Enslaved by Brittany Barefield Page A

Macer mounted his steed in perfect rider’s form with his chin up and posture straight. He glanced in her direction and their eyes met. The auburn-headed boy she’d played with as a child had matured into a stately man, and she was suddenly very sorry to see him leave.
    The wind picked up and the bonfire blazed on for an hour. Flecks of charred matter twirled from the funeral pyre, which shrank to chunks of embers. Dark clouds floated closer, and thunder clapped overhead as if pronouncing the end of a show. Lightning flashed a few short warnings before the storm dispersed the audience.
    Marcella carried the end of her stola with one hand and guided her ailing father to their horse-drawn carriage with the other. His slower pace allowed the rain to drench their hair and clothes. Her blue garment darkened to almost black. Their servant, Scipio, hopped off his upper perch to help them into the covered compartment.
    “Get us home promptly,” she told him.
    “Yes, domina.” The cart shook when he closed the small door and mounted the driver’s seat. They bumped along the cobblestones at a hasty trot, raindrops plopping a crude melody against the roof. Marcella pitied Scipio as she did all slaves who suffered discomfort for the benefit of their masters.
    “Good ceremony,” her father said among gravelly coughs. “Take note.” His wrinkled face was two onyx orbs floating amid sallow skin. What they hoped would be a passing spell developed into a permanent disease that the rainy weather worsened. “My day is rapidly approaching. I can feel it.”
    “Father, do not talk of that.”
    “Not speaking of it will not stop it. You know better than anyone.”
    Marcella leaned forward and patted his knee. “Rest now. We will discuss it tomorrow.”
    He nodded. “I am tired. Inform Pictrix I will take no dinner tonight. I am going to bed early.”
    “You need to eat to keep up your strength.”
    “Do not tell me what I need. I am the dominus of this family.”
    He acted more stubborn than an untamed mule. His comment wouldn’t have annoyed her as much if today had gone as planned. She intended to miss the ceremony by faking a sudden illness, wait for her father to leave, and then enjoy a full day with Canus, her well-endowed inamorato. Every stolen moment, intimate or not, was a blessing. Nevertheless, her father was unmoved, even a bit skeptical, saying that sick was better than dead, and she was healthy enough to attend a funeral. So there she was, soaking wet and sexually deprived.
    They rode on in silence except for her father’s sporadic barks and wheezes. The boorish noises were axes chopping away at her eardrums. The only peace they found was when he slept, and only when Marcella drugged his food with valerian root to induce the deepest slumber.
    The rain slackened as they arrived at their villa. To Marcella, it was a brick and mortar tomb of ghosts from deceased family members, and she looked on it with scorn. She marched through the pillared corridor and into the house, yelling her father’s message to Pictrix.
    “Yes, domina,” the woman replied.
    Maro stood beside her, his chestnut hair mussed and a broken toy in his hand. “Ella, what is wrong?”
    “Father is not well. Go to him. I will be on the terrace,” she called behind her as she topped the stairs. She heard Maro run to their father and talk him toward his bedroom in the farthest wing of the home.
    Marcella twisted a long, braided strand of black hair around her forefinger while pacing across the balcony. The hem of her damp stola swept over the tiles as she moved. Her thin shadow slowly disappeared with the setting autumn sun. The hues of orange to red to pink stretching out beyond the mountains were sections of color-coded minutes in her mind, counting down the time until she would be in her lover’s embrace.
    She pictured her man and his arms, hard as stone and quick with sword. She was never more terrified or more safe than the first time she