To Burn Page 10

  His eyes would burn blue as he thrust into her.

  Melania hurtled through that doorway like a launched spear and would have struck him with the same slicing force if she hadn't been so stunned by what she saw. She locked her knees to keep them from buckling. Oh, it was Wulfred, as she had known it would be, and with a female of her household, Ness, but what they were doing was a complete and disgusting flaunting of Roman tradition.

  Ness was giving the oaf a massage!

  Melania ignored the wash of relief that tumbled through her and focused instead on this latest affront to Roman ways.

  "You are an ignorant fool, Saxon, to let her attend you. Only males serve males in the bath. Ness, you should have told him what error he was in when he forced you to this duty; never think that I will hold this against you. I know you have been taught better. Now go back to the kitchen, where you are more needed, while I speak to the Saxon."

  Ness did not move. Worse, she looked very happy to rub her hands over the back of the Saxon, who had only a linen sheet draped negligently over his buttocks, and that slipping with each pass of her hands. In fact, the Saxon looked rather content himself. And they both all but ignored her.

  Melania smiled coldly at Ness. "Do you have trouble understanding me, Ness? Is my Latin suddenly difficult for you to decipher because you have grown used to the Saxon tongue?" When Ness only smiled in feminine superiority and trailed her hands down the oaf's back to linger on his buttocks in a touch that was blatantly a caress, Melania walked to the table, ignoring the near-naked Saxon. "Very well," she said, “then I will use a language that you will have no trouble understanding.

  "Go, Ness," Melania commanded in Saxon, her color high. "Go the kitchen. Stay there." Melania grabbed Ness by the arm and propelled her toward the door, her feet barely touching the tile floor.

  Ness ran out of the baths, Wulfred apparently forgotten. If Ness had thought Melania powerless because the Saxons had come, she had just been shown how wrong she was.

  Wulfred had said nothing during the exchange. Alone with Melania, he continued to say nothing.

  Turning on his side and supporting his head with a hand, he watched Melania expectantly, an odd smile on his face. The sheet was held in place by miracle alone. Melania moved briskly away from the table where he lay in insolent arrogance.

  "You dirtied my water," Melania began, tightening the sheet that sheathed her, wishing he would do the same to his own slack sheet. "If I didn't know you for a fool and a pig, I would think you did it intentionally."

  Wulfred eased himself onto his back, the sheet slipping down past his hip joint, and crossed his arms under his head. The size of his muscles could only be described as repulsive; there could be no grace in such monumental bulk and bulging lack of smooth symmetry; her father had looked nothing like this man with his mass and his definition.

  Romans did not look like this. Civilized men did not look like this. Only barbarians had such height, such breadth, such formidable dimensions, such blatant and unrefined power. Even his belly was ridged with muscle; his digestion must be crippled by such rigid bands.

  "We have argued before about what you know," he said easily. "I am too relaxed to argue with you now. You were right about one thing: this is far better than the river. I wonder why you have waited so long for a bath of your own."

  "I had other things on my mind," she said, twisting the sheet tighter around her, in direct defiance of his casual disregard for his own covering.

  "And now?" He slid his glance sideways, amused as he watched her battle with her sheet.

  "And now the water is foul," she barked.

  She would have struck him—certainly the urge was upon her—but he was so... so... unclothed. She kept her distance.

  "I am but one man."

  "But so very foul," she answered. "The cleaning of the rooms will have to begin again, and from the ground up. Tell me, exactly which rooms have you used? No, never mind. The smell will guide me."

  He smiled, the cords in his throat moving in silent laughter. His hair was lighter, brighter, washed of its film of dirt and oil. Even the hair on his chest was golden, and the soft hair of his underarm was the color of clear amber. He was golden and yellow all over, mountains and valleys of muscle that shone with massage oil, long lashes of umber shielding such intensely blue eyes.

  Eyes that were the solid blue of lapis, but so very much lighter and hotter and brighter. Saxon eyes. Uncultured. Unkempt. Uncivilized. And laughing at her.

  "I amuse you?" she said coldly.

  "In your Roman way, you do," he answered, rolling again onto his side. The sheet fell with silent grace to the floor, revealing layers of muscle, a long frame, golden hair: stark male nudity.

  Her eyes covered the length of him, refusing the urgent commands of her thoughts. She had never seen such a body. She had never imagined that a male body could grow to such dimensions or that muscle could bulge so high. And she had certainly never seen a man's most private parts before. Even at that point he looked muscular, growing and hardening even as she watched. Melania dragged her eyes away from the stunning metamorphosis and looked at his face. He was smiling in male delight.

  Understanding flared like a sudden fire.

  He was baiting her, knowing how the sight of him repulsed her, unnerved her, distracted her. Knowing that this was but a new battle, she summoned the resolve to fight him as she had always fought him and as she would always fight him. He was Saxon; he would not defeat her.

  "How very intelligent of you." At his questioning look, she added, "I wouldn't have thought that your kind could be amused by anything less than a murder or a rape or a fire. That you could find it in your limited range of thought and purpose to be amused by a conversation with your intellectual superior is a sign in your favor. Perhaps you have learned something in the time you have spent among Romans here."

  "I have learned much in the past from Roman hands," he answered, his smile vanishing. She did not look at his body, so hypnotically large in its formation. She kept her eyes on his face; she had learned to tolerate his face.

  "Bravo," she cheered falsely. "You do credit to your race. Someday you may be taken as an exhibit to Rome, to show the scholars that some Saxons are able to learn. You may change the history of your kind."

  "It is the history of Rome that I will change," he said with suppressed rage.

  "And so you begin in Rome's backwater; oh, yes, I know that Britannia is not the hub of Roman thought. Why attack the heart when you can slice a finger? Yes" —she smiled, arranging her sheet to fall about her like a royal robe— "you do show some signs of intellectual promise."

  Melania left him there, naked and enraged, defeated in his purpose. Once she had arranged for clean water for her bath, it would be a perfect day.

  * * *

  In clean water, Melania enjoyed her bath. This time Dorcas attended her. Theras watched the entrance to keep all at bay while she was within. She knew Wulfred would not intrude; he had left the baths shortly after she had, in an obvious rage, and gone for a walk in the hills, the somber Cynric his only companion. Sighing and sinking lower into the water, Melania smiled in contentment. It had turned into a wonderful day.

  She leaned forward against the coping of the pool so that Dorcas could scrub her back. She had already been to the tepidarium for a warm soak, followed by the caldarium to build up a healthy sweat and cleanse the pores, then back to the tepidarium for a rubbing with soap, which Dorcas was doing now. Glorious. Even remembering the hairy oaf in his nakedness could not destroy her victorious mood.

  "You have lost much weight, Melania," Dorcas noted. "Your breasts have lost some of their fullness."

  Melania shrugged. "The men of Rome favor small-breasted women."

  "There are no Roman men near. Do you think Saxon men share the same preference?"

  Melania glanced over her shoulder.

  "Why should I care what Saxon men favor? A wolf would be their preferred mate, I should think
. Or a sow."

  "They do prefer women," Dorcas said gently in reproof.

  "Excuse my callousness, Dorcas," Melania said softly, and turned to face her. "I had forgotten that you couple with them."

  "I do not couple with them. Just one: Cenred," Dorcas said, blushing and dropping her head.

  "If you are not displeased, then I will not make trouble over it, but have a care, Dorcas. The Saxons are little better than animals. I would not have you mauled,"

  Dorcas seemed on the verge of saying more, but Melania rose from the water and waited for the cloth to be draped around her. They walked carefully on the stone-and-tile floor to the frigidarium. Melania dropped the cloth and stepped into the cold-water pool, washing the last remnants of soap from her body. The icy water made her catch her breath. It was no pleasure to linger in this pool.

  Rising again, she stepped out and walked quickly to the exercise room for her massage. Dorcas rubbed her briskly with a woolen cloth and then laid it aside, ready to begin kneading Melania's muscles. Melania groaned in contentment as Dorcas's fingers pressed against the tight muscles of her shoulders. Why had she waited so long for this?

  "They are not such animals," Dorcas said with some hesitation; servants did not begin conversations, but things at the villa had changed since the coming of the Saxons. Thinking of Cenred and his perpetual grin, she blushed. "Their ways are different, but they can be kind, even thoughtful...."

  Melania sighed in weary concern. "He is using you, Dorcas, and you are allowing it to make your way easier," Melania said bluntly. She did not want Dorcas hurt when this dream she had constructed shattered. "If you make more of it in your mind, you will only add to the hurt he has brought you."

  Dorcas manipulated the disks of Melania's spine gently for some time before she said, "I will not dispute what you say, but have you considered that you could use the same method to protect yourself?" When Melania wrenched her head around to glare at Dorcas, the girl rushed to explain. "It is just that Wulfred shows signs of being attracted to you..."

  "Yes, he is very attracted to the idea of killing me."

  "He spends so much time with you, he truly seems intrigued by you, and his looks are often so heated, even intense."

  "Murderous," Melania said, flopping down on her stomach again and pillowing her head on her arms.

  "Why not use his attraction to encourage him into treating you more kindly? I worry for you, Melania. He is a man who has much anger in him and it all seems to be directed at you," she finished awkwardly.

  Melania rolled over so that Dorcas could massage the large muscles of her thighs. She tried to answer patiently; truly, they no longer seemed so much servant and mistress as sisters from a civilized world trying to survive in a barbarian wilderness.

  "Dorcas, I am already as pampered as a cat. He prohibits hard labor, watches what I eat, and feeds me only the best of the table; only his constant company clouds my days. I certainly do not want to encourage him to get any closer to me than he already is. What would I gain from feeding this attraction for me that you tell me he already has? And let me hasten to say that I do not see it at all. He can hardly stand the sight of me, and I return the feeling."

  "You have been very sheltered here," Dorcas said. "I think you do not understand what you are seeing in him."

  "I know bloodlust when I see it. He wants me dead, after he has seen me grovel, of course."

  "What he feels for you is strong, that is true, but it was a Roman whom he sought to kill. You have become more to him than that. You are a person now, one he knows..."

  "With that feeble mind?"

  "...and one whom he has come to respect."

  "As well he should."

  "He has seen that you are more than just a Roman. Can't you see that he is more than just a Saxon?" Dorcas said, urgent in her appeal.

  "I can see that he is a Saxon pig." Melania snorted. When Dorcas looked at her with pitiful appeal, Melania reasoned, "And again I say, to what purpose? Could my life here be any easier? Why should I dupe the fool into believing that I return whatever attraction you say he feels for me?"

  Dorcas said nothing. She kept her dark head lowered and vigorously rubbed the muscles of Melania's right calf. Melania propped herself up on her elbows and asked again, "Well?"

  "I had thought that you might feel some softer emotion toward him, in time. He is not such a—"

  "Ha!" Melania interrupted with a burst of victorious laughter. "Give up your schemes, Dorcas. I will not soften toward the Saxon oaf. If your Saxon brings you some comfort in this disaster, take your comfort with no censure from me. But do not expect the same of me. The Saxon is my enemy. I have not forgotten it. Neither has he."

  Dorcas said nothing further on the subject, for which Melania was grateful. Cuddle up to the Saxon oaf? Where was such insanity born? No matter that Dorcas thought her an innocent in such things; she knew enough to know that all such a plan would get her was a large and hairy body pressing her down on her cot and crushing the wind out of her. What victory there? Oh, he would have fun enough; it would be an added victory for him, but what gain for her?

  No, it was beyond foolish. It was ridiculous. Not to mention repugnant. Just remembering the planes, ridges, and shadows of his body caused her stomach to fly up into the cage of her ribs. If he ever touched her in an embrace tinged with anything other than pure hatred, she would probably throw up.

  * * *

  "She doesn't throw up her food anymore."

  Wulfred grunted in affirmation and kept climbing. Cynric kept pace with him, holding his sword casually, ready. He would always be ready to fight for Wulfred, especially against the little Roman in the villa below them.

  "She eats when you tell her to."

  Wulfred didn't respond by so much as the shrugging of a shoulder. He kept climbing the small hills that surrounded the valley of the villa; it was not difficult climbing, but they attacked the hills with a will. Wulfred had much to occupy his thoughts. The little Roman always occupied his thoughts lately.

  For Cynric, it had become a very disappointing summer.

  "How will this kill her?"

  Wulfred stopped at the question. They were at the top of a small rise, the wind moving softly over the waving grass, pushing well-formed clouds across the sky like boats coming in on the tide.

  "Do you think that I won't?"

  "I think that I do not understand this way of fighting. I do not understand a battle where food is a weapon and a good night's sleep is a blow. I do not understand—"

  "You have said it," Wulfred interrupted. "You do not understand. She is Roman; this will not be battle as you understand it. There will be little of logic in it," he said.

  "We have been here half the summer."

  "She is devious, resourceful."

  "She is a woman, easily killed."

  "She is a Roman woman; killing her would be her victory, not mine."

  Cynric sucked in his breath and clasped Wulfred's arm in exhortation. "She is Roman, Wulfred, and you have sworn—"

  "I have sworn to make her suffer. She is."

  "She doesn't seem to be suffering," he mumbled. Anyone that arrogant, well fed, and pampered was not suffering.

  "Her foot is in the trap, comrade; I only tighten the noose and watch her silently gnaw herself to death."

  "Nothing that one does is in silence."

  "True." Wulfred smiled, looking away across the hills that stretched out before them. "But she gives me pleasure in her misery. It is a pleasure I would not hasten from."

  "The summer is half-gone. Hensa will wonder—"

  "We are here to fight and take. I have a fight that I would not turn from. I have all the treasure I need in this place. We will stay. And she will live, unharmed, until I say otherwise."

  "When?" Cynric asked, ignoring the implied threat in that statement.

  "I do not know. She is determined, stronger than I thought at first, and with a passion that I did not expect of a Roman."r />
  "She is a woman. They are emotional."

  Wulfred laughed and stroked his seax. "It is more than emotion. There is a fire in her that I find I can understand, even respect, though she is Roman." When Cynric only grumbled, Wulfred added, "Tell me of another woman you have known who is like her."

  Cynric was silent, uncomfortable with the thread of admiration he could hear in Wulfred's voice.

  "We stay until the end of the summer at the latest. I will take my pleasure from her. I will face Hensa when the time comes. You need only follow me, as you have sworn."

  Cynric straightened from under his load of concern. "I do not need to be reminded to whom I have sworn myself, Wulfred. I am your man. Do not doubt."

  "I do not doubt you. Now do not doubt me. I know what I am about in this place. Everything I wanted to find in attacking Britannia, I have found here."

  Cynric listened and tried to understand as he walked alone back down to the villa, but he could make no sense of Wulfred's words.

  * * *

  Having no duties other than the ones normally performed by the woman of the house, Melania had the leisure to have her hair coiffed in an elegant, multibraided, upswept style. Dorcas was very good with hair. Feeling more feminine than she had in weeks, Melania decided to apply a modest amount of makeup as well. Antimony she brushed lightly over her lids, darkening them and accentuating her oddly colored eyes.

  What name to give a color that was not brown, not green, and not exactly hazel? Her father had told her that her eyes were a turmoil of green and amber brown and bright gold. Not an unpleasant mixture, he had assured her, but also not quite standard.

  But her black hair was her glory and she knew it. It might be very well for the women of Rome to wear wigs of blond and red, but in Britannia lighter hair was more often seen, and so her black hair stood out. She loved it. It was true black, she could see that for herself, with not a trace of brown or red or even blue to alter the hue. Admiring herself in a small mirror of beaten silver, she decided to apply a touch of red to her lips and cheeks.