The Patrician (12 page)

His prayers had been answered in their usual fashion. He marked them off in his head like items on an inventory. He’d found the barbarian girl. He would force her to reveal the identity of his enemy. He would find that enemy, kill him and resume his life.

A groan escaped him. None of it mattered since the odds of a successful escape from this hell had fallen to zero the minute they’d locked him in irons. Most would succumb to that hopelessness, but he would not. If three months quarrying marble hadn’t killed his determination, neither would this new obstacle. He smiled grimly. But this time, he’d have the girl.

A cramp gripped his stomach and he shivered against a cold sweat that covered his bruised skin.

“Are you all right?”

He cracked an eye open to find the girl crouched beside him again. Her whispered concern only fueled his anger. Hadn’t Delilah sealed Samson’s fate while he’d been incapacitated? “Don’t come any closer.”

She leaned away from him, tilted that pert little chin. “I wish only to help.”

He made a scoffing noise low in his throat. Gods, that hurt. “More like you wish to finish the job and slip a knife between my ribs, straight into my heart.”

Her eyes flashed green fire. “Oh, but you’d have to possess a heart in order for the blade to do any damage.” She pushed to her feet, marched toward the door.

“Come back, you...” A sharp pain gripped his side and spots circled in front of his eyes. She was getting away—again. He pushed away from the wall. “Stop...” The words died in his throat as blackness washed over him.

When he came to, the room had gone dark. The girl was gone and every muscle in his body was stiff. He tried to reposition himself, but was hindered by his shackles. Gods, he hated being chained. The weight of the iron impeded his every movement, every rattle a stark reminder of the freedom he no longer enjoyed. Thanks to one devious barbarian.

A shuffling noise drew his attention to the door. A light from a clay lamp flickered along the wall, illuminating the girl as she returned. Jared watched from beneath half closed lids as she unloaded a tattered basket, setting out a crude wooden bowl and a large round of bread. Grateful that she was back within his reach, he made a mental note to control his emotions. He didn’t want her bolting again like some skittish colt.

She seemed to know he was not asleep. Tearing the loaf in two, she placed one half on top of the gray porridge in the bowl and held it out to him, her lips pressed into a tight line, her gaze focused on something behind his shoulder. She was still in a temper. He almost laughed out loud. Accepting the food, he purposely brushed his fingers across hers, barely catching the vessel as she snatched her hand back.

Enjoying her discomfort, he dipped his fingers into the thick paste. The gruel was palatable though there was no seasoning of any type. No herbs or oil, not even a bit of vegetables to improve the taste, but it didn’t matter to him. To a quarry slave, it was a feast. All Jared cared about was filling his belly. He ate as if he were a wild animal, ignoring the pain of his bruised jaw, scooping up large handfuls and stuffing them in his mouth. Eagerly, he licked away the last bits that clung to his fingers.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, paused at the pity clouding the girl’s eyes.

Was he turning into the very type of animal his owners thought him to be? Disgusted with himself for acting the savage, he picked up his half of the loaf and began to chew at a more civilized pace.

His stomach rumbled loudly, breaking the silence. She glanced at him, her brows drawn in thought. She looked exhausted, her skin pale which made the dark shadows beneath her eyes all the more prominent. In another lifetime, he might have drawn her into his arms, comforted her, protected her, kissed that vulnerability from her mouth.

Buried himself deep inside her
.

Jared tossed the bowl down in disgust. He was in worse shape than he’d first believed.

She was staring at him as though he’d grown a pair of horns and he cringed when his stomach gurgled again. She gave him a long measuring look then tossed her portion of bread into the dirt at his feet.

Jared narrowed his eyes. It was probably tainted in some manner, undercooked or filled with vermin. Never mind that it was the other half of the piece he had just devoured and found to be fresh and still warm from the oven. He wanted nothing from the witch. She could not be trusted. He’d learned that lesson all too well.

A sharp cramp gripped his belly, making its demand for food unmistakable in another loud rumble. He sent her a glower, snatched up the bread. He savored each bite and patently ignored the smug look she sent him. “Why did you do it?”

The corners of his mouth twitched when she jumped at the sudden question, but she did not pretend ignorance. She did, however, edge farther away from him. “I was instructed to give you false information.”

His eyes locked onto hers, his tone deadly calm which belied the spike of rage he felt. “Who instructed you to do so? The innkeeper?”

She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yes, he was the one who told me you were coming, gave me the message directing you to go to the warehouse.”

His brows snapped together. “Where I was to be set upon and enslaved.”

“Oh no,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I believe you were led there to be killed.”

Jared stared at her, slack jawed. “You knew I was to be
murdered
yet told me to go?”

She squared her shoulders, jutted her chin out. “I told you to be careful, that there were dangers.”

Oh, he really wanted to strangle her now. If only he had the strength. “You could have told me the truth!”

Her gaze fluttered to the floor and she shifted uneasily “No, I could not. There was no choice.”

“There is always a choice!” he ground out.

Her eyes went hard, like two pieces of glittering jade. “Slaves have no choice.” She shifted her gaze to his fetters then back to his face. “Have you not learned that by now?”

Jared gripped the chain between his hands. The scars on his body bore the proof of how well he had learned. He narrowed his eyes. “Did
your
subservience earn you that wound on your arm?”

She reached up self-consciously and touched the abrasion. Another thin, white scar circled her upper arm and a prickle of anger surfaced that anyone would dare mar her tender skin. Just as quickly Jared pushed the thought from his head. He had to keep his wits intact and not become distracted by her enchantress ways.

“I’ll allow that your choices were limited.” He held up a hand when she would have argued the point. “Just tell me why the innkeeper wanted me dead.”

She threw him a look that indicated she considered him dim witted. “Coeus did not wish you dead. He wanted the coin that was paid to send you to your death.”

Jared blew out his breath to control the irritation her cryptic answers were stirring within him. She knew more than she was telling. Much more. “Who then?” he ground out between clenched teeth.

She shrugged. “I do not know.”

He growled low in his throat, lunged forward, ignoring the rawness of his wounds, grabbed her by the arm. “Tell me who stole my freedom!”

She tried to twist free, but the food and water had given him some measure of strength back and he held on tight. She finally stopped struggling when it became evident he wasn’t going to release her. Maybe she wasn’t as foolish as he’d thought.

Glaring at him she said, “There was a veiled man, his face hidden by a strange wrapping, dressed in robes of rich cloth. The evil in him. . .” She shifted her gaze into the shadows and shivered.  “. . .was black in his soul. I felt unclean after he came to the
taverna.
” She turned back, her expression solemn. “I know nothing else.”

Jared weighed her words. There was no reason not to believe her.

Except that he’d ended up in chains the last time he’d taken her at her word.

He grunted and released her. His quick movement had stretched his wounds and he could feel warm blood trickling down his back. The room began to spin and he faltered, falling down on one elbow. His moan of pain was lost in the grayness.

As if from a distance, he heard the girl muttering to herself in a language he didn’t understand. An incantation meant to heal or curse? Yahweh or Jupiter help him. He didn’t much care at this point who would answer the prayer.

A cool, wet cloth brushed against his forehead, trailed down the side of his face. It was soothing, but not as soothing as the soft palm that stroked his other cheek. A bowl pressed against his mouth and a dribble of water wet his lips. He drank deeply, too weak to worry about the girl tainting the liquid. He opened his eyes to find her face only inches from his own.

Gone was the unhealthy pallor brought on by Coeus’ prison. Her naturally fair complexion was now tinted golden from the sun. Freckles danced across the bridge of a small nose that tilted up just a bit at the end. Golden tendrils of hair escaped from the braid flipped over her shoulder, framing the heart shape of her face to perfection.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, so soft and pink. The lower lip fuller than the upper, perfect for pouting. Honey, the thought crossed his mind. He was sure they would taste like honey.

“Do you still thirst?

Jared lifted his gaze to hers. He had nearly drowned in those treacherous green eyes of hers before. Angry for nearly falling under her siren’s spell again, he pulled away, knocking the bowl from her hands and soaking the front of her dress in the process. The wet material molded enticingly across her small, rounded breasts. Breasts that would fit to perfection in his hands. The blood rushed to his groin making him as hard as the marble he’d quarried.
At least part of you still lives.

Jared snarled at the voice in his head. “Take your witch’s spells and be gone,” he ordered, twisting away.

She pulled away, a flicker of hurt shadowing her eyes before being replaced with that bright gleam of temper. “I would like nothing better. But I was ordered to care for you. To make sure you did not die.” She pinned him with a hard glare. “I have no choice.” 

He watched her storm around the room, collecting the fallen baskets, ignoring him and muttering more heathen nonsense under her breath. She had an incredible amount of arrogance for a slave.

A dangerous amount.

Who better than he would understand just how dangerous? Look at the condition he was in, harsher for his refusal to bow to those claiming him as property.

Finished with the collecting and arranging of the items, the girl dropped to the floor just inside the doorway, drew her knees up to her chin, stared outside and promptly ignored Jared.

For a long while the only noise interrupting the quiet room came from slaves in the courtyard hurrying about their duties. Jared contemplated the rigid line of the seer’s back. She was acting like a spoiled brat or worse like a scorned woman, all temper and huff. He couldn’t even use the conciliatory tools useful to any man—soothing words and pretty gifts were beyond his reach or his inclinations. But the fact remained that she was the key to finding his betrayer so concessions must be made. Shifting back to a sitting position, his teeth gritted against both the pain and the rattle of the chains he asked, “What is your name?”

Her head tilted in his direction, but she refused to look at him. “Why do you care about my name? Tomorrow you will be sent to work in the fields. We will never speak again.”

A grim smile curved his lips. Oh, they would speak again, and at great length. “Still, I would know your name. What did your family call you?”

Tension tightened her shoulders as she considered his question. At last she answered. “I am Bryna.”

“Strange name,” he muttered.

“It is
my
name,” She shot him a challenging look. “The Romans have not taken that from me.”

He couldn’t resist a jab at her pride. “The custom of Roman masters is to give their slaves a Latin name. A favorite goddess or mythical creature.”

She blew out her breath. “Having a Roman name would be the same as a curse.”

He pressed his lips together. That was true enough. Was he not living proof? His Roman name had never done anything but bring him grief. It had not even saved him from slavery.

She cast him a furtive glance. “What
god
did they name you after?”

He didn’t miss the sarcasm in her question but chose to ignore it. His head was beginning to throb again, exhaustion seeping into the marrow of his bones. Tomorrow he would begin another day in slavery—and a new plan to gain his freedom.

The glow from the lamp dimmed as the meager supply of oil was consumed. In another moment, it went out, casting the room into complete darkness.

“Will you not answer the question?” she persisted.

He closed his eyes. “I will, witch. My name is Jared. Jared ben Gideon
.
Son of Gideon.”
Son of a Roman.
“A name I promise you will never forget.”

L
ike a mongrel fighting to hold onto a choice bone, Bryna resisted the tug to awaken. It was pleasant in this dream world, where the scent of dew covered grass mingled with the salt sting of cold air swirling in from the sea. She was home.

Standing on the sharp edge of the cliffs near the ring fort where her kinsmen lived, she allowed the gusting wind to lift her unbound hair. A prickle of unease scratched at her demanding attention but she ignored it, tossed her head and relished the world around her, raised her arms to welcome the gale.

The tempest gave her solace, provided an outlet for the torrent of emotions that churned within her—anger, hurt, anxiety. Over her shoulder she could make out faint outlines of her clansmen moving about their daily tasks within the ring fort. She would swallow her pride, find Bran and coax him out of his brooding, tell him it wasn’t important that he believe her visions. She would never speak of them again. It wouldn’t be difficult to bury the hurt so long as things were back to normal with the brother she loved.