style="font-size:15px;"> Fear from the attack crowded around her. She heard the clash of weapons, saw the lifeless faces of her men. Eyes shut tight, she covered her mouth with her free palm, desperate to keep her sobs in check lest she fall apart at the seams.
“My lady.” Strong fingers curved around her shoulders. She jerked at the contact, unused to being touched.
Quintus gently turned her toward him and with a sigh of resignation gathered her close. Surrounded by his scent of citrus and leather, she stood there rigid at first, ignorant of how to react because no one had ever held her. Always alone, always lonely, she was used to being abandoned, never cared for or comforted.
He stroked her mangled hair, offering her the solace she was loathe to refuse. The murmur of his deep voice soothed her. Warmed by his tenderness, she melted against him, accepting the first genuine embrace she’d ever known.
Surrounded by the security of Quintus’s arms, she pressed closer against him and wept against his chest. Safety was foreign to her, but his quiet confidence made her believe he was the one man in existence meant to protect her from harm.
Voices drifted across the courtyard from the direction of the house. She stilled as reality invaded the haven she’d found. Suddenly ashamed of the flaw in her that enjoyed the solace offered by a man who thought the worst of her, she stepped back from Quintus, wishing he would leave her to cope with her humiliation and despair on her own. Awash with embarrassment, she made haste to repair her appearance.
Quintus let go of Adiona with reluctance. Clearly she’d been attacked. Suspecting thieves, he struggled to control his anger toward the jackals who hurt her.
The night’s breeze ruffled her glossy black hair. He fisted his hand to control the urge to caress its softness once more. Both dazed and irritated by the sense of completeness he experienced while he held her, he despised the weakness that made it impossible for him to walk away as he ought to. He knew better than to court disaster, but her tears had chained him to the spot. His reason failed to quell his need to console and protect her.
Had he been wiser, he would never have touched her. Now, it was too late. Her scent and the feel of her in his arms were burned into his brain. Never again would he smell cinnamon or enjoy the texture of silk without thinking of Adiona Leonia.
Moonlight bathed her smooth skin with an ethereal glow. Moisture sparkled on the tips of her long lashes like diamond dust. Her beauty tormented him and pushed him to the edge of his endurance. If not for the bruises and scrapes, she might be mistaken for one of the sirens the Greeks believed tempted a man from his senses until he crashed against the rocks.
Lord, please help me keep my wits around this temptress.
“You ought to go inside,” he said in a voice rough and hardly recognizable even to himself. His apology would have to wait. Besides the fact she was in no state to hear him, he was determined to see her safe before his control splintered and he lost his inner battle to return her to his arms. “You’ve been hurt. Your cuts need tending.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Go back to the party without me.”
He’d forgotten about the celebration the moment he saw her clinging to the gate. A quick glance showed the courtyard empty except for a few guards high on the watchtower. “No. I won’t leave you.”
“I want you to go.” She had yet to look at him. “The gossips will roast me alive if I’m caught out here alone with a…a slave.”
A wave of cynicism crashed over him. Here he was, reeling from the ferocity of his need to care for her, while she was embarrassed to be seen with him.
Let that be a lesson to you, fool.
His mouth twisted with self-mockery. He’d thought his pride had suffered every indignity imaginable since his enslavement. Leave it to this haughty, haunting beauty to prove him wrong again.
Although he supposed he should be grateful for the reminder of the chasm that spanned between them, bitterness hardened in his belly like a weight of lead. He was a slave because of his faith, not because of birth or low rank. Before his arrest, he and the widow would have been considered more than a worthy match. “You weren’t embarrassed to be caught with a slave when you clung to me moments ago. Perhaps Alexius is right and you wealthy widows are just selective in how you spend time with slaves.”
Her eyes flared, then narrowed at the veiled insult. Cheeks flushed, her breathing ragged, she transformed from weeping victim to an iron-spined matron of Rome. She thrust her shoulders back and pinned him with a glare so hot that he felt singed. “I’ve had enough of your insults, you ignorant, contemptible…man!”
His chest throbbed where she’d punctuated each word with a solid thump of the scroll she carried. He took hold of the rolled parchment and pried it from her death grip. “Don’t hit me, mistress.”
Her lip curled as she struggled to find a worse name to call him. He almost laughed when he realized she thought labeling him a man was the vilest of slurs. He was far from offended. After months of feeling caged like an animal, it was just what he needed to hear.
“Adiona!” Caros and Pelonia burst into the courtyard. The guard Quintus sent to fetch them trailed in their wake.
Caros pushed past him, his concern for the widow evident in his brusque manner. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
As Adiona explained how she was attacked, Pelonia wrapped her in a fur-lined cloak. Caros snapped orders to his guards to find the widow’s men.
“I’ll go,” Quintus volunteered, eager to put distance between himself and Adiona.
“No, come with us,” Caros said as he ushered the women back toward the main house.
A cheerful melody mingled with the aroma of lemons and smoked oysters, roasted lamb and fresh bread. The laughter and conversation of the guests in the domus’s inner courtyard contrasted sharply with the solemn air surrounding their hosts.
Inside the house, Quintus leaned against the back wall of Caros’s office. The mosaic-tiled floor and expensive dark wood furniture reminded him of his own office before his imprisonment.
Cool evening air blew in through the large arched windows behind the lanista’s formidable desk. A mural of a setting sun dominated one wall. Ornate lanterns lit the space, providing Quintus with a clear view of Adiona on one of the blue cushioned couches across the room.
Pelonia sat down beside her and held the widow’s hand. To Quintus’s surprise, Adiona clutched her hostess’s fingers like a lifeline. As far as he knew the two women were less than friends. The men in his barracks suggested a rivalry existed between them, that Adiona had been jealous when Caros wed the young woman who’d once been his slave.
He looked up to find Caros studying him with a frown. The lanista’s sharp blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, before he turned his attention back to Adiona. “Why do you suppose someone wants to harm you? Was it simply thieves? Or did one of your enemies aim to dishonor you?”
“Dishonor wasn’t their intention.” She clenched her fist. “Some wretch means to murder me.”
Murder her? Every nerve in Quintus’s body went on alert.
“Why?” Caros asked. “What have you done this time?”
Adiona
