It was the cold ferocity of the Gaul that stunned Morwyn into silence. She was used to violence, men fought over the most trivial of slights. It wasn’t his reaction to the slur aimed his way that shocked her.
If he’d lost his temper, continued with his attack on the bleeding Briton, she could have understood his initial, bone-crunching punch. But he simply turned toward her, placed his hand between her shoulder blades and propelled her from the room as if nothing had happened.
She let out a shaky breath. His fingers scorched her flesh through her gown, even though his touch was so light as to be nonexistent.
The hand he’d used on the Briton just moments ago.
“Do you attack every man who makes a passing insult on your heritage?” If so, he’d spend most of his time fighting. Maybe he enjoyed it, even if it didn’t show on his face or in his eyes.
“No.” His fingers slid along her spine, causing heated shivers to plague her flesh, before he finally severed contact. “That wasn’t the reason I hit him.”
Gods, what did he mean by that? That he attacked without provocation, without reason? Would he have floored the Briton even if the man had been a mute?
The knowledge should concern her. Such unprovoked flashes of violence could erupt at any moment, without any forewarning. If he broke a stranger’s nose without blinking, he could just as easily snap her neck without a second thought.
Yet, bizarrely, she wasn’t afraid of him. And it made no sense because he was her enemy, she was his captive, and an unfounded certainty that he wouldn’t use his fists on her couldn’t be trusted.
Despite his outward facade of calm, he was unstable. If she wanted to remain alive, she’d do well to remember that.
And yet she’d done nothing but insult him since the moment he’d flung the other Gaul bastard from her. Not once had he even raised his voice, let alone his hand. Not once had she felt her life was threatened or safety endangered.
For a moment her convictions wavered and his words once again hummed in her mind.
That wasn’t the reason I hit him.
But why else would he have attacked? The Briton had said nothing else of import. Done nothing else, save give her a lustful glance.
Possibilities shimmered, outrageous half-formed thoughts, and then the coldly obvious answer slammed through her brain, freezing all other fleeting suppositions.
He’d lied to her. Why hadn’t she instantly reached that conclusion? It was obvious. The Briton had insulted him and the Gaul had retaliated and the only thing she couldn’t understand was why he hadn’t simply admitted it.
An older woman came up to them, shot her a glance she couldn’t fathom. Why should a stranger look at her with sympathy? She straightened her already rigid spine and smothered the scowl that threatened to surface. It was easy to pretend she didn’t mind being the Gaul’s captive during the endless ride as she devised ways of ensnaring his trust. In reality she discovered it clawed her guts to think anyone should imagine she truly inhabited such lowly status.
“This way,” the woman said in accented Latin, and led them in the opposite direction to the latrines, along a stone-floored passage. She paused and opened a plain timber door. “The water will be ready shortly.”
Bren dismissed her with a curt nod and waited until Morwyn entered the room. She glanced around, a disapproving frown on her face, as if she didn’t think much of the plain Roman bed that consisted of a wool-stuffed mattress laid on a support built up from the floor. He’d deliberately ridden past the
mansio
situated in the last town, the inn and administration station that provided for official travelers. With his permit he was entitled to rest there but preferred the Romanized inns run by Britons.
Usually.
Although he doubted Morwyn would have been impressed by the more luxurious surroundings of accommodation constructed by the Emperor’s command.
He kicked the door shut and opened his pack that had been left on the bed. Her embroidered bag lay on top of his spare clothing. He’d briefly inspected its contents back in the forest and been intrigued by the vast array of ingredients, many of which he didn’t recognize. For a trader, she appeared to possess an impressive knowledge of the healing arts.
She leaned against the end of the bed, her arms folded. Although she’d not uttered one word of complaint throughout their long journey, he knew she was exhausted by the tautness of her body, the shadows beneath her eyes. A flicker of guilt tugged deep in his chest at the way he’d not allowed her to clean up earlier. He smothered it. Now that they had stopped for the night she could bathe, tend her injuries and rest.
For a moment visions of them sharing the bed invaded his mind. Tangled sheets, tangled limbs. He continued to hold her accusing gaze, not allowing his thoughts to heat his expression because if she wanted to act on the pull between them, she could come to him.
But he knew her pride was such she would never admit to such an attraction. Tonight was going to kill him.
He dropped her bag on the bed, out of her reach. Frustrated desire may kill him, but he had no intention of allowing this woman free reign to achieve the same end.
She let out an impatient breath, as if she’d been waiting for him to make some remark and had finally given up. “I need to wash.”
He grunted in assent. Her deepening frown told him she didn’t appreciate his response.
“Is there a nearby river?” Her tone was haughty. As if she was used to giving orders, to having her needs accommodated. A trader? In truth?
“Yes.” Of course there was a river nearby. Romans never built anything if they could help it without close proximity to running water, to service their admittedly impressive sanitation and heating requirements.
She bared her teeth in a poor approximation of a smile. “Then will you allow me to visit this river to tend to my needs?” Clearly the request caused her great pain.
Only then did he realize he’d been staring at her, fascinated by the way her dark eyes glittered in the glow from the pottery lamps, at the way her black hair tangled about her face.
His gut tightened at the livid bruises that mottled the left side of her face, marring her otherwise clear, fresh complexion. At least, what he could make out of it beneath the grime and dried blood.
Fucking Trogus. Bren would find a way to dispose of that piece of shit before the time came for him to leave the Roman garrison and join his disposed king. The man had irritated him from the moment he’d arrived from the East, with his complaints about the remoteness of the province, the unreliable weather and the barbarous inhabitants.
She was still waiting for his answer. With more difficulty than was acceptable he tore his gaze from her. “No.”
“No?” Her voice was sharp. She’d abandoned all pretense of humility and he preferred that. It was honest. She’d drive her dagger through his heart if he gave her the slightest chance and he’d be wise not to forget that.
Morwyn was no fragile girl who needed his undivided protection. She was a strong Celtic woman. But he couldn’t dislodge the uncomfortable certainty she still needed his protection.
“No?”
she said again, limping around the end of the bed and coming to stand directly by his side. He gritted his teeth and refused to give her the satisfaction of looking at her. Although it took a vast amount of willpower to continue checking the contents of his pack and not give in to the urge to glance at her again. To touch her again.
“Do you intend for me to stay in this disgusting state all night?” She all but spat the words at him. “Does the filth of battle heat your blood? Does my degradation inflame you?”
Finally he abandoned his pack. Not that he could recall what he’d been searching for anyway.
“Your degradation repels me.” Let her make what she wished of that statement. When she stiffened in clear affront and heat blushed her cheeks, he was under no illusion exactly how she’d taken his words.
It didn’t matter. It made no difference that she so misjudged him. It wouldn’t change his mind about taking her with him.
There was a hard thump on the door before it slammed open to admit two boys hauling a large wooden tub. Morwyn shot them a withering look and he thought she was about to reprimand them for their unbidden entrance. But instead she pressed her lips together and surreptitiously leaned against the bed once again, as if she were perilously close to collapsing.
“Over here.” He indicated where he wished them to leave the tub. Next to the bed. After a wary glance at Morwyn they scuttled out, although whether they were intimidated by her bruised and bloodied face or the scathing glare she arrowed their way, he couldn’t be sure.
“This,” she said, eyeing the tub as if it were a manifestation of the Emperor himself, “had better not be what I think it is.”
Since the tub could have only one purpose, he failed to see the point in responding. His silence appeared to further irritate Morwyn as she folded her arms and sat on the edge of the bed, her dark eyes spitting venom at him.
It appeared there was no pleasing her. He folded his own arms, straightened to his full not-inconsiderable height and glared back.
The boys returned with large timber buckets and tipped steaming water into the tub. Morwyn didn’t deign to glance at them throughout their many repetitions and he didn’t break eye contact with her. Finally, when his peripheral vision showed him the tub was two-thirds full, the boys left once again but this time pulled the door shut behind them.
“If you truly believe I’m going to wash your filthy body, Gaul, you’ve lost your senses.”
Perceptions shifted as her words hit him. Gods. She thought he wanted her to scrub his body? His cock hardened, hot and heavy with denied lust and endless nights of solitary frustration. Despite his best intentions to ignore the demands of his body, he shifted his weight in an attempt to ease the pressure between his thighs. But it didn’t work because erotic visions of her hands sluicing water over his chest, massaging his knotted shoulders and encircling his engorged erection drenched his heated mind.
Such a pleasurable activity hadn’t occurred to him. But now that she’d thrown the image in his face he could barely think of anything else.
He needed a bath. But her need was greater. With reluctance he abandoned the fantasy, a fantasy that would never materialize because Morwyn would never willingly give him such self-indulgent delight.
And if she didn’t give it willingly, where was the delight?
But he had no intention of allowing her to think she could rule him with her acidic tongue.
“If cleansing me had been my intention this night, then that’s what you would do, Morwyn.”
Her breasts heaved in outrage beneath the square cut of her gown, momentarily distracting him. Renewed waves of desire speared low in his gut, splintered through his pounding arteries. Did he really think he could share a bed with this woman and not be tempted to ignore her disdain, overcome her protests?
Beneath her haughty manner and icy glares passion simmered. He’d felt it in the forest, felt it every time they brushed against each other. If she didn’t open her arms to him tonight, could he overcome his pride and open his?
“Would I?” It was a blatant challenge to his authority. He didn’t bother replying to her. Instead, with great deliberation, he removed his mail shirt and placed it on top of the timber chest along the wall next to the bed.
“Yes.” He waited while she ground her teeth, and when it appeared that was all she had to say about the matter, he returned to her side and struggled against the overpowering need to plunge his fingers through her hair, to force her to look at him. “The bath is for you.”
Her head jerked up without any physical assistance from him. Her eyes, even her injured one, were wide with shock, lips slightly apart. Even her aggressive posture sagged, arms falling to her lap.
Again he waited, this time until she recovered sufficiently to regain the use of her tongue.
“I don’t . . .” She floundered for a moment. “I don’t sit in tubs of stagnant water.”
“The water’s fresh.” He picked up her bag and opened it, but still couldn’t work out what half the contents were. “Do you need cleansing oil? Or do you have something in here you use?”
She pushed herself to her feet and glowered into the tub. “Does it amuse you to torture me with Roman barbarism? What’s wrong with the local river?” Her nose wrinkled. “At least that wouldn’t be
hot
.”
“Then imagine this is a warm spring.” Strange. He hadn’t realized he’d got out of the habit of using rivers and streams. But for the last three years while he’d been with the Legion he’d used their baths and grown accustomed to their lengthy, decadent rituals.
Obscurely, he’d assumed Morwyn would appreciate a hot bath in which she could soak away the aches in her limbs. Did she have to make every moment of their enforced time together deliberately difficult?
And then an oddly defeated sigh puffed from her and she turned toward him. Exhaustion etched her face, clouded her eyes. He didn’t move a muscle.
“Please, let me go to the river. I promise I’ll come back.” She glanced at the tub. “You have this instead.”
“I’ll use the public baths later.” There was an annex next to the inn with a small but adequate bathing complex. He hadn’t taken Morwyn there. He’d thought she’d prefer privacy.
Maybe he’d been wrong about that. But that wasn’t the only reason he’d arranged for the tub. In the public baths, with the rules for segregating the sexes, he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on her, and he didn’t intend to lose her. Not yet.
He wasn’t sure why.
Silence sizzled as she glared at him yet again. “And I suppose you have no intention of leaving the room while I use
this
?” She jabbed her finger at the tub.
The tension twisting his muscles relaxed by the merest degree. “None.”