Healer of Carthage (33 page)

Ruth stepped up behind Lisbeth and put her hands on her shoulders, whispering, “May I stand in for your mother?”

Lisbeth looked around for Laurentius, hoping he’d not felt as deserted as she. He watched from the shadows, his thumb in his mouth. She could do this for her brother. She could do this for her mother. “She’d be pleased.”

Ruth wrapped her arms around Lisbeth’s waist and began shouting feigned words of trying to save her. The crowd pressed
Cyprian toward her, urging him to take what was now lawfully his with a phony show of outrage.

In a pretend show of force that suited this situation perfectly, Cyprian ripped Lisbeth free of Ruth’s embrace. Roars of approval drowned Ruth’s fake protest. Three young torchbearers led them from the garden, shouting off-color jokes.

Cyprian’s hand swallowed hers. “This could hurt.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” This wasn’t a real marriage. This was a business arrangement, and the jury was still out on whether their plan was going to work. Suddenly a walnut struck Lisbeth’s shoulder. “Ouch. What the—?”

“Symbols of fertility.” Cyprian did his best to shield her with his body while nuts pounded the cocoon created by the excess folds of his toga. “I told you this marriage would be painful.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Hurled walnuts and curious stares accompanied their race through the villa’s marbled halls. Growing anticipation thrummed in Lisbeth’s veins.

By the time they arrived at Cyprian’s master quarters, most of the breathless guests were thankfully empty-handed. They paused outside the bedroom door. Cyprian attempted to thank everyone for coming and send them on their way.

“Kiss her!” Laurentius shouted. And the crowd quickly joined his chant. “Kiss her. Kiss her.”

Cyprian held up a hand to silence them. “But what if she bites?” He turned to her, his eyes twinkling mischief in the torchlight.

“Kiss her anyway,” Laurentius said. And everyone started the chants again.

“They won’t go until I do.” Before she could grant permission, Cyprian’s lips landed lightly upon hers. A delicious taste of honeyed wine and salty eel registered in her rapidly clearing brain.

He pulled free, leaving Lisbeth gasping for air. Loving Cyprian Thascius was a lost cause. But she couldn’t make herself stop.

A tinge of pink in his cheeks, he bowed to the whistles and shouts. “Now, my friends, you must leave me to fulfill my duties.” His muscled arms scooped her up, and he kicked the door open. Howling cheers erupted. Holding her tightly against his chest, he stepped inside and slammed the door shut with his foot.

Arms snaked around his neck, Lisbeth was aware of the fruity remains of well-aged wine on his breath and the six o’clock shadow on his square jaw. Breathing hard, he stood there, holding her in his arms. Neither of them daring to look into the other’s eyes. Neither of them speaking. Neither of them willing to make the first move. Frozen in time as they listened to the receding laughter of the crowd.

Warning sirens, blaring like ambulances in the distance, sounded in her head. Lisbeth released her hold on his neck and braced for whatever was to come next. Not sure what to do with her arms, she glanced around the candlelit room, searching for an escape. The massive bed brought her quest to a screeching halt. Someone had turned the master’s room into a honeymoon suite. A decanter of wine chilled in a crock of snow was placed on the nightstand. Roman symbols of fertility—flowers, greenery, and fruit—were strewn everywhere. She felt her skin grow hot as the coals glowing in the brass brazier. Ruth had taken this wedding thing way too far.

“Well, I think we survived the wedding feast fiasco.” Cyprian set her feet upon the thick carpet warmed by the charcoal fire, but he kept a hand on her arm.

“Now, if we can only survive the marriage until after the election.” Lisbeth’s knees were not cooperating.

He moved to steady her. “Depends on how much Aspasius knows.”

Lisbeth held her breath, her eyes fastened upon his. “Either way,” she stammered. “I guess it will be the survival of the fittest.”

He considered her comment for a moment, exploring her face as if seeing it clearly for the first time but revealing nothing of what he thought. His eyes slowly lowered, and she could feel his gaze scanning the entirety of her body with the intensity of an MRI machine. “You’re a strange one, Lisbeth of Dallas.” He reached for the knot at her waist, his bold, possessive touch causing an involuntary shudder. Dropping to his knees, he began meticulously unraveling the twisted cord. As he concentrated on his task, Lisbeth turned over several options. She could run. Kick him where it hurt. Or believe that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

She focused on the golden waves of his hair. They’d both had too much to drink. He should be stopped before boundaries were crossed, before this wedding night farce went too far. Remind him again that theirs was a marriage of convenience. A ruse to get him elected and her family freed from the clutches of the Roman proconsul. A historical necessity.

Lisbeth raised her hand to push him off, but instead her fingers plunged into the soft, thick strands of his golden hair, a force that took him by surprise and tilted his head toward her. She held him in her grasp, the sharp lines of his face softened by the muted light. Heart beating against her heaving breasts, she was sure of what she wanted to do next. Sure, but not sure.

A PLEASED
smiled curled Cyprian’s lips, and he felt the knot give way. Lisbeth’s arms fell limp at her sides. He held up the freed belt. “Feel better?”

Folds of fabric slid from her shoulders and fell at her feet, exposing the tight-fitting chemise tunic. She nodded. Her breath short, restricted spurts despite her expanding rib cage.

He rose slowly and tossed the cord upon the bed. The back of his hand skimmed her cheek and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. His index finger followed the curve of her lips and drifted down her neck, tracing the fine bones of her neck where he felt the lump of excited anticipation rising in her throat.

His finger hooked the leather string hanging from her neck. “What’s this?”

“The ring my father gave my mother.”

“And did your father love your mother?”

“Yes.”

He said nothing, but his breathing rate slowed. His fist opened with the natural insistence of a blooming rose and slid across her shoulder.

Her breath caught, but she did not take her eyes off his. He could feel alarm pulsing beneath her thin gown. He didn’t want to frighten her, but he could not stop touching her. With both hands, he encircled her waist, a power that rendered her defenseless against his six-foot-two frame.

Holding her at arm’s length, he assessed her. “I don’t like your hair.”

Lisbeth released an embarrassed snort. “Me either.”

“May I?” He raised his hands and removed the wreath of flowers. His body loomed close. The heady scent of Arabian nard propelled his senses into high alert. The veil fell to the floor, and they both chuckled with nervous relief. “Hold still.” One by one he removed the pins that had secured the hideous styling cone.

“Ah.” Lisbeth shook her mane free. “Ruth’s hairdo gave me such a headache.”

His fingers toyed with the curly ends spilling over her bare shoulders. He reached up with both hands and wove his fingers into the tangled auburn mess. His thumbs massaged her temples,
and he watched her tension ease away. His eyes sought hers and locked. He longed to see deep inside her soul.

His hands cupped her face, and her eyes flew open. He smiled and gently lifted her chin. His mouth hovered over hers. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“Uh, I appreciate that, but this isn’t a real marriage, remember? We had an agreement.”

He closed the space between them, slipped his arms around her waist, and covered her mouth with the tender brush of his.

A DEFIBRILLATING
jolt shot through Lisbeth. He gathered her body against his, while his lips explored hers with a thirsty passion. Deep. Long. Fully. She’d been kissed before by men who claimed they loved her, but even Craig had never caused such an intense warmth to spread through her limbs or press the traces of doubt from her thoughts. Her arms slowly twined around his neck. Everything else fell away: Papa. Tumbling through the portal. Mama. Laurentius. Measles. Gone. Nothing but the sound of the sea, a thrashing against the rocks. She kissed him back hungrily, filling her own emptiness.

Suddenly he broke free and pushed away. Cold distance, similar to the chilling shock of being ripped out of a warm bed on a winter morning, hung between them.

“I can’t do this.” Breathing like he’d just finished a marathon, he turned and snatched the exquisite coverlet from the bed. Fruit and flowers bounced across the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Lisbeth tried to move toward him, to climb back into those arms of safety, but the yards of loosened fabric held her prisoner. “What did I do?”

A flick of Cyprian’s wrist billowed the coverlet and sent it floating to the carpet. “Sleep.” He dropped to the crude pallet,
crossed his arms over his head to create a pillow, and made himself comfortable.

“Sleep? You get me all hot, and now you want me to sleep?”

“You agreed to be mine, to allow me to do as I please with you, remember?” He nodded toward the bed, indicating she should retire alone. “Tomorrow the real games begin.”

The kiss had shattered the facade. She’d seen desire in his eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t want me.”

“Well rested and at your best is what I want.”

“Okay, we can do that after . . . I thought you—”

“Enough!” He raised himself up on one elbow, a look on his face that she could only interpret as sadness. “God may ask many things of me, Lisbeth of Dallas. But taking advantage of you is something I could never do.” And he blew out the candle.

43

L
ISBETH TOSSED AND TURNED
in the gilded bed, the emptiness of another rejection rattling inside. Cyprian’s gentle snore wafted from his pallet. How could he sleep?

She eased from the bed and slipped out to the balcony, hoping the enormity of the night would swallow up this hollow, tingling sensation. Who was this God who owned Cyprian’s heart? This God who compelled people to think of others before thinking of themselves?

After pacing for a couple of hours and feeling no change, she padded back into the room. Moonlight framed Cyprian’s face and bare chest. She bent and touched his hair, but he just mumbled and turned his back to her. She left him on the floor and fell upon the downy tick. Pillow plopped over her head, she eventually drifted into a fitful sleep.

“My lady.” Ruth poked Lisbeth’s shoulder. “I hate to bother you before your wedding breakfast, but—”

Lisbeth lifted the pillow. Light flooded the room. Someone had tucked the coverlet around her, wrapping her in a cocoon as if they expected her to awaken transformed. “What time is it?”

“Nearly noon.” Without a single question as to why she alone occupied the marriage bed, Ruth freed Lisbeth from the blanket and helped her rise to a sitting position. “I need your assistance.”

Head pounding, Lisbeth rubbed her eyes and tried to concentrate on something other than the humiliating fiasco of her wedding night. “What?” The doors leading to the balcony were open. Cyprian’s pallet was empty.

“A father and two children arrived this morning.”

Now that she was the wife of a wealthy politician, did Ruth expect her to care about the comings and goings of her husband’s clientele? “What are you talking about?”

“They’re sick.” Ruth offered her a mug of something steamy. “And while they were preparing to come, the mother went into labor.”

“Labor?” She’d awoken a different woman, in different circumstances, and yet something familiar suddenly kicked in. “Are they coughing?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t touch them or anything they brought with them, Ruth.” Lisbeth threw back the covers. “Keep Laurentius in his room.” She jumped from the bed and downed a quick sip of hot tea.

“The man hated to leave his laboring wife, but she couldn’t walk . . . so.” Ruth held out the tunic of a slave. “Cyprian said you could go with him to get her, but no one must know.”

“Really? My husband’s going to move a laboring woman? Obviously he’s never had a baby.” Neither had she, and she felt even less prepared to deliver one on her own; even the thought of it made her palms sweat. “I’m going alone.”

“No. It’s too dangerous.”

“Everything is risky business around here.”

“You husband waits for you in the library.”

“He can’t go.” Lisbeth wiggled into the scratchy, brown sack dress. “If he thinks he can get away from me by catching measles and dying, he’s got another thing coming.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No. Neither one of you should risk exposure.”

“What about the father and his children? I can’t turn them away.”

Lisbeth gathered her hair into a ponytail. “Let’s put them in my old room. Once I deliver the baby, I’ll decide what to do with the whole family.” She secured her red mane with the pins Cyprian had scattered across the floor. That his touch still seared her cheek scared her more than the thought of delivering a baby alone. “In the meantime, gather supplies and stack them outside my bedroom door.” She rattled off the things needed for making vaporizers, mustard poultices, and hydrating solutions. “Is there any snow left from last night?”

Ruth shook her head.

“Then send for more. It will help bring down their fevers, but don’t touch them. I’ll give them sponge baths when I get back.” Lisbeth noticed a sheepish look on Ruth’s face. “Have you touched them?”

Ruth nodded. “They needed help.”

“Your big heart will be the death of you.” Lisbeth pointed to the basin. “Wash your hands with soap; then wash them again with the hottest water you can stand.” A search for shoes yielded those horrible red sandals, another reminder of last night’s catastrophe. “These will give me away.” She threw them on the bed. “I’ll stop by my room for another pair, and while I’m there, I’ll get my patients settled.” She poured water in the basin and splashed her face. “No matter how sick they seem, promise me you’ll stay away from them until I get back.”