Chapter Five

P lacidia woke with the first rays of the sun. The morning light seemed much brighter than usual, and she squinted as she realized she was outside, not behind the fabric walls of a tent.

She sat up, uncurling her body from where she'd fallen asleep next to the smoking remains of the campfire. A fur blanket fell away from her shoulders, and someone had slipped a pillow between her head and the ground.

Athaulf . She imagined him finding her asleep on the ground, taking pains to make sure she was warm and comfortable without waking her.

An image intruded—his mouth on hers, his body over her. Her lips tingled, and she lifted a hand to brush them. Had they really kissed last night? Surely that had been a dream, or the effects of the seeds he'd burned in the fire.

If she had kissed him of her own free will, that would be a profound betrayal of Rome. Furthermore, she had put her virginity—the only thing currently giving her value to her brother—at risk.

She gathered her legs beneath her, stood, and entered the tent. Athaulf was seated on a stool, shirtless, as he shaved with the aid of a blurry silver mirror.

He kept his focus on his shaving as she entered. "You're awake."

She, in turn, tried to focus on anything but the nakedness of his chest. Her hands remembered the feel of those muscles, and she clenched her fingers into fists. "Those seeds you burned last night…are they known to cause hallucinations?" She hoped she could dismiss all this as a figment of an addled mind.

"No." He wiped the shaving blade on a rag draped over his knee.

"Well, do they, er, make one act in uncharacteristic ways?"

He gave her a sidelong glance. "I told you last night, they are only meant to induce a feeling of calm."

She let out a frustrated huff. "Clearly, they're more powerful than you realized. I would not have—we would not have—"

"The seeds did not make you kiss me, princess."

"I did not kiss you. I would never do such a wanton thing." To kiss any man she was not married to was unchaste, let alone a man who had helped orchestrate the sack of her city. That was disloyalty of the worst kind.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I swore not to touch you that first night. And I have kept my word." He laid the blade down on the small table and rose, coming toward her. "I did not account for a stubborn princess making advances on me."

She backed up, trying to keep a distance between them, but found the tent's central pole pressing against her spine before she could get very far. "I did not make advances," she choked out. The denial sounded unconvincing even to her own ears.

He approached until they stood a handsbreadth apart. Fresh stubble speckled his jaw, and flecks of bronze shone in his dark eyes. "If you want me to have kissed you so badly, princess, I will." He lowered his head and took her mouth in a hard kiss. The gentleness she remembered from last night was stripped away, laying bare all his urgency and desire.

Her arms wound around his neck unbidden, and her body arched toward him even as he pressed her hard against the tentpole. His kiss stole her breath and scrambled her mind, reducing all her thoughts to a pulsing need. This was more heady and disorienting than those seeds last night.

Voices passing the tent made him break away from her. He stared at her, breathing hard, his eyes glassy with desire. Placidia strove to gather her scattered wits. Her heart raced even faster than it had after nearly drowning yesterday, though excitement buzzed in her veins rather than terror.

But she could not permit such liberties, no matter how they thrilled her. No matter his strange allure, she was still a Roman, and he a Goth. Their peoples were enemies, and even worse, she was his captive. They were ill-matched in every way. Whatever incomprehensible thing was between them, it could go no further.

She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to tell him so. "This—" She cleared her throat. "You—"

He stepped away from her, smoothing a hand through his hair. "I should not have kissed you." He bowed his head, a quick, formal gesture. "I apologize."

"I should not have kissed you last night, either," she murmured. "I suppose we're even."

A half-smile quirked his mouth. She imagined he wanted to gloat that she'd admitted to kissing him, but he said nothing. His smile faded, and the weight of his gaze made her skin prickle.

"Is there breakfast?" she asked, needing to break the pensive way he was looking at her.

He blinked, then nodded. "I will see to it." He left the tent.

Placidia released a deep sigh, relieved that he seemed to understand that they could not continue this—what was it? Dalliance? Flirtation? Idiocy?

Yes, definitely idiocy .

Whatever it was, it would not continue. For the sake of her loyalty to Rome, she would keep Athaulf at a distance until her ransom was paid.

*

Athaulf strode through the camp. He ordered a man to bring breakfast—such as could be found—to his tent, so Placidia wouldn't go hungry, but he didn't return. Instead, he paced laps around this section of camp, hoping in vain that the exercise would clear his mind.

It didn't help. He couldn't free himself from the memory of the hesitant invitation, the uncertain wanting in her eyes, which the shadows of last night had turned to dark amber. Couldn't stop himself from recalling the warmth of her body, the way he fit above her so perfectly.

Why did the only woman who captured his attention like this have to be a Roman prisoner? There were plenty of good, kind, capable women among their people who would gladly entertain his attentions. But despite Eurica's efforts to throw one young woman or another in his path, interest had never sparked. With Placidia, it more than sparked—it blazed.

It still seemed like a miracle that he'd been able to stop kissing Placidia last night. He'd needed to cling to the shredded edges of his self-control and decency to tear himself away from her.

Last night, he'd gone back into his tent and paced the narrow distance until he could hear by her breathing outside that she'd fallen asleep. He'd returned to her side, staring down at her. She looked so peaceful, the haughty mask she almost always wore set aside.

He'd debated if he should bring her into the tent. In the end, he'd decided that he couldn't trust himself with her in his arms, so he covered her with a blanket, slipped a pillow beneath her head, and let her sleep.

This morning, her infuriating insistence that she hadn't kissed him had undone him once again.

His pacing brought him within sight of Alaric's tent, and he slowed. The tent brought to mind the reasons he shouldn't be kissing her, shouldn't even want to kiss her.

Firstly, she was his hostage, and it was dishonorable to force his attentions on her. He knew such things went hand in hand with the sack of a city, but he had never countenanced taking a woman by violence.

You hardly forced her last night , a disagreeable voice in his head reminded him. She wants you—for some unfathomable reason—and you know it.

Secondly, they were enemies, on the opposite sides of an all-consuming conflict between their peoples. She was the relic of a regime that Athaulf had pledged himself to dismantle. A scion of the weak, enfeebled Romans, who had run the greatest empire the world had ever seen into the ground. Her own brother couldn't even manage to ransom her, for God's sake. He should scorn her, and everything she stood for.

But Placidia was not effete or incompetent. He was fairly certain that the only reason Rome lasted so long during the siege was due to her leadership, and she demonstrated her strength and composure every day she remained in captivity. Yesterday, after nearly meeting a watery grave, was the only time he'd seen her even begin to crack. He admired people who met adversity with resilience, and he had to reluctantly acknowledge that a tendril of respect was growing for her.

He nodded to the guard outside Alaric's tent, who bowed his head and stood aside from the entrance. Athaulf entered, wanting to speak with Alaric about today's route.

His sister Eurica was firmly ensconced in her husband's lap, giggling as Alaric whispered in her ear. Athaulf rolled his eyes. The couple was sickeningly, sometimes irritatingly enthralled with each other. While Athaulf only wanted Eurica to be happy, he sometimes wished she could be slightly less happy in his immediate vicinity.

She did have the grace to climb off of Alaric's lap when Athaulf entered, but she moved behind his chair to drape her arms over his shoulders. Alaric twined his fingers with hers.

"Good morning," Athaulf greeted them.

"I heard about the incident with Galla Placidia yesterday," Alaric said without preamble.

Athaulf tensed. Incident? Does he know—could anyone have seen—? "It was nothing," he stammered, cursing his idiocy.

"Didn't sound like nothing," Alaric said. "She almost drowned."

Relief washed over him, and his shoulders relaxed. He doesn't know about the kiss. "An unfortunate accident. I plan to get her a horse. She has refused to ride in the wagon."

Alaric raised a blond eyebrow. "Hostages do not get to refuse."

"I will secure her mount to my own," Athaulf said. "She will not be able to flee."

Eurica patted her husband's shoulder. "The poor thing must have been terrified," she said. "Surely she can be allowed a horse of her own."

"You are too soft, my love," Alaric said, tilting his face up at her before turning to Athaulf. "As are you." His tone was markedly less appreciative.

"If she had drowned yesterday, we'd have lost any hope of a ransom."

Alaric's lips tightened. "You have always been a poor liar. I value that about you."

Athaulf clenched his jaw but forced himself to keep a relaxed posture. "Excuse me?"

Alaric gently disentangled Eurica's arms from his shoulders and rose to his feet. He stood a handspan taller than Athaulf. "If you value the ransom so highly, then you will keep your distance from the Roman."

Athaulf crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you implying?"

Alaric's brows drew together in a glower. "Her brother will not pay a full ransom for damaged goods. If she goes back and complains that she's been violated—"

"Nothing of the sort has happened!" Athaulf exploded.

"That's not what your sister says," Alaric said, casting a glance at Eurica.

Eurica twisted her fingers together. "I walked by your tent last night. I thought to check on her, after the accident. I saw you…" Her voice trailed off, but Athaulf didn't need her to finish the sentence.

"I was comforting her," he said stiffly, but the excuse sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Comforting?" Eurica said. "Is that what it's called these days?"

He glared at her without managing to summon any real anger. "You have my word that nothing further happened." He met Alaric's gaze steadily. "Poor liar, remember?"

Alaric grimaced but nodded. "I can't recall the last time a woman turned your head. God only knows what you see in this one. A Roman? And she's not even that beautiful."

Eurica swatted him. "Don't be rude."

"I don't see anything in her," Athaulf muttered. He stifled his objection to Alaric's declaration that she was not beautiful. He had found her striking from the first moment he set eyes on her, facing them all by herself in the palace, and her appeal had only grown in the last few weeks. There was something about the outward fragility in her slender frame combined with her inner strength and poise that enthralled him, despite his better judgment.

Eurica gave him a long, searching gaze. "I'm sure it hardly matters in any case," she murmured. "No doubt she'll return to the Romans any day now."

"No doubt," Athaulf agreed. He could only hope that once she was gone, he could put this vexing attraction behind him.