Celtic Fire by Joy Nash Page B

drawing her attention once again to his smooth chin. One corner of his mouth lifted with the promise of a smile. She shifted in his arms. His lips parted on a quick intake of breath, revealing a row of even white teeth.
    He smelled of the wind in the pines and of leather freshly cured. His powerful, blunt-fingered hand closed on her arm. His skin was dark against her fairer coloring, but his grip was not harsh. His fingernails were clean and trimmed short.
    Rhiannon’s heart set to pounding harder than before. She thought perhaps she should be afraid, but, oddly, she was not. When his callused warrior’s hands lowered her to the bed, she thought only that this Roman’s touch was softer than Edmyg’s had ever been.
    He straightened, the frown returning to his eyes. He swiveled his head to the right and left—searching, it seemed, but for what, Rhiannon couldn’t imagine. He hunted, prowling to the window, then back to the door. He bent to inspect the underside of the long table against the wall.
    “Gone again,” he said, his tone abrupt. He turned on her with a swift movement. “Could it be you?”
    Rhiannon’s confusion grew. “What do you mean? Who is gone? The healer?”
    He didn’t answer. His shoulders slumped and his hand passed over his eyes as if to wipe away some unwanted vision. She’d seen only his strength when he had first entered the chamber, but now, looking closer, she noted the weariness in his stance, the slight tremble of his hand as it curled into a fist. After a long moment, he raised his head and met her gaze. Again recognition sparked in Rhiannon’s heart, along with an overwhelming desire to ease the raw pain that showed so clearly in his soft, dark eyes. Eyes she was certain she’d looked upon before. Then, suddenly, she knew.
    The Roman commander bore an uncanny resemblance to the young officer Madog had slaughtered at Samhain. The man whose soul had cried out to Rhiannon at the moment of his death. Was the new fort commander kin to the murdered man, come to avenge his death? A sound of distress escaped her lips.
    Her captor’s features smoothed, as if he’d exerted a sudden effort to wipe them clean. “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said. Then, a heartbeat later, “You shouldn’t walk. I’m sure Demetrius told you.”
    “He did.”
    “But you thought to try anyway.”
    “Yes.”
    The smile returned to his eyes. “My esteemed physician will not be pleased to find you think so little of his advice.”
    “Then he should refrain from giving it.”
    The corners of his mouth lifted, first one side, then the other. The result was a lopsided smile and a dimple that was identical to his son’s. One dark curl fell over his forehead. He brushed it aside only to have it fall back again.
    “Forgive me if I don’t relay that sentiment to Demetrius. I know from hard experience he wouldn’t take it kindly.” He took a step toward her. His hand came to rest on the bed, very close to her arm.
    She inched in the opposite direction. Did he think after a bit of light banter she would welcome him into her bed? If so, he was to be disappointed. At the same time, she wondered why he bothered with polite pretenses at all. He’d claimed her as a battle prize. He could take her whenever he wished and there was precious little she could do to stop him.
    “Rhiannon,” he said. “A beautiful name.”
    She looked up to find him watching her. “How did you— Oh. The lad told you.”
    He nodded. “My son.”
    “Marcus.”
    “Yes.” He paused. “You may call me Lucius.”
    Lucius. It fit him. A bold name, but not a rough one. Rhiannon was drawn to the sound of it in spite of a fierce wish to snap the thread of fate that joined her soul to his. She shifted backward on the bed, away from him. No matter what he was called, no matter what connection his kinsman’s blood had forged between them, he was her enemy.
    The heat in his gaze told Rhiannon that he desired her and the knowledge of