Her Roman's Hand Page 5

  Decimus smiled. “You are a good man, Master.”

  “You are wrong, Decimus.” He shook his head. “I am desperate.”

  * * * *

  A few minutes later, Decimus had his conveyance ready and waiting.

  He hoisted his tall frame into it then he sat there, drumming his fingers on the padded seat while he waited for Decimus to get in.

  The curtains parted. A servant helped Decimus inside. It was a big climb for the elderly little man, his movements slow.

  “What took you so long?” he snapped. Each second that went by meant that the woman would slip further away from him. So would the book.

  Facing the rear of the litter, his body shot forward in the seat when the vehicle moved. Soon, they were on their way to the Graecostadium, travelling at a steady gait.

  “I’m sorry I was tardy, Excellency, but I didn’t want anyone on the outside to overhear where we’re going. I instructed your lead bearers to take another route.”

  He placed a fisted hand on his thigh, pushing it against the muscles in his leg. Every connective tissue in his body grew taut with resistance. He noticed a strained look on Decimus’ face. “Decimus, forgive my outburst. My mind is on the woman.”

  “As it should be.” Decimus angled his head. “We should discuss our strategy.”

  “What strategy?”

  “If Corvus senses even the slightest weakness in you, he’ll drive up the price.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll pay whatever I have to.”

  “It could bankrupt you. How would that help this woman?”

  Damn, he hated when Decimus was right. “I’ll borrow money from my cousin.”

  Decimus sat forward, a scowl on his face. “Excellency, do you really want your family involved in this? If your cousin knew what you desired, don’t you think he’d make trouble? He’s always been envious and tries to covet what you have.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” He raised a brow, realising that Decimus was correct once more.

  “The gossip around town is that this flaxen-haired woman speaks a foreign language, like the one you taught me and Appia.”

  “So?”

  Decimus stroked his chin, his face thoughtful. “We could say that we are looking for a tutor for your nephew.”

  “I don’t have any nephews.”

  “Corvus wouldn’t know that. Besides, a woman who speaks a different tongue could be useful as a teacher, or anything else.”

  He nodded. “An excellent idea.”

  “It is a sound reason for purchase, as well as not making you appear too vulnerable.”

  “You never told me who bids against me.”

  “That we won’t know until we get there, but I’ve requested a private viewing of the woman. You and you alone will see if she is the one you seek.”

  Hot blood surged to his groin when he thought about being alone with the woman again.

  He’d relish every second.

  * * * *

  Sometime later, one of Lyla’s captors came back. He released her wrists from the shackles.

  Blood poured into her numb arms and wrists. She cried out in pain while her limbs sprang to life. She wiggled her fingers, hoping the movement would quell the awful feeling of pins and needles running through them.

  Now, with her arms at her sides, she could breathe properly again. She took in huge breaths, but the oxygen rush made her head spin.

  The man with the jagged scar watched her movements, settling his one good eye on her naked chest.

  You dirty son of a bitch. “Like what you see?” Her voice filled with scorn despite her wooziness.

  She attempted to pull her shredded clothing over her bare breasts, but he slapped her hands away.

  He spat a stream of brown fluid. It hit the floor of her cage. “Meretricis!” he shouted.

  She reared back, his spittle splashing her legs. Lyla dearly wished she knew what that word meant. She used her single defence, her mouth. “Bastard,” she hissed.

  He may not have understood the word, but he did recognise her tone. His face clouded with anger. Then he smiled, revealing his black, rotted teeth.

  Let him look his fill. The minute he lets me out of here, I’ll scratch out his other eye.

  He opened the door to the cage and dragged her out.

  She clawed his cheek with her French-manicured nails, catching the corner of his good eye.

  Blood dripped down his face.

  “Arghhhhhhhhh!” he cried, fingering his injured skin. He grabbed her hair and wrenched her forward, pushing her towards the stairway.

  Nausea rolled in her belly. Her legs almost buckled on the steps.

  He shoved her inside a small room containing a wooden table. Then he placed a placard around her neck. He got down on his haunches and grabbed her right foot, scraping several chalk lines across the top. Soon, her entire instep was covered in fine, white powder.

  Then he left the room.

  She stood perfectly still, not daring to move. Her lower lip quivered, but Lyla refused to give it to terror. She walked over to the door that he exited through. When she tried to open it, the damn thing wouldn’t budge.

  She turned around, noticing an opening in the wall. It was a horizontal slit, big enough to look through. She peered into that opening, her gaze met by a pair of dark eyes. Dark, fine hair lined the person’s angular chin, making her realise a man watched her through that opening.

  She sucked in a breath, afraid to release it.

  Soon, footsteps echoed outside. Lyla turned, her hand going to her throat, where her placard dangled from a crude, rough rope.

  The door to the room slid open.

  For a few seconds, she just stood there, not sure what to do. Then her eyes widened as recognition dawned.

  “Oh, my God!” She placed her palm against her mouth, but her hand shook uncontrollably.

  In the next instant, she had her arms around the man’s neck.

  “I’m so g-glad it’s you.” She couldn’t stop blubbering. “I d-didn’t think I’d see you again.”

  The man didn’t release her at first. He stood there quietly, allowing her to cry.

  She moved her face from his shoulder then his eyes met hers once more. She pounded his chest with her fists. “Where have you been?”

  He stilled her movements, grasping her wrists in his large hands, and she cried out in pain. He looked down at her scraped, bruised flesh. “I could kill Corvus for doing this to you.” He spoke in English, his voice low and menacing.

  He examined each wrist, holding them in the palm of one hand, stroking the fingers of his other hand across her chafed, raw, skin.

  His touch was electrifying, sending shockwaves of need through her body. Tears pooled in her eyes. His caress was the first gentle, kind act she experienced since she arrived in this strange, terrible place.

  “Wh-who is this Corvus person?”

  The man shook his head. “You don’t know?”

  “How would I?”

  “Corvus accepted my bid.”

  “Your—bid? For what?”

  “You.”

  She froze. “Do you mean to tell me, I’m for sale, and this Corvus is doing the selling?”

  “That is correct.”

  Her mouth hung open.

  “Do as I say, Lyla,” he bent and whispered in her ear, “and you’ll leave here alive with me, but from now on, you will address me as Master.”

  Her chest heaved, despite her relief at being rescued. “Like that’s likely to happen.”

  “Don’t push me to do something I don’t want to, Lyla.”

  Her name, uttered in his deep voice made her want to cry all over again. “Your name is Mark Hardin, but I should address you as ‘Master’?”

  His face tightened, but she pushed on. “You own that bookstore. Or was that all bullshit?” She trembled. “Now, you’re here to bid on me, which means, you’re going to buy me. Is that correct?” She lifted her chin, it quivered, despite her
show of bravado. “I’m not for sale.”

  He spoke through clenched teeth. “Here you will address me properly. It will be Master.” He grasped her shoulders between his large hands. “And you have no say in what is about to happen. We are being watched,” he murmured, nodding towards the opening in the wall.

  Lyla noticed the scene before her. Several men stood on the other side of that viewer, their gazes locked with hers.

  “I have paid much for you, but Corvus would seal the bargain and give you to me only if I allowed him and his cohorts to watch my inspection of your body. A body,” his voice dipped, “which he has assured me is ripe and luscious.” His eyes sought her bared breasts.

  “Go to hell.” She clenched her jaw. Her hands fisted by her sides. “I won’t let you do that to me.” What she wouldn’t give to take a swing at him!

  He stepped behind her, running his hands over her shoulders. “I will give you back to Corvus if you continue to defy me. It will not go well for you.”

  The thought of them putting their hands on her again sent shivers down her spine.

  “Strip,” he commanded, his deep voice settling in the juncture between her thighs.

  “N-no.” Her voice wobbled. “I won’t.” She moved away from him.

  He folded his arms across his chest. Here in this small room he looked tough and commanding, his tall frame filling the space. His sun-kissed, olive-toned skin stood out against the stark white colour of the long tunic he wore. A red cloak swathed his body, held in place by a brooch at his shoulder.

  “Strip, or I will do it for you. It is your choice.” His commanding tone brooked no argument.

  Lyla thought quickly. If she didn’t do as he said, he’d give her to those men behind the peephole.

  She discarded her shredded bra and tank top then unbuttoned her shorts. She whisked them and her hip-hugging panties down her thighs. She tossed them at Mark and he caught them deftly in one large hand.

  The men behind the wall laughed.

  Lyla stood there, wearing nothing but her nakedness. Her ears buzzed, but she willed herself to remain upright.

  Mark grasped her shoulders gently, turning her so that she faced him. His tender touch on her shoulders made her vulnerable. Had her mind become so twisted, was she so insane, that she sought to bond with him in some crazy way? A strange feeling of anticipation filled her. Perhaps her mind had folded, and she’d gone insane, but God help her, she wanted to preen before him…

  He glanced at her foot marked with the chalk and nodded. “Ah, so you are new, my sweet. That is good.” He cocked his head. “Then again, I must be sure.”

  A shuddering sob escaped her.

  “I won’t hurt you.” He lowered his voice, the deep timber soothing. “But you must trust me. If you struggle, I’ll be forced to give these men the show they expect.”

  He stroked her hair. “Is gero haud pillai.” He spoke in that strange language, directing his comment towards the other side of the wall. His mouth lifted, aiming his next comment in English, at her. “If you wear no cap, then it means Corvus guarantees you are special. I would like to see just how unique you are.”

  Her eyes widened.

  Again, he addressed the men behind the wall. “Tamen ego must exsisto certus.”

  She heard the men snort and laugh.

  “I have to examine you.” He spoke again in a low, soothing tone. “If I don’t, Corvus won’t think my bid is legitimate.”

  A sick, sinking feeling landed in the pit of her belly.

  “Just stand still. I won’t hurt you, but it must be done.” He ran a finger down her arm.

  She shuddered, but not from cold. The heat from his touch made her flesh burn. Her shuddering turned violent.

  The men behind the wall laughed again, then they cheered, speaking in their strange tongue, their voices raised high.

  “Ignore them,” Mark told her. “Focus on something else.”

  She didn’t dare look at him, choosing to stare at a spot on the wall behind him.

  The minute he stroked her breasts, she almost fell to her knees. The smooth pads of his fingers glided across her nipples. They pebbled into hard little buds. His touch travelled clear down to her pussy, despite her efforts to fight it.

  Mark ran his fingers down her back. He stroked her bottom cheeks, lifting them in his hands, sliding his thumbs up, then down her flesh.

  She heard the men’s rumbling laughter and their crude tone, even if she didn’t understand what they said.

  Mark whispered in her ear, his voice raspy, “If I could, I would kill them all.” His warm breath circled her lobe. “I would be alone with you and do this, like I’ve dreamt of doing ever since I met you.”

  Her knees almost buckled, but he held a firm grip beneath her elbows.

  His hands returned to her backside. She sucked in a breath when his finger skimmed the cleft between her ass cheeks.

  He spoke in a hushed tone. “This is expected. If I don’t do this, they will think something is amiss.” He stroked her bottom again. “I won’t penetrate you, but I need you to cry,” he whispered. “That way, they will think I have punctured your solum.”

  He slid his finger down the cleft between her butt cheeks.

  She whimpered, not because he caused her pain, but because his touch made her feel so damned good.

  The men laughed and continued to watch through the viewer.

  Mark left his index finger there, placing the tip of it against the space between her ass cheeks, but he kept his promise and didn’t push it inside. Then he shouted something in that foreign tongue.

  Lyla heard more snickers from the men.

  He ran his thumb along her jaw. “This will soon be over.”

  She could fight him, and give them a show they’d expect, but that would cause her more pain or even death. The will to survive grew in her like a giant tidal wave. It crashed over her, and when it receded, she realised it had filled her with inner strength.

  He led her to a table. Then he placed his hands around Lyla’s waist and lifted her, her bottom contacting with the rough wood.

  “Lay back,” he commanded. “Spread your legs.”

  He was mad, to tell her to do such a thing. Tears filled her eyes. She couldn’t stem their flow. She wiped them away, listening while the men jeered. Tunnelling deep within herself, she pulled out all her reserves.

  Back in that bookstore, she had wanted to know what Mark’s touch would feel like. Be careful what you wish for…

  “Ego sum iens ut inspect suus vallum!” Mark said, loud enough for the men outside the viewing room to hear.

  Vallum. She comprehended that word, damn it. He would inspect her pussy, and those men would see him do it.

  She knew Mark’s gentle touch now, but she couldn’t trust what he’d do if she fought him. A tiny part of her didn’t want to. Shame washed over her. Her emotions careened wildly. Anger, humiliation, and desire warred with each other.

  She settled her body on the table, the wood scraping her back. All she could see was the ceiling.

  “Open your legs.”

  She hesitated for just a minute, then lifted them onto the table, spreading them wide.

  He placed his palm against her pussy. His open hand brushed the curls there, tickling her. He massaged her clit, running the pad of his middle finger against it.

  She sucked in a breath, her orgasm building, surprised that he could arouse her to passion, despite her precarious circumstances. In her mind, she fought the feeling, guilt mingling with her desire. How could she feel such exquisite sensations? She should be fighting him.

  But the more he rubbed, the wetter she became. Her back arched, her nails digging into the wood. Then he pulled his hand away before she came. Her frustrated cry made the men laugh again.

  Tears filled her eyes. They spilled over, landing on her cheeks.

  Mark lifted her from the table, setting her on her feet. He removed the large, red cape-like material from his shoulder
s and swirled it around hers. It settled across her body, his exotic, unique smell captured in the soft cloth.

  Lyla had trouble concentrating. Everything took on a surreal quality. She slipped peacefully into madness, where no one and nothing could hurt her.

  No! Her mind clashed against the feeling, knowing that if she gave in, she’d be lost forever.

  She had to fight—even if her only ammunition was her words. She told herself to struggle, to continue the battle against the danger around her. Persistence and perseverance would be her weapons.

  Mark hustled her from the small room and down a narrow corridor. Outside, he brought her to a litter attended by several men. She stopped dead in her tracks.

  Who travelled like this?

  Once, she rode in a small carriage drawn by a man on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey. It had been novel at the time, and saved her from walking the boardwalk’s vast length.

  Now, gazing at the men shackled to the vehicle before her, shame washed over her when she recalled that ride in that litter on Atlantic City’s boardwalk. These men who stood chained to this litter looked tired and haggard, their heads bent, their bodies sagging. The hot sun beat down upon their heads. Perspiration tracks lined their broad backs. It flowed down their skin in large rivulets, making their wide backs shiny.

  She glanced to her left, then to her right, looking for the perfect opportunity to make a run for it.

  “Don’t.” Mark had a firm grip on her upper arm. “Runaway slaves must live like fugitives. They’re always caught…and killed.”

  She rounded on him. “I’m a slave?”

  “Precisely.”

  Anxiety filled her gut. Her stomach ached with it. If she got inside that litter, she didn’t know what would happen to her or if she’d ever be heard from again.

  “It is your choice, Lyla. Run away, and my men will hunt you down and bring you back. Your punishment will be severe.” He nodded towards the vehicle. “You decide. Punishment, or a comfortable ride home, where I can attend to your wounds.”

  How strange…he spoke of home like she should remember it, as though she resided there with him. Or perhaps he just messed with her mind as a way to draw her into his confidence.