Free The Lion and the Lark by Doreen Owens Malek Page A

arms?
         That was clearly not going to happen.
         “I know that you are here to do your duty...” he began again, and at the sound of the last word, pietas , she threw back the muslin sheet and stood up, pulling the silken shift over her head.
         Her movement was so swift that Claudius could do nothing but stare as she dropped the garment to the floor.
         Her skin was flawless, glowing, her hair a molten stream over her shoulders.  Her breasts, partially concealed by the long tresses, were full and ripe, tipped with brownish nipples, which puckered as they reacted to the chilly air.  Her slim waist flared out to womanly hips which tapered to a russet pubic patch and then long, graceful legs.
         “I am ready to do my duty,” she said spitefully, watching him with sea colored eyes that slowly filled with tears.
         She was trembling and obviously frightened, but so lovely in the firelight that his hands curled into fists as he suppressed the urge to touch.  His mouth went dry and he looked away deliberately, snatching her shift from the floor.
         “Put it back on,” he said harshly, handing the gown to her.  “I’m not going to rape you.”
         Bronwen did as he asked, then said, “Why not?  Rape seems to be a common Roman practice.  One of your countrymen raped my mother before he killed her.  I was only a child at the time but I remember the scene very well.”
         He looked at her, not answering right away, as if searching for the correct thing to say.
         “We are not all the same,” Claudius finally replied quietly, feeling a little more in control with her covered up again.  But not much; the memory of her beauty was too vivid.  “No matter what you may think you know about us I am not in the habit of taking unwilling women, and I don’t plan to start now. However long this...arrangement between us lasts, I will never force you.”
         Bronwen didn’t know how to react.  She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it was not this.
         “I’ve brought the pallet from my bed in the barracks and I can set it on the floor before the fire.  I’ll sleep there.”
         Bronwen was silent.
         He sat looking at her for a long time, then rose and went to the side table.
         “Do you want something to eat?” he asked, picking up a baked tart from the tray on the table.
         Bronwen still didn’t answer.
         He put it back down again.
         Apparently he wasn’t hungry either.
         He took the carafe of wine and filled two goblets, walking back to where she stood next to the bed and handing her one.
         Bronwen accepted it reluctantly.
         “You can drink it,” he said dryly, “it’s not poisoned.  This meal was prepared by your own women.  Unless you suspect them of criminal behavior too.”
         Bronwen ignored that and took a sip.  It was as bitter as aloes and she grimaced.
         “Yes,” he said, nodding, “it’s sour.  A fitting commentary on our union, don’t you think?”
         Bronwen said nothing.
         “I thought the Celts were loquacious,” he said sarcastically, “great rhymers and poets and bards.  You have very little to say.”
         “I wouldn’t talk to you at all if it were not necessary,” Bronwen answered in a low tone.
         He nodded again, then pulled a chair before the fire and gestured for her to sit in it.  She hesitated, reluctant to cooperate with him in any way, but then realized she was being childish and sat.  He went down on one knee next to her, putting himself on her eye level.
         “Neither one of us has chosen this fate,” he said, “but if we are to accomplish our mission and bring our two sides together, which will save many lives, we must behave as if this marriage is real.”    
         Bronwen’s gaze was locked with his; there was a faint scar on his upper lip and his