Celtic Fire by Joy Nash Page B

traverse the edge of the courtyard.
    Her heart tripped a beat at the sight of Lucius in full uniform. Silver armor gleamed over a tunic the color of Roman wine. A sword and dagger hung at his hip and a short crimson cloak, fastened with a gold pin, fell over his shoulders. His crested helmet was nestled under one arm. His shining dark hair curled at his nape and at the edges of his strong, clean-shaven jaw. His bearing was powerful, but not overbearing as Edmyg’s was. He moved with the grace of a sleek, exotic cat akin to the one portrayed in stone on Rhiannon’s chamber floor.
    Without her conscious assent, Rhiannon’s gaze drifted lower, taking in Lucius’s bare thighs and calves and the dark sprinkling of hair on his bronzed skin. Long muscles flexed as he walked, leaving her throat dry. Roman men didn’t encase their legs in
braccas
as her kinsmen did. They preferred, it seemed, to leave their lower limbs bare at all times.
    No doubt Roman women were glad of it.
    Beside her, Marcus was barely breathing. “What will you do when the healer enters the library and discovers your absence?” she whispered.
    “He won’t, if Fortuna smiles on me. Magister Demetrius is bound for the fort hospital.”
    Lucius and Demetrius halted in the foyer, before a wide portal that most likely was the domicile’s main entrance. At Lucius’s command, a slave stepped from an alcove and lifted the latch.
    The door swung open. Demetrius passed under the lintel into the patch of daylight beyond. Lucius made as if to follow, then stopped. He looked to the right, then the left, then pivoted in a full circle as if looking for someone. Rhiannon’s brow furrowed. He’d performed the same odd movements in her room the day before.
    A scowl appeared on Lucius’s brow. “Go on ahead, Demetrius. I will follow shortly.”
    The door closed. Lucius wheeled about and walked to the edge of the courtyard, his attention fixed unerringly on the shrub behind which Rhiannon and Marcus crouched.
    “By Pollux,” Marcus muttered.
    The lad’s attempt at manly disgruntlement had Rhiannon stifling a laugh. Her amusement rapidly diminished as Lucius closed the distance between them and circled the shrub. His gaze flicked briefly over her and settled on his son. Marcus jumped to his feet, a blush spreading across his cheeks.
    Rhiannon tried to rise. Dull pain shot through her thigh, accompanied by a rush of lightheadedness. She’d eaten little since her capture, not trusting her churning stomach to retain the rich Roman food. Her body was beginning to feel the effects of her fast.
    She swayed on her feet, putting out one hand to catch Marcus’s shoulder. She missed and would have fallen if Lucius hadn’t stepped forward and caught her. She felt his touch far more keenly than she should have. His grasp was firm yet gentle, gifting her with the unconscious strength that seemed so much a part of him.
    He steered her to a bench at the edge of the fountain. Rhiannon sank onto the smooth stone. She felt his steady scrutiny, but dared not lift her eyes to meet his gaze. If she did, she would see the eyes of his brother as she so often had in her nightmares. So she kept her face averted, staring at the ripples on the surface of the water.
    “How in Hades did you get down the stairs?” he asked her.
    “Slowly.” She dared a quick peek at his face. His frown could have blistered the hide from a pig. No doubt it sent enemies and allies alike into spasms of terror but, curiously, Rhiannon felt no fear.
    “You might have reopened your wound,” he said. “Are you mad?”
    “No. But another hour in that chamber might have made me so.”
    “Ah. You sought the garden.”
    “Yes.” Rhiannon glanced toward Marcus, who was watching the exchange with undisguised interest.
    “You are welcome to it, then. Stay as long as you like,” Lucius said.
    She nodded, keeping perfectly still while his gaze raked over her. Her unruly heart calmed only when he turned his