As he opened the front door, a wave of music and jovial voices flowed over her. The glow from a fire in the hearth illuminated the simple concrete floor and what she could see of the ocher-painted walls.
Quintus leaned forward and dropped her on her feet. Now that she was free of the darkness, she felt foolish. She dusted off her tunic as she gathered the remnants of her pride.
“Behave,” he warned for her ears only. He swept off his cloak and handed it to her. “Put this on, keep your head down and try not to draw attention to yourself.”
Her glare made it clear she didn’t appreciate taking orders from a minion. She snatched the cloak from his hand and wrapped herself in the warm folds of wool. His delicious scent filled her head, making it twice as hard to calm her nerves.
“Having trouble with your wench, sir?” the innkeeper asked Quintus.
Quintus glanced at her and she smirked back. “She’s spirited,” he told the innkeeper without breaking eye contact with Adiona. “And more trouble than she’s worth, but I’m too fond of her to entrust her to someone else’s care.”
“She’s a beauty.” The innkeeper eyed her suggestively and chuckled when she tugged the hood of the cape up over her head. “She must be a handful if she deserved that bruise. If you think she’ll try to escape, I have shackles in the stable.”
Adiona didn’t hear any more than the rush of blood in her ears. The bravado she’d been slowly gaining back evaporated. She broke eye contact with Quintus and stared blindly at the floor, absently rubbing the faint scars on her wrists as she remembered the burn of restraints chaining her to the cellar wall.
The clink of coins exchanging hands broke through her private torment. She looked up to find Quintus frowning at her.
“Come this way.” Quintus gently grasped her elbow as he led her up a flight of stairs and down an arched corridor. Hanging oil lamps brightened the vaulted space but did little to tame the draft. Simple frescoes of fruit and vines lent bright color to the pale plaster walls.
He opened a door at the end of the hall and checked the space before waving her inside. “It’s safe to leave the door open. Falco will be here soon with your satchel.”
As Pelonia promised, the room was comfortable and well prepared. Someone from the inn had lit several lamps. A sleeping couch formed of concrete and covered with pillows and furs took up one corner. A rough wooden chair, small table, basin and pitcher made up the rest of the furniture.
“There’s no window,” she murmured, trying to keep her dread hidden.
“I asked for a room without one,” Quintus told her. “If we don’t have to worry about intruders entering from the street, it will take fewer of us to guard you at one time. My men will get more rest and be better prepared for the journey tomorrow.”
“Then I suppose it’s adequate,” she said, her throat tightening with renewed panic. She’d traded the coach for another airless box. With all the hours until sunrise how was she to keep her sanity?
“I’m glad you approve.” His dry tone made it clear he didn’t care if she was pleased with the accommodations.
She bristled. “Order a bath for me. Also, see if the inn has a maid I can hire for the night. I’ll need help with my hair.”
“I’ll have Otho and Rufus bring you a bath.” He gripped the back of the chair. “But there will be no maid. For your safety we need as few people as possible to know you’re here. You’ll have to manage on your own.”
She’d never dealt with her own hair before. Unbound, the thick mass hung to her knees. It was already coming loose from the braid Nidia had woven before they left Rome. If the braid wasn’t repaired, it would degrade into a tangled mess. Her ignorance over what should be a simple, personal task made her feel useless, but she’d rather bite off her tongue than admit she was helpless. “You are able to see to your own hair, aren’t you?” he asked, studying her.
She lifted her chin. “Of course.”
Falco’s massive frame filled the doorway, her satchel hanging from one hand. The gladiator always gave her pause. Not only was Falco as big as a titan, his pockmarked face, chipped teeth and scarred, tattooed arms made him look like a monster.
Quintus retrieved the leather satchel and placed it on the table. “I’m going to fetch your meal, my lady. Falco will be right outside your door if you encounter any trouble.”
His assurance did little to soothe her. Falco’s narrowed gaze and disturbing disposition brought her more anxiety. “Close the door,” she told the frightening gladiator. Alone, she had to face down her nightmares, but that was better than having to stare one in the face.
Chapter Six
By the second hour, the inn’s patrons were abed for the night. All was silent except for the occasional squeak or scurry of a rodent.
Quintus shifted on the chair he’d placed in front of Adiona’s chamber. A single oil lamp burned on a low stool beside him, casting tall shadows on the facing wall and down the long corridor where Otho and Rufus kept watch at the top of the stairs.
He pulled his cloak tighter around him. With the fires banked in the inn’s common areas, the cold night air crept through the halls unhindered. Not for the first time, he considered asking Adiona if she had enough furs to keep warm.
Something was wrong with her. It was nearly sunrise and he could still hear her footsteps behind the closed door as she crossed the chamber from one end to the other.
According to Falco, she’d eaten little of the meal Quintus brought earlier. Once the tub and hot water were delivered, she’d taken a long bath. Other than Adiona’s manner being unusually subdued, Falco assured him the night had been uneventful until the pacing began shortly before Quintus arrived for guard duty just after midnight.
So why doesn’t she sleep?
Wide-awake, due to the few fitful hours of rest he’d gotten after eating his own meal, he tried to lose himself in prayers for wisdom and safety. The journey that stretched before them was perilous, their enemy unknown. The miles of road until they reached Ostia were well-traveled, but with no hint of who might be friend or foe, there was no one he could fully trust except the Lord.
Another hour passed before the endless rhythm of Adiona’s steps stopped on the other side of the door. He felt her presence and her indecision, heard the slight rattle when she placed her hand on the latch.
“Quintus?” she asked, her anxiety palpable through the wood. “Have you come back?”
“Yes, my lady.” He stood and placed his palm flat against the rough oak, the strain in her voice more than he could resist. “I’m here. What do you wish?”
“Nothing.” The word was little more than a whisper through the filter of the door. “All is well now.”
An odd ache pierced his chest. “You ought to rest, my lady. You’re safe here. Your enemies can’t harm you.”
He thought he heard her sigh before her footsteps trailed away. He suspected it was his imagination, but she seemed soothed by his presence as she settled for the night. Hopeful she’d find some peace from her worries in slumber, he began to do some pacing of his own.
Certain he’d been too rough with her when they arrived at the inn, he wished he’d been more patient or said something to relieve her distress. She may be spoiled and her vanity irksome, but she was also being hunted by assassins and her friend lay dying in Neopolis.
Whatever her behavior, it was no excuse for him to act like a barbarian. As the head of his family, he’d been raised to treat women with honor. More importantly, as a follower of Christ he knew he should let compassion guide his actions.
A scream shattered the night. The hackles spiked on the back of his neck. He shot to his feet, gladius drawn in instant preparation for battle.
Another scream. This one not as loud but even more tormented than the first. He shoved the chair aside as he beat on the locked door.
“Adiona, are you hurt? Let me in!”
No response. Had someone managed to sneak past Falco and hide in her room? Dre
ad fueled him onward. He shouted for his men. Leading with his shoulder, he threw himself against the door like a battering ram.
After two tries, the latch splintered and the door sprang wide. He rushed across the threshold, noting the pair of lit oil lamps on the table as his gaze circled the chamber for any sign of his lady.
A slight movement drew his attention to the floor at the foot of the bed. His heart twisted painfully when he saw Adiona against the wall in a fearful crouch, a fur pulled over her head like a cowl and clutched tightly under her chin.
His swift steps carried him across the room until the terror in her wide eyes made him pause a few paces in front of her. Uncertain of what to say or do to reassure her, he bent down on one knee and promised she was safe.
Her panic appeared to lessen until her gaze darted to something behind him and her eyes flared with alarm. He spun on the balls of his feet and sprang upright, bracing to fight off an attacker. Instead, he saw his men struggling to bar the doorway against a stream of curious guests.
Exasperated by the gawkers, he sent the inn’s patrons back to their beds. The situation once again under control, he gave swift instructions for Otho to prop the door against the jamb and guard the entry while Rufus located the tools to repair the latch and broken hinge.
Dragging in a ragged breath, Quintus waited for a reaction from Adiona, uncertain what to expect.
Until tonight, he’d had few reasons to question his impression of her. Since his first glimpse of the beauty five months ago, she’d portrayed herself as wanton, superior or insulting. She made it easy to believe she was no more than an icy lioness on the prowl.
Yet three times in as many days he’d seen her veneer melt before his eyes, exposing a vulnerable woman with hurts and fears. He was no liar: she’d always fascinated him, but her haughty manner aided his ability to resist her. As it was, the mysterious woman behind the glacial facade beckoned him like a freezing man drawn to a flame.
As a successful merchant, he’d perfected the art of dividing traders from their many secrets, but Adiona was different. She had nothing to sell and no apparent reason to portray herself as anyone other than whom she claimed to be. Yet, if not for her terror, he was convinced she never would have allowed him to glimpse behind her persona.
So who was the real Adiona? A paradox or a Pandora’s box? A beautiful young woman who sought to protect herself behind a wall of pride and wealth or a flagrant, razor-tongued vixen who delighted in causing trouble?
She tipped her head back against the wall behind her. The fur slipped down and bunched around her slender shoulders, revealing the smooth, slender column of her throat. Her sorrow-filled eyes watched his every move, the bruise from her attack a faint purple on her pale cheek.
Careful not to further frighten her, he made slow progress across the room, half-afraid she might bolt. He offered his hand to help her to her feet. She shook her head and lowered her face against her raised knees. Her entire manner spoke of deep humiliation.
He wanted to say something to reassure her, but the words locked in his throat. There was no friendship between them and he was no mentor to give advice, but he had to do something. The grief etched in her face would haunt his dreams to the end of his days if he walked away and ignored her pain.
Determined not to leave or make matters worse, he sat down beside her, his back to the wall, his legs spread out and crossed at the ankles in front of him.
One of the lamps had gone out on the table and the other burned low, lending just enough light for him to see her lift her head and watch him with trepidation. Her beautiful face was stained with tears. The glow from the corridor illuminated the corner around the broken door, while the rest of the room remained wreathed in darkness.
To his surprise, she slowly wove her arm through his and leaned against his shoulder. He stiffened, regretting the mistake of moving this close to her. Her cinnamon scent clouded his senses, innocently tempting him to brush his lips across the top of her head and steal the kiss he craved, the only one he was ever likely to have from her.
Needing a distraction from the feel of her softness pressed along his side, he tipped his head back against the frescoed wall and listened for any disruptions Otho might need assistance with in the hall.
“I’m sorry,” Adiona murmured into the stillness.
“For what, my lady? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
She hung her head, clearly disagreeing with him.
He lifted her chin with his index finger and waited for her to meet his gaze. “Tell me what frightened you? Did you dream of another attack? If so, I assure you, you’re safe. I’ve given my word, I’ll defend you with my life.”
He felt her tremble. The thick fringe of her lashes dropped to conceal the war of emotions raging in her eyes. “I have…I have nightmares.”
“And today in the raeda? Was it the same nightmare or were you afraid your assassins might find us?”
“The same one.”
Amazed she feared her nightmares more than she feared her assassins, he pulled the fur up over her shoulders, concerned she might catch a chill.
She drew closer as if seeking his warmth. “Is there anything you fear, Quintus?”
A humorless smile curved his lips. He feared a great many things whenever he was in her presence. The loss of his sanity and self-control chief among them. “Everyone is afraid of something from time to time.”
“I know,” she said in a small voice. “But…is there something in particular that frightens you?”
He concentrated on the scratch of her wool tunic against his arm to block out her nearness. It went against the grain to admit his weaker points, but he sensed telling the truth might alleviate some of her torment. He swallowed hard. “I’m afraid of failure, my lady.”
She lifted her face to his, her surprised eyes the color of liquid gold in the fire’s glow. “I can’t imagine you failing at anything.”
Her sincerity made him wince. She didn’t know him. If she did learn the truth about him, she’d curse him as a fraud. His son and wife were dead because of his incompetence. No matter what he did or accomplished with the rest of his life, he’d carry that unforgivable burden to his grave.
Her fingers tightened on his forearm and she lowered her head back to his shoulder. “I believe in you, Quintus. I know you won’t fail me.”
Her trust was a salve to the festering wound in his heart. He deeply regretted his aversion to guarding her when Caros first broached the subject. Since his arrest, he’d questioned God’s will and allowed the pain of his losses to fill his soul with resentment.
Remorse settled over him. He offered a silent prayer for forgiveness. The texts promised the Lord always had a plan for His children. If he trusted God as he claimed, then he had to believe each situation he faced happened for a reason. Was it possible the Lord had nurtured him back to health in a gladiator school just to learn the skills required of him to defend Adiona?
In that moment, earning his freedom became secondary. Adiona needed him and the Lord had seen fit he be made her protector. He vowed not to let either of them down.
“Quintus?” she asked quietly.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not leaving me when I know you must want to.”
There was no self-pity in her tone, just a resigned sense of loneliness that called to the empty recesses of his own heart. “You’re mistaken, my lady. I’ve no wish to be elsewhere. You have my word before God I will be here until you send me away. As long as you need me, I’m yours.”
Adiona woke from an untroubled slumber. Buried under soft furs and cradled by pillows, she was cocooned in comfort and warmth. Eyes still closed, she stretched her tight muscles. Quintus must have put her to bed after she’d fallen asleep against his shoulder. A drowsy smile tugged at her lips. His gentleness seemed like a dream after the many months he’d rebuffed her attempts to win his notice.
A kno
ck sounded on the door. “My lady, it’s time to rise.”
A pleasant frisson of awareness made her smile when she heard Quintus’s deep voice. She opened her eyes and…collided with the dark.
Another knock. “My lady? Did you hear me?”
“The lamps have burned out,” she called, already ill at ease and feeling trapped. After yesterday and the previous night, she had no reserves to battle her memories. Panic simmered just beneath the surface of her control.
Eager to escape her cage, she threw off the covers, instantly regretting the motion as chilled air whispered across her skin and under her silk-lined tunic. She ignored the cold cement floor beneath her feet as she ran toward the ribbon of light around the newly repaired door.
The portal opened before she reached it, illuminating the darkness. Quintus stood before her, one hand on the latch, a fat beeswax candle in the other. “Don’t be frightened.”
Whether he cautioned her to be unafraid of him or the dark, she wasn’t certain, but his presence calmed her rising fear. She didn’t understand her absurd reaction or the intrinsic trust she placed in him, but not even her friend Caros, an undefeated champion, managed to give her more peace of mind.
Quintus handed her the candle. Hoarding the meager warmth, she cupped her palm around the flame.
“I should have left a light burning,” he said. “But after your unease last night I thought it might disrupt your rest when you needed to sleep.”
“That was considerate of you. Thank you.” She lowered her head, embarrassed by his knowledge of her weakness. Having anyone—especially Quintus—aware of her darkest secrets made her feel strangely raw and off kilter. As if he had some sort of power over her that she could never recover.
She moved to the table and lit the three oil lamps. The windowless room filled with a golden glow. She returned her attention to Quintus, struggling for something to say when his effect on her had always been disconcerting.
Neither of them moved. The air between them grew thick with tension. Her eyes roved over him, taking in his tousled black hair and clean-shaven face.