To Love Again - Bertrice Small [155]
“Stay back!” she ordered the two men.
“Don’t be afraid, lambkin,” she heard one say, and then, “She is mine, Greek! Touch her, and I’ll kill you!”
“No woman is worth death, Wulf Ironfist,” the man called Greek said, and he faded into the darkness.
“Are you really the most exclusive whore in Byzantium, Cailin Drusus?” Wulf asked her solemnly.
“No,” she said softly, “but you had best treat me as if I were. Your host is my mortal enemy.”
“Can you walk, or is your ankle seriously injured?”
“I twisted it when I fell from the tree,” she answered, “but it is not broken. Nonetheless, you will have to carry me, and I will struggle to escape you. Justin Gabras would think it odd if I did not.”
“Why?” he demanded.
“We will talk when we have found a private spot. Now quickly! Pick me up before someone else comes along and wonders why we are not already engaged in passion’s battle.”
He came to stand directly in front of her and reached out to touch her face. “Antonia said you were dead, and our child, too.”
“I suspected she might have told you that,” Cailin answered.
“I want to know what happened,” he said.
“Wulf! Please!” she pleaded with him. “Not now! Gabras will soon come after us. He is a terrible and dangerous man.”
There were so many questions swirling about in Wulf’s head. How was it she was alive? And here in Byzantium? But he saw the genuine look of fear in her eyes. Reaching out, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She immediately began to beat at him with her little fists as he carried her through the garden and back to where the others waited.
“Put me down! Put me down, you great brute!” Cailin shrieked. The blood was going to her head and making her dizzy.
“So, our other little rabbit has been caught at last,” she heard Gabras say, and then he came into her line of vision. “You have given us all quite a chase, my dear. Where was she?”
“In a tree,” the Saxon answered. “I wouldn’t have found her at all, but the branch upon which she was perched gave way.”
“I want to see you take her,” Justin Gabras said. “Here. Now!” A goblet of wine was clutched in his hand.
“My public performances are only in the ring,” Wulf Ironfist said quietly.
“I want to see this woman humiliated,” Gabras persisted.
He is dangerous, Wulf thought, and so he replied, “By morning I will have taken this woman in every way possible, and in some ways you have never even considered, my lord. If she is not dead, then she will be incapable of even crawling from the room where we will lie this night.” He turned to Jovian Maxima. “I want a room with no windows so none may be disturbed by her cries. It is to be furnished with a good mattress, and I will want wine. Also a dog whip. Women frequently need to be schooled in their duties, and this woman is too free, I can tell. It is obvious to me she does not know her place, but she will learn it! We Saxons like our females docile, and subservient.”
“By the gods!” Justin Gabras said, a genuine smile lighting his handsome features, “you are a man after my own heart. Give him what he wants, Jovian Maxima! The wench is in good hands.”
A few moments later they were escorted to the same room where Cailin and Casia had earlier been imprisoned. Now, however, the room was newly furnished with a large, comfortable bed upon a dais, several low tables, a pitcher of wine and two goblets, two oil lamps burning sweet-scented oil, a tall floor lamp, and, set at the foot of the mattress, the whip that Wulf had requested.
Jovian, who had accompanied them personally, looked nervously at it, and Wulf grinned at him wickedly.
“Close the door,” the Saxon said softly. “I wish to speak with you.”
Jovian complied with the Saxon’s request, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Just tell Gabras that I threatened you if we were not granted absolute privacy,” Wulf told the man.
“What is it you want of me, gladiator?