The Protector. Carla Capshaw
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never intentionally hurt her.
Gutted by her stricken amber gaze and ashen complexion, he wished the arrow had missed his shoulder and skewered his heart.
And judging by the storm gathering on her flawless face, she agreed he deserved no less.
Chapter Two
He despises me.
Savaged by Quintus’s brutal assessment, Adiona swallowed the hard lump of rejection in her throat. Determined he would never know how deep his derision cut, she refused to march off in a display of wounded pride.
“My lady—” Quintus said, his voice reed thin.
“Why are you here?” Alexius jumped to his feet, his expression sheepish.
Careful to avoid the slightest glance at Quintus, she masked her humiliation behind the haughty facade she’d perfected long ago to protect herself. “Have you called a physician, Alexius? Or did you think a long chat would dislodge the arrow from his thigh?”
“I asked for help when I came in,” the Greek giant said defensively. “Quintus hasn’t been here long and he’s not the worst of the wounded.”
“Then I’ll fetch someone myself.” Grabbing the excuse to leave, she rushed down the busy corridor. She’d arrived to hear Alexius prompting Quintus to seek her out for coin and Quintus’s quick rejection of the idea. That he preferred to risk his life in the arena rather than spend time with her pierced like a gladius to the heart.
Angry with Quintus, and furious with her own naïveté, she berated herself for the foolish compulsion to see about his welfare. She should have guessed he was no better than all the other men who forever misjudged her, yet she couldn’t deny she had desperately wished he might be.
…Whose morals mimic a she-cat in heat.
The accusation went through her like a poisoned dart. If only he knew the truth. Every day was a struggle for her survival. All her life she’d fought off men who sought to use her, claim her, abuse her. Never had one looked past her outward appearance, fortune or social position to want her for herself.
Men are swine. She hated them. They could all rot for all she cared. Why did she think Quintus would be any different? What was it about him that made her forget she wanted nothing to do with any man?
She dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her stola, blaming the torch smoke for the sudden sheen that blurred her vision. Idiota. Why did you let yourself hope?
In the main surgery, dust motes danced in the light pouring through a series of arched windows along the concrete walls. Herbal scents mixed with the harsh odors of vinegar and blood. Several physicians bent over drugged patients who’d been laid out on flat couches. Except for the murmur of voiced instructions, soft moans and the occasional ping of metal surgical instruments, the room was surprisingly quiet, the opposite of the chaos in the halls.
She stepped deeper into the light. “You, there.” She pointed to a balding man she’d seen several times at Caros’s compound. “Your name is Petronius, is it not?”
Petronius looked up from bandaging his unconscious patient. His eyes widened with recognition. “My lady Leonia, what are you doing here?”
“One of the gladiators from the Ludus Maximus needs your attention. He’s been shot by arrows and continues to bleed. Finish quickly with your work here and I’ll take you to him.”
The physician wiped his hands on a bloodied towel and surveyed his patient with an air of uncertainty. “I’ve done all I can for this one. Fate will do the rest.”
An assistant took over bandaging the unconscious gladiator while Petronius gathered a needle, stitching, a roll of clean linen and an arrow extractor. “I’m ready, my lady. Please lead the way.”
Adiona relieved him of the linen and wasted no time taking the physician to the alcove. Alexius met them in the shadowed corridor.
“How is he?” Petronius asked.
“He lost consciousness moments after Lady Leonia left to fetch you.”
The Greek’s announcement sent a chill straight down Adiona’s spine. Reason urged her toward the exit, but her feet refused to budge.
“How long has he been here?” Petronius knelt on the floor, his fingers testing the angry red wound on Quintus’s thigh.
“Less than half an hour is my guess.” Alexius took a torch off the wall and angled it to give the physician better light.
Adiona clutched the bundle of soft linen she held and bit her lip as every nerve in her body focused on Quintus and his treatment.
I should leave. I’m not wanted here. Quintus doesn’t want me here.
She handed the bandages to Alexius. Once again she turned to go. A moan from Quintus tugged her back. Despite her resolve to cling to her anger and put him out of her mind, she found herself by his side before she realized she’d taken a single step forward.
Being this close to Quintus was rare. He was a slave, a gladiator. Always a battlefield stood between them.
Unbidden emotions filled her heart. Her fingers twitched with the need to touch him. Torchlight danced across the lean angles of his face, the smudge of dark bristles that shadowed the sharp cut of his jaw. Her gaze roamed over the thick muscles that roped his arms and broad chest, the bloody arrow wound in his shoulder.
Wishing she could ease his pain, she noted how he’d changed since she’d first seen him. Five months ago, he’d been little more than skin and bones. Caros’s new slave with no more than a will to live and brooding green eyes. Green eyes that clashed with hers across a sea of golden sand and left her breathless.
She swallowed hard. “Will he recover?”
The physician shrugged. “It’s a clean wound, but only the gods can say.”
The pallor beneath Quintus’s sun-bronzed skin scared her. Hesitant to touch him in case she caused him further pain, she brushed a thick lock of black hair from his brow and murmured his name.
“Don’t bother, my lady. He can’t hear you,” Petronius said. “Until I get him stitched up, you don’t want him to, either.” He tossed the bloody arrow aside and it clacked against the cement floor. He set down the extractor, stemming the fresh spurts of blood with a piece of the linen bandage. “Hand me that bottle.”
Adiona did as commanded, forgetting she took orders from no one. The physician poured the foul-smelling liquid over the wound, then began sewing together the hole’s ragged edges.
Quintus’s face contorted with pain. He groaned through his delirium. She spoke softly to him and soothed his brow until he calmed, deciding she would just have to wait and hate him tomorrow.
Caros Viriathos studied the training field below his bedchamber’s second-story window. A bright winter sun had reached its zenith, flashing off his men’s metal helmets and various pieces of weaponry. His pet, Cat, sat quietly beside him. The tiger’s long tail swished on the mosaic-tiled floor as he sniffed the cool breeze carrying the scent of lamb meant for the noonday meal.
After a month away from the Ludus Maximus, it felt good to return, but since his marriage he acknowledged the gladiator school he owned and built no longer seemed like home.
His new wife, Pelonia, claimed that distinction in his heart. Wherever she was, he wanted to be. Together, they’d decided to start their lives afresh on the Umbrian hill estate once stolen from her father. Eager to leave for the villa and fertile lands he’d been able to return to her as a wedding gift, he had much to do to settle his affairs here in Rome.
He heard his wife’s voice calling for him from out in the corridor. Assuming she had questions about the wedding feast they planned for Friday evening, he turned, a smile curving his lips. It quickly faded as she hurried through the door, her doe-brown eyes filled with distress.