Chapter 3

Emma had been expecting the summons for almost a week by the time it finally came. Had woken every morning and slept every night in a dull dreadful anticipation, by the time a slave was sent to fetch her down to her father's solarium, where her parents and Regina and a man she did not know, a servant but a highly ranking one, awaited her in solemn array. Her father cleared his throat twice before he seemed able to speak. "Emma, my love. Sit."

Emma sank onto a chaise, her limbs feeling numb and wooden. "To what do I owe the honor of this audience?"

Regina snorted loudly. Emma's eyes flashed to her, but her step-grandmother remained as magnificently imperturbable as ever, staring up at the roof with its panes of leaded glass to admit the streaming sunlight. It was her mother who answered. "My dear, you should be very happy. We have made a splendid match for you."

Somehow, Emma managed to contort her features into a passable representation of surprise. "Have you?"

"Aye. Gaius Flavius Cassianus, the consul – he has offered his only son, Gaius Baelius, and your father has done us the joy of accepting." Maria Margareta Aurelia beamed at her daughter. "It's more than we dreamed of, even. I know that the both of you will be very happy together."

"I. . ." Emma's lips had gone stiff. She was the only child her parents had ever been blessed with, and as such, with no male child to carry on the family name – an almost unconscionable dishonor in patriarchal Rome – it was doubly important to her to marry well and birth sons who might adopt it as an honor. It could not be her. A woman's honor was her shame, her demure propriety, to manage the household and the family and all private matters as the husband did in public. Marry Baelius, and all the dreams she'd ever had of leaving Rome, of seeing what lay beyond the hazy blue horizon, were gone. She'd be shut in gaol, in a prison to bound her from all sides, until she almost imagined that she could see it pressing down on her. It was hard to breathe, and in that moment of shock, she could think of only one thing to say, to blurt out, no matter how impolitic. "You. . . you married for love."

David and Maria Margareta exchanged a surprised, troubled glance. It was true that they, most uncommonly, had been a love match – that he, born to a middle-class plebeian family, had dared quite far above his station in seeking the hand of an aristocrat, and that he among few had earned his present appointment through talent, not nepotism. Emma had always had that in the back of her mind, had thought that they'd never coerce her into anything outstandingly against her will, but she had been a fool to think so. Was this not all the proof needed? It was true that she was nineteen, much older than the age at which highborn girls were usually matched off, and that daughters of prominent families had very little say in the choosing of their husbands, but –

It was her mother who finally spoke. "You will learn to love Baelius, sweetheart. You owe it to yourself, and he deserves no less."

"Deserves?" It burst from Emma's lips; she could not quite withhold it. "I don't even know him – you don't even know him! All those stories about how he's – "

The mysterious man in the corner shifted and cleared his throat. "I am quite certain," he said mildly, "that the filia Aurelia did not mean to offer any insult to my honored patron."

"Of course not, of course not." David held up a hand. "She is young, that's all. You understand that we have no intention of refusing the Cassianii."

No one can refuse the Cassianii. Emma heard and understood quite well. Perhaps her mother was right, perhaps she was unable to know her own feelings. Perhaps this was the choice, the only choice. "I. . . consent," she said, sounding most unlike herself, strange and small. "I would be delighted to marry Gaius Baelius."

"As I thought." The Cassianus agent smiled. "A wise decision."

"When?"

"When the astrologers and oracles have consulted the stars and made an augury, and when the fates deem it auspicious." It was David who answered. "We will pay for a sacrifice at the temple of Jupiter. There are the Ludi Romani upcoming, so perhaps after – "

"Of course," Emma murmured, barely listening. The Ludi Romani, the Roman Games, the oldest and most prestigious of all, a full fortnight of chariot races, gladiatorial combats, athletic competitions, mock hunts, theatrical performances, and more. As the praetor urbanus, her father would be run off his feet arranging and administrating them, and thence would be in no mind or have any spare time, far less money, to stage an event of the grandiose scale and stature required for his only daughter's marriage. So she still had some time, a little. Whatever to do with it, or if she should do something with it, was a terrifying and nebulous possibility.

Maria Margareta smiled at her. "It is a lovely day, my dear. Perhaps you should take some air?"

"I. . . yes." Emma had a sudden idea, and seized on it. "May I have leave to go down to the market? Perhaps I could choose something for the wedding."

"I don't see the harm," David said generously, clearly eager to appease her. "Take Regina with you, you should have a companion or – "

"Leave me out of this," Regina cut in. "Marry your daughter to whatever fool you care to, Aurelius, but don't ask me to make mock as if I approve. Panem et circenses." And with that, and a withering smile and flash of her dark eyes, she swept out of the room.

"Still." Maria Margareta looked concerned. "You require a chaperone, perhaps I should find – "

"No." It was ill-mannered to interrupt, but at the moment, Emma barely cared. "I'll manage it. Mother, Father. Good health."

And with that, she ran.

Shortly thereafter, Emma had gone out, ordered her lectica prepared, and was doing her best at feigning nonchalance as she looked for two strong men to carry it; a litter with silken curtains, accompanied by two guards and two female slaves, was the only fit way for her to leave the house. She hated it with a passion just then, would have walked down the hill alone in sensible sandals and a toga, but the only women who wore the toga were whores. A man's honor, a woman's shame. This had been a foolish idea. She shouldn't have –

"Ave," a familiar voice drawled behind her. "We'll do it."

Emma whirled around. Sure enough, it was them. Both of them – Killian and Robin, sweating and glistening and shirtless, appeared as if by sorcery, as if she hadn't been looking for them (one of them, at least) all along. They nodded to her in unison, then knelt, and she had no choice but to step into the lectica, draw the gauzy curtain, and lean back as they hoisted her effortlessly to their shoulders. The gates of the villa swung open, and they proceeded in more or less order down the hill toward the market.

Emma had always been fascinated by the Forum Magnum – surrounded by the towering white-columned edifices of Roman power, overlooked by the statues of great men, the beating heart of the Empire that reaped all the fruits of its trade. If something could not be found there, it was liable not to exist. Ivory and bronze and brass and goldwork from Africa, indigo and salt and pearls and lime, spices and sandalwood and incense and gems and fine cloth from the Silk Road, amphorae of garum and wine and oil from Gaul, ink and papyri and scrolls supposedly copied or stolen from the great library of Egypt burned by Caesar, fruits and nuts and figs and dates from the vineyards, roasted meat spitted savory on braziers, the clamor of half a hundred tongues, crammed stalls, the flash of denarii and sestertii and other coins, the click of abacuses as merchants worked out tallage, exotic animals in cages, scribes shut up in booths where commoners came to dictate wills or contract of marriage or business agreements or other legal papers, imperial customs collectors making perpetual nuisances of themselves, soldiers loitering on corners, orators making speeches, and a constant flow of patrons to and from taverna and foodsellers, prominent men filtering into the public baths with their sons, drunks being dunked in fountains, beggars inveigling for coins, poor women siphoning off water for their families from the aqueducts, disorder and filth and delight every direction Emma could look. Nothing like her ordered, tidy, cloistered, closed existence. She loved it so much it almost hurt.

They bumped among the stalls for a bit, looking for nothing in particular, until a particular merchant beckoned to them. "Would the lady see some jewelry?" He flashed a handful of necklaces, bracelets, rings. "Would the lady?"

Emma gestured to Killian and Robin to lower her down, and accepted a hand from Robin to step out of the lectica to the street. "What's this?" she asked, fingering a small silver ring, set with a winking green jewel. It drew her, for some reason. Whatever he said it was worth, she'd offer half.

"That, mistress. That is very special. It was spelled by a druid in far Hibernia, and true love follows it wherever it goes. Is the lady wed? Purchase it, and it will be nothing but bliss and felicity for you, and your husband." He winked.

Emma felt her face heating. She did not dare to look around for the source of the snort she'd just heard, though one of the guards cleared his throat and loudly loosened his shortsword in the scabbard. She held up a hand, telling him that it was no matter, and glanced back to the merchant. "How much?"

"For you, mistress, a bargain. Two denarii."

Emma raised an eyebrow. Clearly he had no idea that he was bargaining with a praetor's daughter who had learned to read by perusing her father's records, who knew the value of trade and currency. "Are you out of your mind? It's not worth more than a few sestertii." She tossed it disdainfully back onto the pile. "Clearly I cannot do business with you. We're done here."

"One and a half, mistress. Because you are so beautiful. One and a half."

"No. Ridiculous." Emma gestured to the slaves. Robin stepped forward to offer her a hand.

"Did I say one and a half?" The merchant smiled winningly. "Nonsense. Nonsense, clearly. One, just one. Here, look. Look how fair it would be." He picked it up and advanced forward, bowed low, and took hold of her hand, sliding the cool silver circlet over her fourth finger. "There is no other woman who could wear it as well as – "

But whatever else he was going to say, Emma never found out. At that very moment, a huge, heavy, iron-wheeled chariot, pulled by four great horses, thundered through the square, knocking over the merchant's booth, sending the wares flying, throwing Emma backwards, and causing an outbreak of angry cursing at whatever arrogant popinjay was driving so recklessly through the crowded market. Everything was a blur; she had ended up on one knee without remembering how she got there, her chiton torn and stained, and then someone caught her and pulled her up against him. "Are you all right?" he said in her ear, low and urgently. "Are you?"

"I – " Emma put out a hand confusedly and pressed it against the hard muscle of Killian's chest. "I am. What was he thinking?"

"Clearly he wasn't." Killian hadn't quite let go of her, and she was still clinging close to him, closer than she knew she should, hearing his heart hammering beneath her ear – but he hadn't been nearby, he hadn't been clipped and knocked off his feet as she had. She didn't understand. "There are laws against that sort of thing, no?"

"Aye." Emma blew out a breath. "I'll be having a word with my father. Let's go."

As she started to move off, she realized that she still had the ring on her finger. The merchant, looking quite stunned, was in no state to demand its retrieval; he was staring around at his broken and scattered goods with a heartsick look on his face. Emma dug in her purse and tossed him three denarii. "There. For your trouble."

"Thank you, mistress," he stammered, clutching the coins. "Thank you."

Emma nodded again, then allowed Killian to help her back up into the lectica. Its curtains had been splattered by the mud kicked up, and she herself did not feel nearly as steady as she pretended. To open the day with her betrothal to Baelius, and to end it like this. . . no. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to shut it out. Wanted to make it go away. Wanted to make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

She could not sleep that night. It had been difficult enough to explain away her bedraggled state as an accidental mishap in the marketplace, which was the truth but somehow still sounded like a lie, and she had had no appetite to join in the evening meal. She did not want to smile at her parents and pretend she was pleased, did not want to hear her mother's well-meant reassurances about Baelius, wanted in fact to shut them out and stay behind a wall. Finally, after an hour spent tossing and turning on her bed, she got up, pulled on a light linen drape, and went out.

It was August in Rome, and the sweltering heat lay thick on the city, queer and shimmering even by night. The trade winds had been dormant instead of blowing it down the Tiber out to sea, and everything seemed poised on the brink, desperate to gulp a breath, to fly or fall. Pinpricks of light, of torches, of the red-lit doors of brothels, of feasts held late into the night at other villas, glittered across the hills, shining like earthbound stars. All the freedom she could only see, could not touch. It was downright maddening.

Emma sat down on a stone bench, bare feet pressed against the cool mosaic of the veranda. Her loosened hair was stuck to her sweaty neck, and she scraped it off, plaiting it into a ragged rope down her back. She had to think of something. Either accept her parents' plan for her to marry Baelius, or –

Or –

There was no other option. Nothing. Nobody refuses the Cassianii. They were too powerful, and she was just a girl. All the deck was stacked against her, and she glanced down, twisting the ring on her finger. The green stone glittered in the reflected moonlight. Useless. She should have given it back to the merchant, doubtless he could have swindled someone else into –

"My lady. Good evening."

Every time, every place, he still managed to surprise her. Was standing there in the shadows as if half a dream, as if she'd conjured him up simply by wanting, or as if he'd somehow known she'd be here, the way he had met her in the gardens before. He looked even more heart-stopping in the silvery glow, as if he himself was a fey creature or something not quite human. Was wearing only his loincloth, barefoot, bareheaded, leaning on an ivy-crawling pillar. "We seem to be seeing a great deal of each other."

"Are you following me?" Emma stood up, conscious of the fact that this could be taken in more than one sense: her drape was thin, silhouetting the slender lines of her body against the low-hanging moon, and his gaze was so intent that it made it feel as if it was nothing. One meeting, finding her conveniently alone, could possibly be dismissed as coincidence, but a second. . .

Killian mac Dáithí merely shrugged. She had never met a slave, or a man, like him, so utterly self-possessed, so utterly without shame or fear or respect or decency. He carried himself like a born prince, spoke as if he had been educated at the feet of the greatest statesmen, did not seem to think there was anything strange in him, a barbarian, being near her, setting his sights on her, pursuing her (if that was what he was doing, and which gave her the strangest sensation of all). And so, instead of begging her pardon, he grinned. His teeth were very white; she had rarely seen such. "What would you do if I was?"

"I don't know." The admission was startled out of her, surprising them both with its honesty. "That . . . that kiss, it was one time. I'm to be wed. If there's any suspicion of infidelity. . ." It was the one thing that could destroy a young woman's reputation faster than anything, render her permanently unmarriageable. She might remarry after a first marriage, after death or divorce of her first husband, but not in the first place, not if she was not known beyond all doubt to be chaste. That was why highborn girls married so young, generally.

"I should not wish to destroy your future." Killian raised an eyebrow. "Though it seems a fragile thing, if a bloody slave has that much power."

Emma blinked; she had not missed the absolute venom in his voice as he spat the word. "I thought my father freed you," she said weakly.

"He didn't."

"He should have." Despite herself, despite everything, she was already moving closer. Could not help it, as if there was some sort of irresistible force drawing them together. Her fingers itched to touch him again, and she had to clench them hard. "I'll tell him to."

"What?" Killian barked a laugh. "And remind him of your disobedience? I doubt it."

"Do you?" There was not much space remaining between them. She could reach out and brush him with her fingers, but if she did, she was lost. The tension strung the air between them like a lyre-string tuned too tight, perilous close to snapping. Her chest was thick, her throat choked. Nobody's watching, a seductive and horrifyingly dangerous little voice whispered to her. Nobody would see. But if she was wrong, it was death for both of them. For him, at least. For her, exile, dishonor, the wrath of the Cassianii, her father losing his position, and worse. Death at least would be swift and final. Her punishment would be much longer. Foolish girl. Go.

She didn't.

Killian smiled at her, almost fondly. "You remind me of a bird," he said. "In a cage. Or a swan, perhaps. Fierce and beautiful and proud, who should spread her wings and fly. You could, you know. Leave Rome and never look back."

"Leave?" Despite everything, she'd never thought of that. Everything she'd ever known was here. "And go where?"

He shrugged again. "There's an entire empire to choose from, is there not?"

Emma took a deep, unsteady breath. He could not tempt her like this. "I – no. You should go."

"If the lady insists." He made a deep, excessively flourishing bow. But didn't quite move.

They stared at each other for a fraught, terrible moment. His throat visibly moved as he swallowed. She thought she could see the air vibrating around him with his effort to hold himself still. She was turning, or she would. She'd take that step, that first step, eventually, and then it would be easier, she'd do it somehow, she had to, even if there was a voice inside her screaming otherwise, screaming no, but she'd walk away and leave him, she'd do it somehow. She –

– didn't know what she was doing, didn't know, this was madness, madness, but it was also freedom, freedom at last, as she closed the last space between them, jerked him against her, cradled his head in her hands, and finally breathed home.

Killian grunted in shock. But only for an instant, and then he crushed her head to his, the other arm, wrapping around her back, pressing against her at full length, enveloping her. She was off balance, could only cling to him harder, lips yielding to his, his tongue taking her as it had before. It wasn't fair, it wasn't possible, heavy breathing through their noses, separating briefly and then crashing back together, mouths wide open, craving and clawing. She had never tasted anything as good as him, as he began to work on her jaw and throat, nipping at the shell of her ear, grinding against her, an unfamiliar hot wet ache building between her legs as she rubbed back on him like a cat. She was molten and malleable in his hands, soft as butter, whereas he was very decidedly not. She needed the friction to build, needed the deep rhythm, her body knowing what to do even if her mind had not quite caught up. Madness. Madness and glory.

Killian's hand slid up the line of her torso, delicately cupping the curve of her breast, thumb ghosting over the nipple and turning it to a stiff peak. She hissed and pressed closer, and he circled it, the heat of his skin burning through the flimsy cloth. His other hand rested low on her back, fingers spread, slowly tracing the knobs of her spine, up to her shoulder where she'd pinned the drape with a bronze brooch; if he loosened it, it would fall off her at once. All the while they kept kissing, frenzied and indiscriminate, her hands tangled in his black hair, tasting the salt on his skin. He was hard and solid as a block of granite, towering, impossible.

Emma let out a breathy moan, desperate for the hand now moving around her stomach to travel lower. She needed him there, needed the pressure, could feel how wet she was, slippery and roused and sensitive, and snatched his wrist, trying to force it further down. But he seemed to be resisting, holding himself back even if it was killing him. It clearly was not due to not wanting it; his face was sheened with sweat. Yet if so, why –

"No," he muttered, eyes half-rolled back in his head. "On your wedding night, if they thought – "

It hit Emma, just then, that he was afraid of leaving undeniable proof of his attentions. If she did not bleed on the sheets, if it was not proven beyond a doubt that she was a virgin – that was when rumors began, that was when danger and gossip were brewed. But at the moment, she was beyond caring. "Please," she whispered shakily. "I want you to."

Killian hesitated, then slid his fingers down her stomach, pulling the cloth away, and touched her lightly between the legs, moving with slow and deliberate circles. He caught her nub with his thumb, sending waves of lightheaded pleasure shuddering through her, and traced a finger across her entrance, teasing the slickness. He kneaded her slowly and deliberately, opening her, and slid in only to the first knuckle, stimulating her until she saw white. She would have done anything to make him move deeper, but he wouldn't, playing her without penetrating her, until she gasped and bucked hard against him. "Killian," she pleaded. "Killian."

He glanced down at her with the eclipse of a devilish smile. "Aye, sweetheart?"

"I – " Emma did not know, not really, what she was even asking for. Her education in this subject had been, to say the least, limited. She had had to resort to a friend, married a few years past, to supply the basic details, but even that had come nowhere close to what Killian was doing to her now. She had not even imagined that such things were possible, that man and woman were meant to meet like this. All she knew was that she needed more. "I want you."

The look on his face turned sad, almost distant. In that moment, she could hear what she had just asked, that she had all but asked him to risk his own death warrant and her utter dishonor. Then, slowly, a smile took its place, as if he had heard and understood the challenge and quite welcomed the chance to show, once and for all, that he feared nothing his slave-masters could do to him. He knelt in front of her, running his hands slowly down the backs of her thighs, then leaned in, dark stubble scratching against the soft skin on the inside of her hip, in the cut between leg and stomach. He glanced up at her, blue eyes intent and questioning, as if waiting for her to push him away. When she didn't, he slowly, carefully, steadily slid his tongue into her.

Emma almost fainted. She clutched handfuls of his thick hair, her knees turning to water, as he explored her hot sweetness with tenderness and thoroughness and care, moving delicately, tasting her. His breath misted hot against her secret skin, both of them flushed and dripping, a salty rasp and rhythm as he continued to fuck her (there was no other word, no word so vulgar and carnal and complete) with his tongue. Yet it still wasn't deep enough, not hard enough, not enough. To hell with Gaius Baelius, to hell with all of them, she wanted –

The thought, however, was caught away in a gust of brightness, of something catching her up and shoving her, shoving her higher and harder and hotter and tumbling over the edge into infinity, as her head threw back and her chest heaved and she couldn't steal a breath, couldn't see anything except light, giving into the pleasure sparkling and snarling through her like a lightning strike, until it finally subsided and Killian rocked back on his heels, panting, trails of sweat gleaming on his shoulders and chest. He wiped his mouth and said, in a deep hoarse croak more heavily flavored than usual with his Gaelic lilt, "That's enough now, my lady. Go. Go."

Emma was still sorting out which of her limbs belonged to her and in fact what her name might be, and thus did not immediately move. Then she stepped back, her entire body feeling heavy and dreamy and not entirely real, coursing on the afterglow. Sense was belatedly returning. She had been as reckless as it was possible to be. He was right. He was. And yet. . . "I – "

"Go." His shoulders were tense, rock-hard. "I need to. . . attend a few things. Privately."

She did not want to. Not when every pore, every fiber, every sinew ached for completion, for consummation. For finishing what they had begun. For coming together as closely as they possibly could. But she must wake up and realize that she was still engaged to Baelius, that Killian was still a slave, that nothing could and would ever change about what they were to each other, and this must not be love, the exalted passion, but lust, the coarsest sin. Yet this was the second time she had forced herself to walk away from him after being drawn too dangerously close to the sun, and her wax wings were melting. She was tumbling. Falling, falling, falling, from the stars and into the depthless abyss of the sea.

She readjusted her fallen drape, pinned it back into place. Turned. Still flushed and trembling, she hurried across the veranda toward the shadows of the corridor. Did not dare look back. Did not dare even voice what she knew in her heart of hearts was true.

They were both completely and beyond all measure done for.