analyze it, Carys. Just enjoy it. Tonight, this is for us.”
“Oh.” She raised her eyebrows in mock astonishment. “Do you mean to ravish me, Roman?”
“Only if you behave yourself.”
“Alas. I never behave myself. I thought you knew that by now.”
He laughed. Much as he enjoyed fucking Carys, he enjoyed her conversation almost as well.
Except when she contradicted him. Naturally.
He untied her bodice, never breaking eye contact. Gods, her eyes bewitched him. They would bewitch any man.
But no man would dare touch her. Not now.
Without turning from her, he spoke to the slaves. “Leave us.” He had no need of slaves tonight. Not when he wanted to administer to Carys’ every need himself.