Brutus sat in the now cooled water of the tub, washing away the battle and sex sweat from his body.
He regretted what he had done; not so much the bedding of Cornelia—it happened to every girl sooner or later—but the marrying of her in the first place. Artemis, what had come over him? He’d taken everything he’d needed from Pandrasus, and he most certainly could have had the bedding of Pandrasus’ daughter without marrying her…so…why had he done it?
It was as if someone else had spoken those words for him, or had forced them out of his mouth. They had been a deep compulsion, shot through his mouth before he’d been able to swallow them.
Well, no matter. He was well past the age when most men married, and a Dorian princess was not the worst contract he could have made. If she bred him sons—and if he could manage to teach her to keep her mouth shut—she would do well enough.
Brutus moved slightly, suddenly uncomfortable as he remembered how Artemis had all but promised herself to him as a reward should he win through the test within Mesopotama. How would she react to this girl? He fretted over it for a few minutes, then relaxed, smiling at himself. How could Artemis be jealous of Cornelia?
Brutus raised his head and looked to the bed. Cornelia lay curled up tight, her back to him, the slight shaking of her shoulders betraying her weeping. She was not a beautiful girl, but she was comely enough, and had pleasantly rounded limbs that, were they ever to wrap themselves about a man in pleasure, would be as sweet as honey.
He could have done worse in a wife.
Refreshed, Brutus rose, dried himself, and walked slowly back to the bed. His body was very dark in the night; his hair, still unbound, drifted cloud-like about his shoulders and back.
Only the gold banding his arms and legs glistened bright as he moved.
He reached the bed, stood a moment, then sat down and laid a hand on Cornelia’s shoulder.
“You will get used to me,” he said. “I will not be a bad husband to you.”
She stiffened, and Brutus sighed. His hand tightened on her shoulder, then slid round to her breast.
Surprisingly, she rolled over and looked him in the face.
“Are you Asterion?” she said. “Are you he?”
Brutus was momentarily stunned—he could not think of anything further apart from what she might have said to him—then laughed, half in genuine amusement, half to cover his surprise.
“Asterion? I? You flatter me, child, if you think me that malevolent.”
Then his smile died. “Did I hurt you so badly,” he asked, “that you would name me Asterion?” His eyes moved down to the red, angry wounds beneath her breasts, and his fingers traced gently over them. He lifted his hand to her face and wiped the tears from her cheeks.
Then, very slowly, very carefully, he began to make love to her again, and this time she did not fight him, but only turned her head and closed her eyes so she did not have to see him.