Chapter Six

Southern Italy, near Consentia (Cosenza)

Late October

A chill breeze blew the unruly hair back from Placidia's face as she rode next to Athaulf. In the past several weeks, autumn had set in, and though it was mild in southern Italy, Placidia was unused to spending all day subject to the weather's vagaries. She shivered constantly, though the Goths hardly seemed to notice. Eurica still rode bare-armed next to Alaric without showing any sign that she felt the colder temperatures.

The onset of autumn threw into sharp relief the length of time Placidia had been with the Goths. Honorius should have sent for her weeks ago, yet they'd heard nothing. What could be taking so long? Her brother was spectacularly indecisive, but surely there was little to decide when his closest living relative was a prisoner of their greatest enemy.

Her horse plodded along next to Athaulf's. As promised, he had secured her a mount after the near-drowning incident, though the reins had been removed and the horse walked secured to Athaulf's with a lead. She had been successful in keeping him at arm's length for the past few weeks, though she went to bed every night aching with the memory of his kisses.

She pressed her icy fingers against her cheeks to warm them as her gaze sought out Alaric, his golden-haired head visible at the front of their column. Alaric's affable nature had soured over the past few weeks. In Naples, they had exchanged a large amount of the plunder from Rome for a fleet of ships large enough to take the Goths across the sea to Africa for the winter. Then, days before they were set to begin the crossing, a storm swept up and destroyed all of the ships. There would be no crossing to Africa this year, and thus no promise of plentiful food.

Honorius's delay in ransoming her was not helping Alaric's mood. The king cast her dark looks whenever he was in sight of her, and their days of bantering over ancient poetry were gone.

A horrible thought struck her as she contemplated her brother's delay, making her insides feel even colder than her outsides.

What if Honorius wasn't dithering?

What if he had made a decision, and had simply decided that she wasn't worth the ransom? There was certainly no love lost between them, and Honorius had always been jealous of her. Maybe he saw her as a threat to his power, and thought it was more convenient to have her kept as a prisoner.

Her mind raced as she tried to figure out what would become of her if Honorius never ransomed her. The only reason the Goths had taken her alive and treated her so well was because they believed there was a massive price on her head. If there was no ransom to be had, would they make an example of her and execute her? Or simply enslave her for the rest of her days? She could not think of many other options.

Her gaze rested on Athaulf, the man she had become so unexpectedly familiar with during her captivity. Perhaps he would protect her, if it came to it…

She discarded that notion quickly. A few ill-considered kisses would not be enough to induce him to stand against his king and people. She could only afford to rely on herself.

*

Placidia could not shake the cold for the rest of that day. At night, she shivered beneath her blanket, pulling it as tight around herself as she could. Still, she couldn't get warm.

Athaulf cleared his throat from across the tent. "I can hear your teeth chattering, princess."

"I'm c-cold!"

There was a pause.

"You had better not be rolling your eyes at me," she snapped. "Just because you come from the mountains and barely notice the cold—"

"I'm not rolling my eyes," he replied, but she could hear a slight laugh in his voice. "I was trying to think of how to invite you into my bed to warm up without sounding like a lecher."

"Oh." Warmth blossomed as she imagined curling up to him, soaking in the heat of his body. They had barely touched for the last several weeks, except for when he helped her mount or dismount her horse, and she missed the spark of what had briefly been between them. She should not long for him like this. Every time she thought of him as anything more than an enemy, a captor, she betrayed Rome.

But she was freezing and he offered warmth. It was a simple matter, really, nothing that should make her fret. Or so she managed to convince herself as she slid out from under her blankets and crossed the short span of the dark tent to his sleeping area.

She could barely see him, but blankets rustled as he rolled over to make room for her. She laid down, her back against his front, and couldn't suppress a sigh of pure pleasure as his heat enveloped her. He wrapped an arm around her middle. "Better?"

"Yes," she breathed. Her hands were still icy, so she rolled over and pressed her palms to his bare chest.

He hissed a word which she now recognized as a profanity in his language. "How is it possible for you to be so cold?"

"How is it possible that you feel like a bonfire?" she retorted. It was true—the heat of his bare skin felt as if it was branding her palms. Once her hands warmed, she could appreciate the feel of his chest—the surprisingly soft skin layered over unyielding muscle, the light fur of hair against her fingers, the quickened pulse of his heart. She couldn't resist allowing her hands to float down, exploring his torso. The muscles of his lean stomach tensed as her hands passed over them.

"Princess," he said, a note of warning in his voice.

"Yes?"

He paused, drawing in a breath which she could feel in the movement of his stomach. "You may warm up more quickly if you take off your dress."

Heat rushed through her like sparks catching on dry wood. "Now that does sound like lechery," she chided, trying to hide her breathlessness.

"Skin touching skin is a tested method for warming someone," he said defensively. "I cannot even see you in this darkness."

"Hmm," she said, unconvinced yet considering. To bare her body for him, even in the name of warmth, even if he couldn't see her, would be unspeakably wanton. Yet his indecent suggestion tugged at something deep inside her, a longing for closeness, for the strange fire he stirred up within her.

There was also the matter of her uncertain situation with her lack of ransom. The strategic part of her mind posited that anything which increased his attachment could benefit her, if her safety was ever in danger. Maybe his feelings for her—even if only lust—could induce him to protect her.

And the selfish part of her just wanted him—wanted his touch, his warmth, his strength.

It was rare for the strategic and selfish sides of her mind to be in agreement, so she sat up, wriggled out of her dress, and tossed it aside. She hesitated for a moment before lying back down with him, but even that brief exposure to the chilled air made her shiver, so she retreated to the shelter of his body.

He took her into his arms, a noise rumbling in the back of his throat as his hands skimmed over the bare flesh of her back and stomach. He didn't grope or squeeze; instead, his touch had a careful reverence to it.

She shivered as the tips of his fingers brushed her ribs.

"Still cold, princess?" he murmured in her ear. His hand moved higher, to sit just below the swell of her breast.

"Far from it," she breathed. She took hold of his hand and brought it up to cup her breast. He breathed out in a rush, hot against the back of her neck. He caressed her, his fingers finding the hardened tips of her breasts. He stroked and teased, his big hands remaining supremely gentle.

Too gentle, in fact. Her breath came faster as every touch and flick of his fingers kindled sparks which settled in a throbbing cluster between her legs. She bit her lip against a moan, unwilling to admit just yet how great an effect his attentions were having on her.

His lips brushed the curve of her neck, and her back arched. Her hips bumped against his, and though he was still wearing his trousers, she felt the thick bulge of his arousal through the linen fabric.

Suddenly, she found herself flipped onto her back, Athaulf above her. She let out half a surprised giggle before his mouth covered hers in a hungry, scorching kiss. Her thighs parted, making room for him between them. She moaned against his mouth as he kissed her until she was breathless.

He drew back onto his knees, breathing hard himself. In the darkness, he was nothing more than a specter. She could pretend he wasn't real, was just a dream she had conjured up to keep herself warm in the darkness. A faceless shadow with heated hands that kindled pleasure with every touch, that made her long for things she couldn't name.

Athaulf's hands slid along her thighs to ease them further apart. Cool air rushed over her most intimate part.

"You have no idea," he said, his voice ragged, "what I would do for a bit of light right now."

Her face flushed at the thought of him looking at her like that, and she was suddenly grateful for the blinding darkness. She tried to close her legs, but his hands, though still gentle, prevented the movement.

He slid one hand down her thigh, and she tensed. "Wait," she gasped before he could reach the place that, despite her outward hesitation, begged for his touch.

He moved his hand back to her knee. She didn't want this delicious moment to end, but reality was starting to intrude. What did she think she was doing, consorting with the enemy like this? And there was the other disagreeable fact that she could not risk compromising her virginity. The only value she held in the Roman world was as a potential bride, and she couldn't ruin that. Making a strategic marriage could give her the influence she craved.

"I don't want to…I can't dishonor myself," she stammered.

He drew small circles on the inside of her knees with each index finger. The innocuous movement only served to inflame her desire further. "There's no dishonor in pleasure, princess," he said. "But I understand. I'll not compromise you, but if you let me, I'll show you pleasure."

"Oh." Her mind whirled. She knew the basics of relations between men and women, but their nuances escaped her. Somehow, she trusted him, and she couldn't turn her back on this inescapable pull between them. So she nodded, then realized he couldn't see her in the dark. "I-I suppose that would be…permissible."

He made a rumbling noise—somewhere between a chuckle and a growl—in the back of his throat, and lowered his body onto hers. His arousal pressed against the bare, sensitized flesh between her legs, and she couldn't help squirming against him. For a moment, dishonor seemed like it would be very worth it.

He kissed her neck, and then his mouth trailed down in a path of blazing heat until he took one of her nipples into his mouth. The wet heat of his mouth shocked her, and she couldn't hold back a surprised moan as he swiped his tongue over her nipple.

Her cheeks heated at the uncouth sound which burst from her. It was unfair for him to have this effect on her when he was still so composed. She needed to see him undone, just as he was undoing her.

Her fingers found the laces at the front of his trousers. She fumbled them loose, then reached inside and closed a hand around his cock. He hissed at the contact. She had never touched a man before, but instinct took over, and her hand tightened around him, stroking up and down.

He let out a strangled groan, burying his face against her shoulder. After only one more caress, he clasped his hand around her wrist and pulled it away, pinning her wrist next to her head.

"Not yet," he growled.

She allowed herself a satisfied smile, but a moment later her mouth fell open in a gasp as his finger traced the folds between her legs. Tingles of pleasure erupted even at that gentle touch, somehow soothing and shocking at the same time. Wetness had gathered there, and his breathing hitched as his fingers slipped in it.

He traced upward, his thumb finding the spot where all her desire centered. He brushed over it, gently at first, and made an approving noise when she bucked into his hand. He made slow, tantalizing circles with his thumb.

Something gathered within her, cinching tighter and tighter with each movement of his fingers. "Oh," she gasped as the pleasure mounted. "Oh, please…"

"No need to beg," he murmured. "Let me give you what you want." He altered his touch to press the heel of his hand to the spot that throbbed and ached. The change from the featherlight circles of his thumb to the hard, grinding pressure made her moan. Her hips flexed, finding the same rhythm as his hand. She grabbed onto his shoulders with clutching fingers, desperate for something solid in this world of shifting, blooming pleasure.

She cried out as the pleasure swept over her in a powerful, consuming wave. Dimly, she noticed him clasp a gentle hand over her mouth, but she was incapable of suppressing the noises she was making. Her body writhed against the hand between her legs, seeking to wring every last bit of pleasure from him as she could.

Finally, the spasms receded, and she collapsed back onto the pile of blankets, breathing hard. He folded her into his arms. Every inch of her skin was tingling and sensitized, and she shuddered as his touch sparked another round of pleasurable tremors.

She burrowed her face against his shoulder as her breathing calmed. As awareness of her surroundings returned, she could hear the evening sounds of the camp from beyond the tent's fabric walls—footsteps passing near their tent, murmured conversation, the lilt of laughter from a distance. And if she could hear them…

Her cheeks warmed. "Was I very loud?"

A chuckle rumbled. "I did my best to spare your dignity. If any man dares say a word, I'll see him on latrine duty." He stroked a hand over her bare back.

As she snuggled closer to him, her hip bumped against his arousal, still stiff and heavy. He'd succeeded in distracting her from it earlier, but now, her interest returned. She allowed her hand to travel down his chest, relishing the way his muscles tensed wherever her fingers went. She wrapped her hand around his cock. The soft, almost delicate skin layered over unyielding hardness was a marvel. Now she understood his wish for light earlier—she longed to see him, but for now, the intriguing feel was enough.

He groaned a garbled utterance of her name as she stroked him. She loved hearing her name on his lips like this, ragged and barely intelligible. She worked her hand faster, allowing the quickening rhythm of his breathing to guide her. She longed to make him writhe and moan and fall apart as she had, but he took his pleasure more stoically.

His hand came down to cover hers, adjusting and tightening her grip.

"Yes," she murmured. "Show me how to please you."

"You please me greatly," he said, his voice raspy and unsteady. "Just by being here with me."

She continued to stroke him, feeling how his hips bucked into her hand with each pass of her fingers. She wondered what these movements would feel like if he were inside of her, and again she regretted her irksome need to preserve her virginity. Lovemaking with him would no doubt feel exquisite.

He let out a grunt, and warm liquid bathed her fingers. He grasped her hand to still it, breathing hard. His lips somehow found her forehead to kiss in the darkness, and then he reached across to the miscellaneous items that lined the side of the tent, fumbling around. When his hand returned to hers, it held a soft cloth, which gently wiped her fingers clean. He tossed it away and drew her down to resume her place next to him.

She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so contented. For a precious few moments, all worries about the ransom or her future were wiped from her mind. The only things that existed were Athaulf and the heavy satisfaction he kindled within her.

"Have I succeeded in my mission of warming you, princess?" he asked in her ear.

She gave a chuckle, lacing her fingers through his. "And then some." As she relaxed into his arms, the enormity of what she'd just done settled over her. She had engaged in unchaste behavior—which on its own was bad enough—with a Goth, a barbarian. An enemy of Rome.

But somehow this enemy of Rome had beguiled her into abandoning her principles, her loyalty, and her dress. She tried to soothe her guilt by telling herself that it had only been strategy, a ploy to gain her captor's attachment.

There could be no reciprocal attachment on her side. But as Athaulf pulled her closer and kissed the back of her neck, the warmth that swelled inside her made her fear it was already too late.