Slave Princess Read online

  ‘The Lady Helena,’ said Valens, ‘shares all my opinions. Don’t you, my dear?’

  Helena Coronis was pushing the food about on her plate, clearly struggling with an answer. But Tullus, who reclined on the other side of Clodia, took the situation into his own hands by asking her, in a tone that demanded her immediate attention, whether the eels were from the local river and if the mulberry sauce was homegrown, too. ‘If so, my lady,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘I think you may have to write a recipe book one of these days. These are the best eels I’ve eaten in years. I think I might just injure myself, to prolong our stay.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord Tullus,’ she said, returning a grateful smile. ‘Yes, all our fish is local and the fruit, too. Our cooks are trained to prepare for special needs. Some of our patients suffer from having eaten the wrong kind of food.’

  The dangerous moment had passed, yet there was not one of the guests who had missed the tension between host, hostess and daughter, and not one guest who failed to sympathise with the Lady Helena’s dilemma.

  Brighid’s fears that the talk would all be of waterworks were not borne out, for Quintus, Tullus and Lucan made a concerted effort to speak of their hostess’s food management, her clients, her skilled practitioners working there, and her opinions of the large bath complex at Aquae Sulis. After his encounters with the knotty problem of Nonius, and the gladiatrix, Valens appeared to be relieved to make only brief contributions, although his frequent and prolonged observations of Brighid made her wish for the meal to end.

  Not unaware of the scrutiny, Quintus made his ownership unambiguous by reaching a long arm over her to offer morsels from his plate, a poppy-seed fritter dipped in honey, a piece of roast hare—which she took, but did not eat—a lamb sweetbread to eat with her salad. Yet more than once, during that splendid feast, Brighid felt the warning danger and the inexplicable dread clouding her enjoyment of being seen as the Tribune’s woman, and, because Valens was on the next couch to hers, it was virtually impossible for her to touch Quintus with her foot without it being noticed. The warmth of him at her back, however, reminded her that this was to be her last meal as a virgin, and for some time at least, the succulent dishes might as well have been hay.

  As she had foreseen, the men stayed to talk, but the chance she had hoped for to speak again with her hostess did not materialise when Clodia was escorted away by her mother with what seemed like an exaggerated concern for her safety, and Brighid had only Florian for company as far as their suite of rooms. Rejecting his offer to act as lady’s maid and, in the process, conveying something of her sense of dislocation, she had not the heart to refuse when he suggested that a back massage might be just what she needed after their eventful day. It might also, she thought, be what she needed to prepare her for the night ahead, provided the Tribune’s wine consumption did not send him straight to sleep.

  It was, however, the other way round, for Brighid soon fell asleep under Florian’s gentle hands before he’d finished, so that when Quintus entered, he was greeted by the sight of her smooth undulating back gleaming like silk in the low lamplight, her loose hair blanketing her face, her gold ornaments piled to one side of the small table where Florian had lovingly arranged them. Florian himself was perched on the edge of the couch with his back to her, arms folded patiently. He pushed himself upright with a last look at the sleeping Brighid and a grin for his master. ‘Over to you, sir,’ he whispered on his way to the door.

  Playfully, Quintus aimed a swipe at his slave’s curly head. ‘Imp,’ he whispered. ‘By the way, where’s the lad?’

  ‘Safe, sir. With me.’

  Quintus nodded. ‘Early start tomorrow. I’m to be treated.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Florian’s dark eyes returned to the couch, sparkling with laughter. ‘Indeed you are. Goodnight.’

  He stood for some moments looking down at her, denuded of all ornament except the glorious mass of her hair, a few fine threads of it stirred gently by her breath, a frayed web of copper filaments lighter then the luxurious lashes that swept her cheeks. He had noticed the way Valens’s eyes had gobbled her up and knew by the way he’d looked at his stepdaughter that a woman would not be safe from him for long, if he could find a way. Perhaps that was at the root of the problem with his beautiful but older wife.

  The unusual perception of protectiveness that had been growing inside him over the last few days and nights, mostly ignored, now began to make its presence felt again as his senses feasted upon her, the warm scent of Florian’s perfumed oil, the faint sound of her breath, the silken skin and soft shadows that delved into the cleft of her buttocks. She was magnificent. She was his to protect against harm, theft and whatever it was she had been warned of in her subconscious. Fate had worked her magic, turning the Princess away from the man she had hoped to find towards himself. He had felt it during the meal, her need to be seen as his woman, not for pretence, but for real. Their fingers had touched, and she had trembled, giving off waves of desire and disturbance like minor earth tremors. Warnings of his intentions had made her sharp and edgy, as if she was about to face a challenge, and he knew that conflicts still remained concerning his reason for taking her last precious gift. She had no choice but to recognise his rights as her owner, although this was not the way to take a Princess’s most prized possession unless he was prepared to offer her something as valuable in return. His hand reached out to touch the soft bed of her hair, wondering if she would regard his protection as a fair exchange, yet suspecting that a woman of her calibre would demand more. Strangely, the idea did not fill him with alarm, as it might have done weeks ago.

  ‘Roman,’ she whispered, groping for his hand.

  ‘Yes, barbarian. It’s me. Are you asleep?’

  ‘No. Do you want me to bandage your knee?’

  ‘I shall do better if it’s unbandaged, I think.’

  Pushing her hair away, she smiled sleepily and rolled over to rest on one elbow, presenting him with a different view of her naked body while looking him up and down to remind herself of his extraordinary good looks. He wore a loose white linen tunic with rolled-up sleeves under a toga of deep forest green with a wide blue, purple and gold border in the Greek key pattern scrunched into the folds. She lifted an arm to him, reaching for his face, and he bent to her, hooking her arm about his neck as he scooped her up to nestle close like a child. Her hair fell over his arm, her body still half-clinging to sleep.

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you, Princess, but I fear I must.’

  ‘Because of … of him?’

  ‘That was the reason, originally. Now it’s only half the story.’

  ‘Oh? What’s changed?’

  ‘I think I have. I want you for myself. It’s true that I don’t want to risk him still being interested in you, but that’s not the main reason any more. I can’t spend another night with you in my arms without making you mine.’

  ‘You’ve been too long without a woman? Is that it?’

  ‘No, that’s not it either. It’s you, exotic creature. It’s you.’

  If Brighid felt that odd explanation to fall short of the satisfactory, she said no more on the tricky subject just then, because she was where she expected and wanted to be, relaxed and too sleepy to wrangle about motives. His profile was chiselled by the light from the oil lamp, his hair raked back and slipping into ridges over his ears, his beautiful wide mouth set and determined, unsmiling, as if a decision had been reached at last. She felt his ruthlessness and was excited by it, absolved from further dissent, all responsibility lifted by the strength of his arms.

  She had seen him naked before, but soon he was warm and peach-coloured in the soft light, his great shoulders wide above her, his arms like buttresses gathering her into his embrace. His deeply modelled chest pushed her gently into the feather mattress, and against her breasts she felt his heart beating in answer to her own. She offered him her lips, holding his head between her hands with her fingers deep in his hair, quivering with delight at his
overwhelming closeness after the interminable mealtime when his proximity had almost driven her crazy. She would give him what he desired, and she would accept the consequences, whatever they were, for this was an experience no right-minded woman would relinquish, even a princess as proud as she. Now, her father’s fury would never reach her.

  Making love to her as if for the first time, as if that chastening episode at the bath had never happened, he explored her lovely body like a master with his pupil, awakening new responses in her that caused her to cry out with too much sensation and to writhe in ecstasy under his hands, tongue and lips. Vaguely, she recalled the fears of previous times when she’d had to call a halt to his loving, leaving him wanting more, and her wondering what more there was. But he knew her body better than she did, having already sampled the latent passion, the generosity of her giving, the deep well of her desire. He knew how slowly to stroke and tease, how much to ignore the grasp on his wrist, what words to subdue the fierceness that mingled with the ritual protests of a maiden, protests meant to test him, to be overcome with kisses that silenced and held her, ready for the next audacious caress.

  No longer fearful, she saw no reason to make it too easy for him. With her pride still intact, she would make him employ every device before she would grant him access after so many days of wanting her, and she would leave him in no doubt that taking the maidenhead of a Brigantain princess was a rare privilege. That was the plan. But Quintus was experienced, overcoming her reservations and delaying tactics time after time with tender force, taking advantage of each weakness, gentling her with skilful fingers in places not even she had discovered, which now made her gasp and moan and pant his name in breathless whimpers.

  He lifted his head from her breast, pulling at the proud nipple with his lips, transferring his attention to her mouth, whispering, ‘Trust me, my beauty. This will be uncomfortable. A short pain. I’ll try to be quick. Hold on. That’s good … brave woman … there … shh … there.’

  As he spoke, the venturesome hand broke through the sensitive barrier to cause a spasm of pain that he soothed with rhythmic strokes and soft words of encouragement and then with kisses upon her trembling mouth. ‘Shall I go on?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘I’m all right. Go on, Quintus. It’s nothing.’

  With his thumb, he brushed a glistening drop of moisture from her eye. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll be careful. Lift your legs … wrap them round me, if you like.’

  Obediently, she did as he suggested, delighting in the warm weight of him, the strange intrusion of his body that entered her where his fingers had been a moment before, pushing, waiting, pushing again, past the soreness, filling her completely. She heard his stifled sigh, felt his rapturous shudder and knew that this was what he had wanted from her since their first stormy meeting when there had been only a grain of common ground between them.

  She felt him wait for the emotion to pass, for his kiss to take her mind on to another plane, existing only through heightened sensations with no room for thoughts. She was not aware of exactly when he began to move inside her, nor did she mind the initial discomfort beneath the slow smooth strokes that had the power to rock her upon the mattress. All she knew was that these were sensations beyond her imaginings—and she had tried to imagine them—not only being entered in so tender a place, but being part of a man’s body, the sole object of his attention, beloved, desired, seduced and mastered by the one man who mattered to her, the only one she had ever wanted to receive her most treasured gift. Yes, she had made it difficult for him, in her own pernickety, truculent way. It was a matter of principle to her that he should see her pride, though she would not know until some time later how much he had enjoyed her little show of vanity, her pretence of unwillingness.

  But now she was in an undreamed-of place where he had set the tempo, which he knew well how to do, and although his natural urge was to give in to a barely controlled energy, he knew that this first experience must meet her needs more than his. So he was surprised and elated when his careful preparation generated a passion he had not expected so soon, a wild abandon, a heat of very unmaidenly ardour that urged him towards a climax he had tried desperately to hold back for her sake. Moaning with desire, she dug her fingers into his waist, her head tossing in a whirl of her hair, green eyes heavy with blazing fire. ‘Go on, Quintus. More … more … I want all of you … faster … don’t slow down … don’t spare me … I’m not a child.’

  ‘Are you sure I’m not hurting?’

  ‘Yes … no … it doesn’t matter.’ Her fingernails dug in again.

  He needed no more persuading, for this gift was more than he could have hoped for. Unleashing his restraint, he plunged into the glorious coupling, feeling her body respond like a wild horse in a joining of wills heading for the same distant goal. Incredibly, he heard her wail as he quickened, spurring him on to let go of every reservation, of every thought but release, to finish with her in a mind-dizzying turmoil that shook them both to the core. Together.

  They reeled in each other’s embrace, half-laughing, half-crying in disbelief, in Brighid’s case because it was unbelievable that her body should have gone off with him so wantonly, beyond her mind’s influence.

  For Quintus, there was something even more unusual for him to recognise, that made him hold her close in his arms after drying her down, gathering her hair and smoothing his hand where he had used her so ungently. Beyond words, when thoughts began to return, he found a place in his mind that had lain dormant until now where a flame had started to burn more brightly, a place he could not name, for it was more than comfort, or desire, or lust, more than plain satisfaction or pride in achievement. Or gratitude.

  Lovingly, his lips touched her brow. ‘Are you all right, beautiful woman?’ he said.

  But she was already asleep.

  He, however, lay awake for some time, wondering what exactly was happening to him to cause this most unusual ache in his breast, the sweetest ache he had ever experienced.

  Chapter Ten

  There might have been time next morning for Quintus to discover more about Brighid’s frame of mind if Florian had not come quite so early to prepare his master for the day ahead. Having just taken her into his arms to wheedle something complimentary out of her, Quintus was not best pleased when Florian’s quick tap on the door was followed by a flurry of activity that clearly signalled some kind of crisis. Clothes baskets were dragged open and delved into, bowls were sloshed with water, windows noisily unlatched. Florian was obviously not himself.

  ‘What in the name of Zeus is the matter with you?’ Quintus roared, dropping his embracing arms. ‘Have you lost your manners? Did I say come in?’

  Petulantly, his bottom lip quivering with distress, Florian looked over his shoulder first at Quintus and then, with resentment, at Brighid. ‘He’s gone!’ he said. ‘I knew he would, eventually. I should never have—’

  Quintus slid off the bed. ‘Stop!” he commanded. ‘That’s enough snivelling. Simmer down, lad, and tell me what you’re talking about. Who’s gone?’

  Florian brushed away a tear with the towel he was folding. ‘Math,’ he said. ‘He’s not been in all night … well … not with me, anyway. I expect it’s that young—’

  ‘No, Florian,’ Brighid said. ‘He would not. I know he wouldn’t. He’ll have gone back to Aquae Sulis for something.’

  ‘Not without telling me, he wouldn’t,’ said Quintus, taking the towel. ‘Go and get those two lads in here. They can start searching while I put some clothes on. Go on! Hurry up!’ He went to the bowl and began to douse himself.

  Brighid sat on the bed, her mood of retrospection replaced by sisterly concern. ‘You think something has happened to him?’ she said.

  ‘No, of course not. Florian is being hysterical, that’s all. This is the first relationship he’s had, so he’s still unsure. There’ll be a perfectly simple explanation for it.’ With water pouring over his head, the words that were meant to sound comforting
lost something of their intended effect.

  ‘He might have gone to Aquae Sulis,’ she insisted.

  ‘Mmm. We’ll soon find out. Put some clothes on, lass,’ he said, rubbing his hair, ‘before those lads get here. He should have stayed indoors as I told him to.’

  ‘He should have gone back home as I told him to,’ she muttered, wishing she had said it. This was a disaster. Hardly the way to celebrate their new relationship, now as far from his mind as last year’s summer, just another event for him, like any other. She had slept the whole night long without waking, without a word between them, sharing the same pillow and, for all she knew, the same dreams. She had been ready, just now, to tell him what she had discovered about herself, and about him too. Now, Math must come first.

  Please, beloved Brigantia, keep Math safe. Please.

  They could not be seen to be searching, Quintus told them, because officially her brother was not there. They would have to make up reasons to be wherever they were looking: baths, pools, the garden areas, the granary and malt ovens. Then someone must go to town to ask at the lodgings. He himself would have to keep to his schedule, or questions would be asked. Lucan and Tullus would have to search, too, without arousing suspicion. And when he was found, the lad would be thrashed and sent off, though this threat was not made in Florian’s presence.

  ‘And you, Princess,’ he said, ‘must go nowhere alone. Now, order some breakfast for us, if you will.’ When she frowned, he took her face tenderly between his hands, touching her lips with his. ‘Don’t worry, lass. He’ll not have gone far. We’ll find him. But we have to eat, and we have to hide the fact that there’s a problem.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, taking his wrists. ‘But I’m afraid for him.’