Roman (17 page)

There was a heartbeat of thick, awkward silence, and then Asa and Fran burst out in jovial laughter.

“Sometimes my humor is vulgar, I confess.” The blonde chuckled. “Perhaps I have traveled too long with such a virile and fecund group.”

Isra tried to smile, but she suspected the attempt was rather pathetic, and she didn't dare glance at Roman.

“Van Groen,” Roman said, interrupting the lurching silence, “I'd have a word with you first.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Asa acquiesced, and then his gaze went to each of the two woman. “Gunar's in place. Fran, you'll stay with her until her prompt.”

“Oh, why not?” she answered and looked away into the darkness with a quirk of her mouth.

Isra felt the flesh of her arm being pressed and looked down to see Roman's large hand.

“I'll be right there this time,” he said with an encouraging grin. “Naught to fear.”

She returned his smile, feeling a little of her uncertainty melt away. “How could I be afraid of anything at all with such a capable Roman soldier to protect me?”

His touch lingered.

Her smile deepened.

“Roman?” Asa called out. “Shall we . . . ?”

His hand fell away, but he held up his palm in a wave and Isra half turned to watch him following van Groen until they had disappeared around the side of Kahn's wagon.

“Is that what you do?” Fran's low voice drew Isra's attention. “Play the stricken, frightened innocent so that whatever unfortunate man you happen to be with at the moment will be sure to take care of you?”

Isra's heart wanted to rise into her throat at Fran's bitter scowl. “I—I do not know what you mean.”

“The big, brawny man has kept you safe thus far, yes? Spirited you away from whatever trouble it is you caused for yourself? Now that you've found our band and have charmed Asa with your skill with that dumb beast, you think to better your match,
don't you
? Ready to cut the Norseman loose and latch on to Asa,
aren't you
? Let him be your champion while you steal the coin that rightfully belongs to everyone in this group right out from under our noses.”

“N-no,” Isra protested, her mind in such shock at the dreadful accusations that she couldn't form a coherent argument. “I—I lay no claim to—”

“
That's right
,” Fran snapped, stepping closer to Isra. “You have no claim to anything or anyone here. You're a stupid nobody. You might have fooled some by your helpless disguise but
I'm
not stupid; no one could put on the
show
you have without years of practice. And I'm
not
referring to Kahn.”

Isra couldn't swallow, her throat was so tight. But Fran did not relent.

“How many men has it taken you to get this far, hmm? A score? No, more than that, I daresay,” she said with a wicked smile and stepped even closer, until Isra was forced to pull her head back lest she breathe in the hot air the blonde was expelling from her slender, flaring nostrils. Breath scented with strong drink. “I can see it on your face—you who think yourself so clever and secretive. That's what I do in the band; I notice details. So, how many? A hundred? Two?”

Isra stepped back a pace. “You know me not. I have done nothing to offend you.”

“What if I take your protector away from you?” Fran said, ignoring Isra's protest. She closed the distance again. “I think I could lure him away. And away is exactly where I wish to go. So you are welcome to Asa and this hellish life. You deserve each other.”

Isra felt as if she might vomit. She tried to swallow again but failed.

Suddenly, Asa van Groen's voice cut through the hush of crowd chatter somewhere on the other side of Kahn's wagon. It was time for her to perform.

“Go on,” Fran urged with a smile. “Go to him, then. He's calling you.”

“
Kahn the Terrible and his mistress
, the
queen of the River Nile, along with her Roman soldier!”

The crowd sent up a loud cheer and Isra began backing away toward the curtain, looking at the woman who'd just verbally attacked her in complete confusion. Why would Fran say such wicked, hurtful things to her?

And how could she be so close to the truth about her past?

Isra turned and ducked behind the edge of the drawn-back curtain, her knees feeling as though they would give out on her at any moment.

She held out her tingling arms before the crowd, sending the fringe swaying, as Roman in his centurion attire and with Lou once more on his shoulder, paced in a defensive manner before the applauding, whistling mass.

She turned from side to side, her eyes roving the crowd that was packed in like roof thatching and stretched away into the city night. The applause faded.

Roman halted several paces away but facing her now. He raised his shield in what Isra supposed was a salute, and then he bowed his head and sank to one knee for a moment.

Isra cleared her throat, tried to find the words she was supposed to speak as her arms fell back down to her sides. The crowd stared at her, ogled her; a man in the front nudged his friend and whispered something to him, looking at Isra all the while.

Isra was horrified to feel the hot trail of wetness streak down her cheek.

If she ruined the performance, it would be the end of her and Roman traveling with the caravan. They were farther south now and would either have to carry on to Constantinople on their own or inquire as to ship travel from Dubrovnik—risky after being seen by so many of the residents of the city. They would be remembered for certain.

No. No, she would not allow that to happen. Roman had already risked too much.

She inclined her head toward Roman, who was frowning at her in a concerned manner. She drew a deep breath.

Isra raised her arms again and looked to the crowd once more. “Good people of Dubrovnik!” she enunciated, letting her accent curl the words, then clip them tight.

“The tiger is a hypnotic, magical creature. Many are the legends of his strength and power and the deadly spell he casts over mortals to lure them to their doom. . . .”

I
t was nearly midnight before the last of the city revelers left the encampment near the north wall, and the members of Van Groen's menagerie were alone to recount tales of the evening and gloat over their take. The dog show had been a huge success, and the yappy little creatures now lay scattered about Helena's feet as if they'd been shot dead, full up with the endless scraps and treats fed to them by the charmed crowd.

Delilah had been propositioned twice—by both a man and a woman.

Barnaby had greatly increased his personal possessions by encouraging merchants in the crowd to bring him items to hurl into the air while he invented witty rhyming stories on the spot about the owners. The people were so entertained and eager for the next round that hardly anyone had asked for their merchandise to be returned, and the juggler was currently going about the encampment with his pack, selling off the excess. Roman had purchased a rather nice little pot for two pence, thinking of the stew he'd promised to make for Isra.

Mother had foretold of approximately sixteen marriages, a score of impeding pregnancies, and one imminent, bloody, torturous death—although that unfortunate fortune had been assigned to a miserly individual who had ruthlessly haggled with the old woman over the price of having his future predicted.

“You pay half price, you get a short future!” the hag cackled.

Roman shook his head, but he had to smile as he and Lou walked about the small circle behind the wagons near the wall. All the members were packed in like herring around the communal fire, but no one seemed to mind. There was even more of a festival air to the place than when Dubrovnik's citizenry had been about, and it was obvious everyone was quite pleased with the coin they'd made that evening.

So although he was hailed and cajoled by several small groups of people, urging Roman to come and sit and drink, he did not pause for long with any of them; he was looking for Isra and, unfortunately, van Groen.

The smooth-talking leader had vanished with her almost immediately after Isra had shown Kahn to thunderous applause that seemed to go on for a quarter hour. It had taken all of Roman's self-control not to use his faux shield to shove his way through the crowd when van Groen had held up one finger toward Roman, perhaps intending to reassure him that they would soon return.

That had been more than an hour earlier. And while he wasn't yet concerned enough to be worried for Isra's safety, he was sufficiently preoccupied with the idea of her and the handsome van Groen secreted away somewhere together to be growing quite cross.

“Lose something?”

He knew who had spoken before he looked to his right and saw Fran's half smile looking up at him, her hands behind her back as she strolled in his direction. He turned toward her.

“Have you seen”—he broke off as Lou suddenly took flight from his shoulder—“van Groen?”

“Asa you're looking for, then, is it?” Fran smirked as she glanced up at the departing falcon and then came to a stop before him. “He and his new darling seem to be working on a vanishing act together.”

Roman didn't want to agree—especially with the part about Isra being van Groen's darling—but he did nod. “They've been gone a while. I just—” He broke off again, sighed, looked over the sea of heads toward the fire. He turned back to the attractive blonde. “Nothing. Not important.”

“Good,” she replied with a smile, and he noticed that her eyes were unusually bright, glittering. “Because I have something for you.”

Roman felt his eyebrows raise. “Something for me?”

Fran nodded and then took one fist from behind her back and held it toward Roman. He opened his palm beneath her hand and she uncurled her fingers and pressed a small, warm length of metal into his skin. She withdrew her arm to behind her back once more and looked up at him. Roman looked down.

It was a key.

“It unlocks my wagon,” she said. Roman looked up to find her watching him brazenly, and he had to admit he was flattered by this beautiful woman's boldness in pursuing him. “Everyone knows you have been sleeping beneath your cart. Perhaps you've tired of being cold and wet. There is room in my bed for two.”

Roman looked back down at the key in his hand, his neck feeling hot. “I would not be at ease leaving my traveling companion unprotected,” he said, and then added, “And I would never wish to compromise your reputation by accepting your most generous offer.”

To his surprise, Fran laughed and stepped closer to him, reaching out her hands to grasp his tunic on either side of his hips.

“I'm not worried about my reputation,” she said through an indulgent smile. “The little queen isn't keeping you warm, is she?”

“No,” Roman allowed, his neck heating even further.

“Do you not find me pretty?” She pressed herself closer to him, and Roman smelled strong drink on her breath as she wobbled on her feet.

“You are a very handsome woman,” he assured her and reached out to grasp her elbows to steady her.

“But not as pretty as
herrrr
,” Fran mused. Her tone was still mild, her eyes smiling.

“Your beauty is unique to you,” Roman defended, and indeed, he did feel it important to let the woman know he did find her attractive. “In another circumstance . . .”

He stopped himself. What other circumstance could there be? He was free from Melk, free from any authority save his own for the first time in years. Yea, he could sore use the comfort of a woman. So why did the image of dark hair and eyes, of a whispered, twirling accent prevent him from taking what was being willingly offered?

Did Roman want Isra Tak'Ahn?

“I wish to return north,” Fran said. “I tire of the feast or famine of this life.” She shook her fists, still clutching his tunic. “Come with me.”

“But,” Roman hedged, taken aback by her offer, “what about the people looking for you? Your husband's benefactors?”

“That was so many years ago,” she said. “They were all old men even then. No one is looking for me now. And besides,” she added, “I have more than gotten used to a common life. I only want a home of my own. Somewhere clean, and quiet, and still.”

Roman heard the longing in her voice, softened by drink, and he recognized the reflection of his own wants. He remembered the fantasy he'd had in the wagon, of the little cottage he would build. Hadn't thoughts of Fran spurred that dream?

But Isra's absence was making it impossible for Roman to think of anything or anyone except her.

“While I admit that my desires are very much the same,” Roman said gently, “I am not free at the moment to pursue them. I have . . . obligations to fulfill.”

“To her?” Fran pressed.

Roman nodded. “And others. I don't know how much longer we shall be traveling together. We have a specific destination in mind.”

“Venice?” Fran gave a knowing smirk, reminding him of what he'd initially told Asa van Groen.

“No. Not Venice,” Roman admitted.

“I don't care,” Fran said. “If not now, then later, in the spring. And I want you to use the key, regardless of whether you decide to come home with me or not. Come home,” she urged. “Don't you want that?”

He found himself looking at her mouth, wondering what it would be like if he kissed her now, followed her back to her brightly painted wagon. But the arousal he expected to feel never manifested.

A sudden cheer went up around the fire, and Roman and Fran turned their heads in the same instant to see a beaming van Groen leading Isra toward the fire by her hand. They were both beaming.

Isra's eyes scanned the crowd, and Roman knew she was looking for him—
he knew
, and it made his heart beat faster. Her gaze lighted on him before he could raise his hand, and she stared, her smile becoming stiff.

He'd forgotten the lovely Fran was still in his grasp.

And so he set her from him, took her hand, and pressed her key into her palm. “Thank you,” he said. He closed her fingers around the metal and left her, moving through the crowd to reach the woman who was no longer looking for him but had turned away and was now being sheltered under Asa's green velvet-clad arm as he addressed the band.

* * *

“God save the queen!” someone from the troupe shouted, and Isra couldn't help the bit of a smile that returned to her mouth as the crowd applauded and whistled.

“Indeed!” Asa praised with a laugh. “The good mayor was so taken with her, he has requested we stay on to entertain some visiting dignitaries arriving on the morrow! So it is another night in Dubrovnik for us, good folk. And I'd wager the take this time tomorrow evening will be twice today's!”

The crowd cheered again, and Isra felt a tug on her arm. Both hoping and dreading it was him, she looked up and saw Roman's concerned face looking down at her.

“Where have you been?” he asked, glancing at Asa's arm about her shoulder.

Isra opened her mouth to answer, but her words were precluded by the dark-haired man's at her side.

“And let us not overlook the contributions of our noble Roman!” Asa cried. “Surely his commanding presence lent an air of such authenticity that the pharaoh himself will soon be demanding a return of his kin!”

The crowd laughed good-naturedly, but Roman paid them little heed as he looked down at Isra, still waiting for an answer.

“The mayor called us to audience,” she replied, hearing the coolness in her own voice. After the dreadful things the blond woman had said to her before the performance, the sight of Fran making good on her threat to lure Roman had been more than terrifying.

Lure him away from what, though?
Isra demanded of herself.
You do not own him. He does not want you. Has he no right to a woman if he chooses?

“Well done,” he said with a smile, no trace of concern left, no raised eyebrow at her tone. “You were in fine form tonight.”

“And now,” Asa called out, squeezing Isra's shoulder ever so slightly, “we celebrate!” He looked to her and then to Roman. “We will all drink together, yes?”

Isra looked to Roman, hoping he would acquiesce to join the party so that she might also, but then a blonde head appeared once more at Roman's right arm, and Fran leaned up to whisper something behind his shoulder. He turned his head toward her but said nothing as she slid away into the crowd with only a glance at Isra and the dark-haired leader of the band.

“I find I am quite tired,” Isra heard herself saying, although she hadn't planned on begging off at all. She was finally being included, celebrated for an accomplishment, and she had looked forward to partaking of the company of people who accepted her for who she was.

Or who they thought she was.

But Isra was no fool, and she was experienced enough to know that a woman only whispers such things in the presence of others when it is obvious to everyone what she is offering.

What she had already offered Roman, if the scene Isra had witnessed upon her and Asa's return was any clue.

She ducked out from beneath Asa's arm. “I wish you both a festive evening in whatever amusements you find worthy.”

“Wait,” Roman called and reached out to take her elbow lightly.

Without thinking, she jerked her arm from his grasp. “Is there something you require of me, my lord?” she asked, but her eyes were trained on the flickering shadows on the ground.

“No,” Roman said after a heartbeat of time. “I was only going to escort you to the cart.”

“I know the way.” Isra left him then, without so much as a glance, walking into the dark maze of wagons alone.

The flickering fire did not penetrate past the first semicircle of conveyances, and by the time she reached her and Roman's royally decorated cart, she had tripped twice, stubbed her toe on a wheel, and rammed her hip into a corner of a lowered wagon bed. Even the donkey was away in the communal corral, and that suited her greatly. She needed to be alone now. To relive this night in all its glory and agony; to cry in private.

She had just set one knee upon the board when she was seized by her hips and pulled backward through the air, landing against something hard and warm and definitely human. A moist, stinking hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream.

“Good evening, slave,” a nasal voice hissed into her ear.

Isra did not struggle against the guard from the gate; she knew from past experience that if one resisted immediately, it only brought about the violence sooner, precluded any hope of escape. So, although she didn't relax, she willed herself not to strain away, to stand perfectly still against him.

“Your woman friend says you will welcome my company if I find you away from your great idiot guard. If you are nice, I return your pence.”

She nodded her head as best she was able with the hold she had been placed in, but waves of panic crashed in Isra's head all the same, threatening to turn the blackness behind the cart into a wash of red. This could not be happening to her again.

The woman friend could be none other than Fran. No one else in the band had had so much turned a frown in Isra's direction. The woman's vitriol before the exhibition had only been a precursor to her true rage.

Why did the blonde hate her so much?

“Very good,” he cooed in her ear. “But if you are ill-tempered, I shall strangle your throat and do what I will any matter. You understand?”

Isra nodded again but had to squeeze her eyes shut. The red haze was growing. Although she wished to appear complacent about the man's detestable plan for her, she had no intention of letting him have his way. She had vowed to herself in Damascus that she would never again be taken against her will; this man truly would have to kill her first.