Читать книгу The Protector - Carla Capshaw - Страница 11

“Hurry with my hair, Nidia. I’m late for Caros’s marriage fete. I must be on my way.”

Her nerves stretched taut, Adiona fidgeted with the alabaster cosmetic jars and jewel-encrusted bottles lined across her dressing table. She should have left half an hour ago. She and Pelonia hadn’t started out on the best of terms. If she were unreasonably tardy for the celebration, Caros would never believe she hadn’t intended the slight against his new bride.

And Quintus will think you’re more vain and rude than he already does…

“Hurry, Nidia. I must leave.”

The glow of oil lamps in the polished silver mirror allowed her critical, kohl-rimmed eyes to study her blurry reflection and keep track of the maid’s slow progress with the curling rod.

Thanks to the cosmetics, Adiona’s skin was fashionably pale. A light dusting of rouge across her cheeks and a berry stain on her lips went well with the deep rose color of her embroidered stola. Long gold earrings set with pearls and garnets brushed her shoulders. A matching necklace, rings and bracelets glittered in the firelight. As always, she looked the part of a wealthy matron, deserving both honor and respect.

But you deserve neither, you fraud.

She dabbed scented oil behind her ears and across her inner wrists, but the cinnamon perfume failed to soothe her agitation.

Nidia pinned the last curl in place. “I’m finished, domina. You look beautiful.”

Adiona jumped to her feet, as eager to escape the accusations in her own eyes as she was to be on her way. The quick movement jostled the dressing table. One of the perfume bottles crashed to the floor, spreading shards of glass and sweetly scented oil across the colorful tiles. With an uttered oath, she ordered Nidia to clean up the mess and raced into the hall.

Her steward, Felix, snapped to attention from where he’d been leaning against the frescoed wall. “Salonius Roscius awaits you in the inner courtyard, my lady. I told him you were on your way out for the evening, but he insists he has important news.”

“He’ll have to return tomorrow,” she said without pausing her rapid pace toward the front of the palace. “The meeting with my property manager has made me late.”

“But domina…” Her steward’s steps gained ground behind her. “He says it’s urgent.”

“When is it not urgent, Felix?” she tossed over her shoulder. “And yet, when is it ever?”

“He brings word from your heir.”

“Most likely Drusus means to beg more coin.” She plucked a white silk palla from her maid’s outstretched fingers and swirled the bejeweled shawl around her shoulders without missing a step. “If not for my cousin’s sweet wife and lovely daughters, I swear on Jupiter’s stone, I’d never send that worthless leech another copper as.”

Without warning, the beaded curtain separating the corridor from the inner courtyard parted. Salonius’s large frame filled the doorway. The epitome of a Roman upper-class male, he was freshly shaven and clothed in white linen. Dark curls were cropped close to his head and his manicured nails suggested many hours of leisure spent at the baths.

“My lady.” He bowed and gave her one of the quick smiles she was certain he practiced in any reflective surface he came across. Why so many women found his studied seduction attractive, she couldn’t guess.

“Salonius,” she acknowledged with a quick nod. “You’ll have to excuse me. I must be on my way.”

His hand snaked out and caught her wrist in a light but unbreakable grip. “Surely you can take a few moments to see an old friend, my sweet?”

She tried to shake off his touch, but he held firm. “Unhand me,” she said loftily.

“In a moment.” He brushed his wet lips over her knuckles.

Repulsed, she yanked free of his hold and wiped the back of her hand on her stola.

Torchlight lent him the feral, yet amused, appearance of a hyena. “When are you going to stop this charade and admit you wish to wed me as much I want you to?”

“I suppose when the River Styx runs dry and Vulcan’s forging fires extinguish.”

His laughter echoed through the domed corridor. “Don’t lie, precious. Everyone knows you’re just waiting until I fall to my knees and beg for your hand.”

“I’ve no doubt everyone and the little wife you keep hidden away in the country would find that most amusing. As for me, I’d think you quite foolish.”

His laughter faded, replaced by an ardent seriousness that caught her off guard. “You know I’d divorce her like this—” he snapped his fingers “—if you’d agree to be my wife.”

“Then your wife has nothing to fear from me.”

His expression soured as he slowly circled her. “You’re off to the Viriathos reception, I imagine.”

“Yes.” Aware that wealthy, yet idle, men like Salonius both revered and despised the gladiators, she hid a smirk at his disgruntled tone and turned to leave.

“Wait.” He held out a scroll as if it were a treat meant for an eager puppy. “I returned from Paestum by way of Neopolis this afternoon. You’ll want to read this.”

“Leave it with Felix. I’ll see to it when I return.”

“No, Drusus has important news. It can’t wait.”

Resigned and conscious of the passing time, she swiped the scroll from his outstretched hand and hurried away before he delayed her further. Outside, she cringed at the late hour. The sun had already set, its red-and-gold streaks fading into a deep purple sky.

A brisk breeze ruffled the curls piled high on her head and flowing over her shoulders as she crossed the columned portico to the litter awaiting her. Titus, her lead guard, drew the transport’s heavy drapes aside. Her gold bracelets jangled as she climbed inside and breathed the scent of cloves her slaves had used to freshen the luxurious cushions. “Let’s be on our way, Titus. Caros will never speak to me again if I don’t show my face soon.”

The litter lurched as four burly slaves lifted the conveyance and prepared for travel. Titus gave orders for her three other guards to take their positions surrounding the group.

The light dimmed as they carried her from her palace’s torch-lit courtyard and into the dark streets of the Palatine Hill. With no lantern to read Drusus’s message, she adjusted the heavy silk of her embroidered stola and reclined against the fringed feather pillows and mountain of furs.

“Gods below, I hate weddings.” Only for Caros could she be swayed within a league of a marriage fete. She despised all reminders of her own marriage. Even now, eleven years later, she remembered the terror and helplessness she’d suffered that hideous day. And worse, later that night when Crassus ordered his guards to beat her for failing him.

A shudder of disgust rippled through her. Her fingers tightened on the scroll and she squeezed her eyes shut, glad the wicked old toad was dead. Reminding herself she was no longer that helpless twelve-year-old girl, but an independent woman in charge of her own life, she pushed the hateful memories to the back of her mind.

As the litter passed deeper into the maze of city streets, the sound of her slaves’ swift steps mingled with the aroma of cook fires and the local inhabitants’ bursts of laughter or occasional arguments.

Pleased by the litter’s quick pace, she willed herself to relax. She’d spent the last several days dreading tonight. Given Caros and Pelonia’s fondness for their Christian slave, Quintus was sure to be in attendance. Her attraction to him was over, she vowed, but the sting of his insults still smarted. With no desire to be further humiliated, she planned to avoid him at all costs.

Twisting one of the long curls flowing over her shoulder, Adiona tamped down her melancholy mood and forced her thoughts back to Caros. The fact that her friend was a Christian amazed her. When Caros confessed his belief in the illegal sect and their crucified God, he’d known she would keep his secret, just as he’d kept various secrets for her over the years. But she had trouble understanding why he’d put his life on the line when all gods were the same, and like most people, not to be trusted.

The litter slowed. She sat up. They couldn’t have arrived already. They’d passed through the city gate and turned onto the lonely stretch of road leading to Caros’s gladiator school mere moments ago. They had at least half a mile left to travel.

“Halt!” a commanding voice ordered.

The litter stopped. She reached for the curtain, annoyed by the delay that might squander the good time they’d made since leaving Palatine Hill. “Domina, stay inside,” Titus warned in a low voice meant for her ears alone. “We’ve met with a band of street rats. There may be trouble and you’re easier to defend if you remain hidden.”

“Let us pass,” another of her guards demanded of the thieves. “We’re guests of the lanista, Caros Viriathos. Cause us no trouble and we may allow you to live.”

Tension sizzled through the night. The sound of ominous footsteps penetrated the thin layers of cloth cocooning her. A twinge of anxiety snaked through the darkness and across the back of her neck. She fought a desire to pull the drape aside and survey the situation, but she knew better than to endanger her men by ignoring Titus’s instructions.

Her grip tightened on the scroll in her hand. She’d chosen her guards with care. All were ex-military men and formidable fighters. Along with the four other slaves carrying the litter, there should be plenty of hands to protect her and defend each other.

“Now!” someone barked. Yelling exploded through the blackness from all sides. Fear ripped through her. She screamed Titus’s name.

“Stay inside, my lady!”

The litter swayed violently, tossing her against the poles supporting the transport’s roof. She felt herself falling just before the litter hit the road with a bone-jarring thud. She fell back, the thick stack of pillows saving her from injury.

Outside, metal clashed against metal. “Kill the woman!” an enemy shouted.

Terror raked through her. She scrambled upright, hobbled by the furs and pillows snatching at her feet.

The clang of weapons grew louder. The number of strangers’ voices outnumbered those of her own men. A sickening death cry erupted beside her. Shaking with fright, she bit back a scream.

Titus stuck his head through the drapes; his blood-spattered face increased her terror. “Domina, hurry! It’s you they mean to have!”

Trembling, she rushed to leave the litter just as someone reached inside from behind and seized hold of her palla. A shriek burst from her throat. She cast off the garment and burst through the drapes onto the shadowed street. Titus’s battered form towered over her. The strong odor of his sweat stung her nostrils. Quick, sideways glances told her they were hemmed in on both sides. Dilapidated buildings loomed behind them.

“Domina,” Titus whispered near her ear. “When I say run, follow the alley behind us. Appius and I will buy time, then follow you. Don’t stop until you reach the school.”

“It’s the woman we want.” One of the attackers stepped forward from the pack. “Give her to us and we may allow you to live.”

Hearing their leader mimic her guard’s earlier threat, the pack of rats skittered with laughter.

Titus shoved her behind him, the sword he held in his free hand raised to fight. “What has the lady done to deserve the dishonor of being assaulted in the street?”

Adiona strained to see through the dark. Her other remaining guard, Appius, stood a few paces forward and to her left. Moonlight glinted off her attackers’ knives and the broken glass vessels they’d fashioned into weapons. The bodies of her men littered the barren road. Bile scratched her throat. Her stomach rolled with sickening shock and horror. Pity for her sorely outnumbered guards rose to choke her. Judging by the number of dead assailants that covered the ground, her men had fought with all their might.

Her teeth chattering uncontrollably, she turned back to back with Titus and located the narrow alley that offered her last hope for escape.

Impatient to finish her off, the rats moved closer by degrees like a tightening noose.

Titus’s muscles flexed against her shoulder blades. “Domina,” he hissed, “Run!”

She hiked her tunic to her knees and raced. Mindless with fear, she sped down the alley without thought of what awaited her at the other end. Shouts raged and weapons clashed. Fast footsteps gained ground behind her, drowning her senses with panic.

She slipped on a wet spot and fell, scraping the fingers wrapped around the scroll. The smell of dust and mildew invaded her nose and gagged her. She shot to her feet. Hands clawed her shoulder and the loose curls tumbling to her waist. Her captor yanked her head back, nearly snapping her neck. She wheeled on the man, wincing from the pain of having her hair torn from her scalp. Her tunic ripped. The night air chilled her shoulders.

She raised the scroll and beat her attacker with the hard wooden knob at the end of the rolled parchment. She kicked with furious intent, catching the rat in the shin, the knee, the groin. He doubled over, shrieking with pain. More footsteps. Yelled profanities and insults shot through the night. The pack continued their chase. Her fingers tightened on the scroll now that she realized it made a decent weapon. Lungs burning from the added exertion, she ran ever harder, her bracelets rattling with each step like a frantic tambourine.

At the end of the alley, she turned right, disheartened to find another desolate road. Terror spurred her onward. The shouts of her assailants grew louder, closer. Her mouth dry, she panted for air, her chest tight and aching. Fatigue threatened to claim her.

Up ahead, torchlight glowed in the distance and began to grow brighter. The school! She ran toward the iron gates and the guards’ darkened silhouettes. Spurred on by the sight, she summoned her second wind and pressed onward.

“I’ve got you, wench!”

Rough hands grabbed her around the neck. Her scream died in the vermin’s tight grasp. She felt herself tumble. Pain exploded down her side where she landed, her face scraped the road’s hard pavers.

The fall dislodged her attacker. She lurched upright, kicking the scum in the stomach, the face. The faint voices of Caros’s men filled her with hope. She bolted toward the shelter in the distance.

With a rush of gratitude, she arrived at the gate. The party’s music drifted on the cool night air. Weak with relief, she closed her eyes and sagged against the bars, pleading for help. Her labored breaths shook her whole body, clanking the scroll’s wooden ends against the cold metal bars in her grasp. “My lady!”

Her heart dropped. No gods, please, not Quintus! Her eyes widened with dread even as they roamed over his tall frame and broad shoulders to ascertain his wounds had healed as well as her steward reported.

“Guard, open the gate!” Quintus ordered. “You, there, fetch your master.”

Why did the Fates toy with her? Of all the men in the ludus, why did he have to be the one to find her scorned and disgraced?

In Rome, no decent woman of rank was attacked in the street. People would blame her, judge her, believe she’d done something to deserve the dishonor. Quintus would be no different. How could he be when her shame supported the abysmal opinion he already held of her?

Hot tears burned her eyes.

The gate rattled open. She crossed into the courtyard and flinched as the heavy metal bars slammed shut behind her. A torch’s flame reflected in Quintus’s intense, unreadable gaze. Raw and exposed beneath his stoic inspection, she lifted her chin.

Her lips quivered as she grappled to maintain the last shreds of her dignity. Like her torn garments, the careful facade she cultivated to protect herself hung in tatters.

“My lady, what happened?”

His deep voice washed over her with a gentleness that unraveled the last of her control. Stripped of her pride, the armor she hid behind, she wished her attackers had caught her and finished her off.

The tears she’d fought spilled down her cheeks in hot rivulets, burning her with humiliation to the depths of her soul. She swiped at the moisture and swung away, furious with her weakness and that he should be the one to witness her shattered state.

She heard Quintus groan behind her. His footsteps crunched on the gravel. Assuming he’d gone to find someone else to deal with the embarrassment of her situation, she wrapped her arms around her middle, her right hand locked around the scroll.

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 blanched. “Nothing!”

Quintus stepped forward. His grip tightened on the scroll as protective instincts surged through him.

“Caros.” Pelonia stood and moved between her husband and Adiona before Quintus could reach them. Her calm presence defused the escalating tension. “Adiona is the one who’s been hurt. Let’s not add to her pain. No matter what she may or may not have done, it doesn’t warrant murder.”

Caros grunted in agreement, even though he seemed unconvinced.

Quintus stepped back to his place beside a potted palm. Rife with irritation, he watched Adiona, disturbed by the sway of his emotions and intentions toward a woman whose reputation was so sour that even her closest confidant wasn’t surprised someone wished to harm her.

Never in his life had he been as irrational or distracted from his own goals. It was as though he rode a pendulum in a tempest. One moment his anger burned against the widow, her insults, and worse, her effect on him. The next he’d willingly vow to protect her. He was becoming a stranger to himself.

Eager to leave Adiona and the confusion she churned in him, he remembered the scroll he held and offered its return.

She waved the message away. “You open it. It’s from my heir.”

“Drusus?” Caros sneered.

She nodded and cupped her forehead in her palm. “Read it…if you’re able, Quintus.”

He grinned at her second failed attempt to insult him. He noted the serpent pressed into the wax seal as he broke it and scanned the script. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

“More?” Caros said, rounding his desk.

Adiona stood. “What? Is he whining for more silver?”

Quintus noticed the disdain in her tone and wondered why she’d chosen an heir she held in contempt. “The message was drafted three days ago. It seems your heir’s wife has taken ill. The physician fears she’ll pass on before the week is out. Drusus requests you attend her funeral.”

Adiona paled. “Oh, gods, not Octavia.” She sat heavily as though her knees were too weak to hold her slight weight.

Seeing her grief, Quintus’s heart twisted with compassion. Again he wanted to comfort her, but he crushed the urge, determined not to lose himself in her pain-filled eyes. “For your own safety, you mustn’t leave these walls.”

“I agree,” said Caros. “You’ll have to send your condolences.”

“No, I must go.”

Pelonia crouched before the widow and cast a silencing glance over her shoulder to quiet both men. “Don’t trouble yourself further tonight,” she told Adiona in a gentle voice. “There’s nothing more you can do. Come, let’s tend your wounds and see you’re made comfortable. Tomorrow, once you’re rested, you can decide the best course.”

Quintus watched Adiona’s narrow back until Pelonia led her down a long torch-lit corridor and out of sight. A helpless yearning to soothe her warred with his need to guard his own interests. Only a fool would allow himself to be drawn to the temperamental shrew or embroiled in her many problems. Yet he’d known since the first time he’d seen her months ago that she was dangerous to his peace of mind. Tonight proved just how susceptible he was, both to her beauty and to her vulnerability. How could he continue to resist his attraction, as he must, if he didn’t keep his distance?

He handed the scroll to Caros, disturbed to realize the lanista had been studying him again. “What do you plan to do?” he asked.

Caros shook his head. “I haven’t decided.”

“Do you really think someone means to kill her?”

“I don’t know. Adiona can be…difficult. She doesn’t act or hold her tongue like a proper woman should. I’ve seen her flay senators to the bone with a few well-aimed barbs. I can believe she’s done something to make the wrong person angry enough to seek vengeance.”

“Do you suspect anyone in particular? What about her heir? Neither of you seemed to think well of him.”

“Drusus is the logical choice, but I have my doubts,” Caros said. “It’s true her cousin is a leech, but he’s also a coward. If he wanted Adiona dead, he’d ply her with poison, not warn her of his intentions by having her attacked in the streets. He’d fear her dishonor might rub off on him. He’s too fastidious for that.”

“Unless his inheritance is more valuable to him than his self-respect or reputation.”

“True.”

Pelonia returned, her soft features marred by concern. Caros stood and met her in the middle of the room. “How is Adiona?”

“As well as can be expected. She’s much calmer than I would be in the same situation. I suppose she’s trying to put on a brave face, but I suspect her placid demeanor is no more than a thin layer of ice covering a turbulent winter pond.”

Quintus silently agreed. He’d seen the widow’s icy facade melt in the courtyard. The memory of her pain washed through him until an unbearable need to seek her out and make certain of her welfare sent him heading for the door.

“Quintus?” Caros stopped him. “Where are you going?”

His hands curled into fists. Where was he going? Adiona wasn’t his woman to protect or care for. He had no rights to her. Indeed, he was probably the last person she wanted to see after the way he’d insulted her. His jaw clenched, he scraped his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Pelonia eyed him warily. He wished he could head back to the barracks. He cleared his throat. “Do you think Lady Leonia will listen to reason or insist on attending the funeral?”

“When I left her, she seemed determined to go,” Pelonia said.

Caros frowned. “I’m not surprised. Adiona cares for few people, but those who earn her trust have a friend for life. Octavia happens to be one of those she loves.”

“I don’t know her well,” Pelonia offered, “but Adiona seems stubborn enough to strike out on her own if need be.”

Fear spiked through Quintus. He suspected Adiona was determined, proud and rebellious enough to leave the safety of the ludus just to prove no one cowed or controlled her.

“She just might.” Caros caught Quintus’s gaze. “I’ll do my best to convince her to stay until I can make inquiries and discover her attackers if possible. But if she insists on leaving, I’ll send guards to keep her as safe as I can.”

Pelonia sighed. “I suppose you’ll send Alexius?”

“No,” Caros said gravely. “I think Quintus is the best man for the task.”

Relief and dread filled Quintus with equal measure. He closed his eyes, both savoring and despising the thought of being with Adiona for days, perhaps weeks on end.

Pelonia gasped. “You can’t. He’s still recovering from his fight in the arena.”

I’m fine.

“He’s fine,” Caros said. “Haven’t you noticed his limp is gone?”

Quick to begin making plans, Quintus listened with half an ear while the two of them discussed him as though he weren’t there.

“Yes,” Pelonia answered. “But he has no experience as a bodyguard.”

He scowled, not happy to hear how weak Pelonia saw him. Did Adiona share the same view?

“No matter,” Caros continued. “He has everything he needs. He’s a natural leader. The other men I send for added defense will have no trouble following him. And if his time in the ring taught us anything, it’s that he’s intelligent, resourceful and battle-ready. He’s strong and depends on the Lord for direction. We’ll send them out in secrecy. If we’re fortunate, they’ll reach Neopolis before her attackers guess she’s left our midst.”

Satisfied to realize Caros didn’t consider him a useless weakling, he had to admit the plan held merit. Of course, Caros didn’t know about Quintus’s gnawing fascination for the widow or the constant battle he waged to keep from handing her his heart on a plate.

Caros faced him. “What say you, Quintus? Are you willing to be Adiona’s protector in exchange for your freedom?”

“I’d rather take my chances in the ring.”

A smile twitched at the edge of Caros’s mouth before he smothered it beneath a scowl. “I’ve already denied your request to reenter the games.”

They both knew Caros possessed the power to reverse the decision and grant his approval. They also knew he would not. His friend cared more about Quintus’s life than he did. Caros knew he longed for freedom, but wouldn’t walk away without paying his debt. It was obvious the lanista saw the situation as a lesser of two evils, a way for both of them to win.

The anger he constantly fought because of his powerless position nearly blinded him. “I suppose I have little choice, then,” he said tightly.

“Very little,” Caros agreed.

“Then if you don’t mind, I’ll head back to the barracks. I have much to prepare.”

In the corridor, he leaned against the wall and reined in his temper. The melodious music and laughter of the party mocked his agitated mood. Not for the first time, he wondered what he’d done to provoke God’s wrath on him.

“Do you really think that was wise?” Pelonia’s voice carried into the hall. “What?”

“Forcing Quintus and Adiona into such close proximity. Have you seen the two of them together?”

Caros chuckled. “Why do you think I thought of Quintus? Who better to protect a woman than the man who can’t keep his eyes off her?”