is overrun with slaves, your duties are not likely to be taxing.”
“Save for those I will perform on my back.”
The healer’s grizzled eyebrows shot up. “So. The fire has not quite died.” He chuckled at some private amusement as he wiped his hands on a discarded cloth.
A third slave woman arrived, her sturdy arms bearing a tray laden with enough food to feed Rhiannon and several others besides—savory pork roasted with nuts, two soft round loaves, winter apples, and a large clay mug. The woman set the tray on the table by the bed. She threw a wide smile in Rhiannon’s direction before collecting the soiled linens and exiting the chamber.
“Eat, then, and rest your leg,” the healer said. “I will look in on you later.”
When he had gone, Rhiannon slipped the blanket from her shoulders. She shook out the folded fabric on her bed and found a long tunic of the softest linen she’d ever held in her hands. It had been dyed an apple green and stitched so carefully that its seams were all but invisible. She slipped it quickly over her head, eager to cover herself. It slid over her skin like a caress. She belted it at her waist with a braided leather cord.
Though clothing had been quite welcome, her stomach protested the smell of food. She suspected any nourishment she tried would not remain long in her stomach. The mug, however, was filled with
cervesia,
not wine. She could probably keep that down. She lifted it to her lips and took a cautious sip.
Feeling somewhat fortified, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, balancing on her good leg. No matter what the healer instructed, she would not stay abed. Escape was her paramount goal and she could not achieve it lying on her back. Edmyg’s brother, Cormac, was somewhere in the fort. Did he know of her capture? Had he passed news of it to the clan? She would need to locate him this very day, if possible, while the Roman commander went about fort business. She dared not dwell on his return to her chamber or on what the night hours would bring.
Grasping the raised end of the bed for balance, she eased her weight onto her uninjured limb. Her wounded leg throbbed, but she resolutely ignored it and took a step toward the window. She needed an idea of the fort’s layout before she could escape it.
The first step on her wounded leg sent a shooting pain into her thigh. She gritted her teeth and stepped forward on her uninjured limb. On the third step her balance faltered. She landed on the hard tiles with a thump, her hand striking the tail of the glittering cat-beast. Pain exploded behind her eyes. She clutched her leg and forced back a cry as she waited for the sting to recede.
The door opened at that precise moment. She peered under the bed frame, her heart pounding in her throat. A pair of masculine feet, encased in short leather boots, advanced a few steps into the chamber. Bronzed skin, sprinkled with dark hair, covered calves hard with muscle. The hem of a blood-red tunic fell above the knee, affording her a tantalizing glimpse of long thighs roped with sinew.
The owner of the magnificent limbs moved unerringly in Rhiannon’s direction. She jerked herself upright, ignoring the fresh spurt of pain in her leg. She would not meet her captor while sprawled on her arse.
The Roman commander rounded the bed and looked down at her, his dark brows drawn together in a disbelieving scowl. “Are you insane? You should be in bed.” Without waiting for a reply, he bent and scooped her into his arms.
He lifted her easily, his arms flexing around her like a living cage, and for a moment Rhiannon forgot to breathe. Her fingers closed on his upper arms. His skin was smooth and golden, stretched taut over iron-hard muscles. Rhiannon willed her racing heart to slow and, as she filled her lungs with air, she thought she had succeeded. Then she looked up into his eyes.
His steady gaze enveloped her like a fur cloak on a winter night. His frown softened,
“Save for those I will perform on my back.”
The healer’s grizzled eyebrows shot up. “So. The fire has not quite died.” He chuckled at some private amusement as he wiped his hands on a discarded cloth.
A third slave woman arrived, her sturdy arms bearing a tray laden with enough food to feed Rhiannon and several others besides—savory pork roasted with nuts, two soft round loaves, winter apples, and a large clay mug. The woman set the tray on the table by the bed. She threw a wide smile in Rhiannon’s direction before collecting the soiled linens and exiting the chamber.
“Eat, then, and rest your leg,” the healer said. “I will look in on you later.”
When he had gone, Rhiannon slipped the blanket from her shoulders. She shook out the folded fabric on her bed and found a long tunic of the softest linen she’d ever held in her hands. It had been dyed an apple green and stitched so carefully that its seams were all but invisible. She slipped it quickly over her head, eager to cover herself. It slid over her skin like a caress. She belted it at her waist with a braided leather cord.
Though clothing had been quite welcome, her stomach protested the smell of food. She suspected any nourishment she tried would not remain long in her stomach. The mug, however, was filled with
cervesia,
not wine. She could probably keep that down. She lifted it to her lips and took a cautious sip.
Feeling somewhat fortified, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, balancing on her good leg. No matter what the healer instructed, she would not stay abed. Escape was her paramount goal and she could not achieve it lying on her back. Edmyg’s brother, Cormac, was somewhere in the fort. Did he know of her capture? Had he passed news of it to the clan? She would need to locate him this very day, if possible, while the Roman commander went about fort business. She dared not dwell on his return to her chamber or on what the night hours would bring.
Grasping the raised end of the bed for balance, she eased her weight onto her uninjured limb. Her wounded leg throbbed, but she resolutely ignored it and took a step toward the window. She needed an idea of the fort’s layout before she could escape it.
The first step on her wounded leg sent a shooting pain into her thigh. She gritted her teeth and stepped forward on her uninjured limb. On the third step her balance faltered. She landed on the hard tiles with a thump, her hand striking the tail of the glittering cat-beast. Pain exploded behind her eyes. She clutched her leg and forced back a cry as she waited for the sting to recede.
The door opened at that precise moment. She peered under the bed frame, her heart pounding in her throat. A pair of masculine feet, encased in short leather boots, advanced a few steps into the chamber. Bronzed skin, sprinkled with dark hair, covered calves hard with muscle. The hem of a blood-red tunic fell above the knee, affording her a tantalizing glimpse of long thighs roped with sinew.
The owner of the magnificent limbs moved unerringly in Rhiannon’s direction. She jerked herself upright, ignoring the fresh spurt of pain in her leg. She would not meet her captor while sprawled on her arse.
The Roman commander rounded the bed and looked down at her, his dark brows drawn together in a disbelieving scowl. “Are you insane? You should be in bed.” Without waiting for a reply, he bent and scooped her into his arms.
He lifted her easily, his arms flexing around her like a living cage, and for a moment Rhiannon forgot to breathe. Her fingers closed on his upper arms. His skin was smooth and golden, stretched taut over iron-hard muscles. Rhiannon willed her racing heart to slow and, as she filled her lungs with air, she thought she had succeeded. Then she looked up into his eyes.
His steady gaze enveloped her like a fur cloak on a winter night. His frown softened,
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