When Gambling (Love and Warfare Series Book 2) Read online

  With a sigh, she stood. She’d ponder it later after she visited the training grounds and saw Eric.

  Cara swung the basket she carried as she walked down the street. She stopped in front of a shop and rapped on the door. Alexandros the butcher stepped out, a gore-stained smock covering his tunic. She handed him a newly forged knife and he placed coins in her hand.

  That finished the second to last delivery of the day. Humming, she walked back via the dark street.

  “Salve, Cara.” Edna exited from the back of Alexandros’ house, arms loaded down with clothes. “Victor’s having a party in five days, want to come?” Twenty paces behind them, Alexandros still stood in his doorway, a smile on his face.

  “If my father will allow me to serve food again.” Cara hitched her basket higher. Perhaps Eric would attend.

  “Not a tiresome dinner party, witless. At Victor’s warehouse, after dark. No ceremony, just a ribaldrous good time.”

  “Are we allowed to go to a patrician party?” She felt her eyes stretch.

  “Only Victor and his friends are patricians. The girls are like us,” Edna said. “It starts an hour after sunset. Over near the garrison.”

  By the garrison? After dark? With men? Cara scoffed. “Even your most manipulative stories won’t make my father agree to that.”

  “Don’t tell him. I’ll meet you outside your house after sunset.” Edna bent and snatched up a fallen blanket.

  Cara pressed her elbows in against her waist. Lie again? An uncomfortable feeling slid between her shoulder blades, but maybe Eric would attend. “All right.”

  The clouds grew blacker as Cara wound toward the west side of town. When she reached Pruella’s house, raindrops started to fall. With a swish, the door flew open revealing Pruella. Cara extended the last bag of nails.

  Pruella grabbed her elbow and pulled her inside the house. Outside, the soaking rain fell fast, but Cara still made a face as the four walls closed in around her.

  Pruella’s mother bent over a kettle. The freshly-scrubbed table beside her bore five bowls.

  “My wedding is next week.” Pruella glowed as much as if she’d swallowed the sun and attempted to regurgitate it. She forced Cara down on a bench. “Aidan bought us a house. Aidan bought it on the south side of the docks because of the river breeze. Aidan says we shouldn’t collect much furniture right away.”

  Chin plopped in her hands, Cara counted how many times Pruella said “Aidan.” She reached fifty-four and Pruella showed no signs of changing the topic. “Have you kissed Aidan?” Maybe that question would make Pruella hold her tongue.

  With a nervous glance toward the fire, Pruella lowered her voice. “No, but he’s kissed me.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Pruella looked down her nose. “Men don’t respect women who are wanton.”

  Another inane rule? Cara slouched on the bench.

  “Enough about me. When will you marry that handsome carpenter of yours?” Pruella smiled.

  Oh. Cara felt her lungs flatten. “I don’t know. I’m still young.”

  “Your father is the only one who thinks that, dear.” Pruella clucked her tongue. “I’d recommend collecting that betrothal ring. In First Day service alone, half a dozen girls would eagerly take your place.”

  If Conan wanted the other girls, he could have them. “Edna’s older than me, and she’s not married yet.”

  “Conan doesn’t think she’s a good influence on you.”

  Irritation buzzed through Cara. “How would you know what Conan thinks?”

  “Father talks masonry with him.” Pruella glanced out the open window. Rain splattered against the street, overflowing puddles. “He’s coming with Aidan for dinner tonight. You should stay, eat with us.”

  Cara dug her fingernail underneath a splinter. The wood pierced her skin, drawing blood. Conan had no right to talk to Pruella’s father about her.

  “You shouldn’t befriend Edna if he doesn’t like it.”

  Sitting straighter, she shoved her hand against her hip. “Would you give up your best friend if Aidan said to?” Oh, wait. Cara gagged.

  “Of course. An obedient wife – ”

  “I need to go, Pruella.” Cara slammed her feet on the ground and stood. She got quite enough lectures from Father and the church elders’ sermons without Pruella adding more rules to her life.

  Pruella’s mother turned from the hearth. “Nonsense, child. Your father wouldn’t want you walking through that downpour. Besides, there’s a certain young man arriving any moment now who I think would be very pleased to see you.” The older woman smiled benevolently.

  Cara leaned one listless elbow on the table, which Pruella’s mother apparently took as a sign of young love. “You needn’t blush, deary.” Pruella’s mother pinched her cheek. “It’s common knowledge Conan and you are making plans.”

  “We’re not even betrothed… yet.” Why had she attached that yet? So many months of Conan pressing the issue hadn’t forced it into an inevitability… yet.

  “Good evening.” A man ducked his head under the doorframe, followed by another. Water streamed around Conan’s ears, sliding in rivers off his shoulders. Aidan stood behind him.

  “There, there, you must be starving, boys.” Pruella’s mother bustled them toward the table.

  Pruella’s father emerged from the backroom. “Salve.”

  “Cara.” Conan smiled at her. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  Everyone moved to the table and Conan took a seat a good many handbreadths closer to her than she wished. All bowed their heads as Pruella’s father mumbled the words to “Our Father Who art in heaven.” Then, Pruella’s mother ladled turnip soup into clay bowls.

  Pruella’s father sat stolidly at the head of the table, mouth shut. Aidan sat next to Pruella, his body stiff as an oak beam. Pruella kept her hands folded demurely in her lap.

  A log shifted and the fire crackled in the hearth. After Pruella’s mother finished serving the soup, everyone picked up spoons and started eating. Teeth nicked teeth in the monotonous sound of chewing.

  Cara scraped her spoon against the bowl. Finally, the dinner ended. Cara stood. “Thank you for dinner, ma’am, sir.” She inclined her head quickly.

  Conan rose. “I’ll walk you home.”

  As Cara glided under the door lintel, Conan closed his hand over hers, tightening like a fetter. Eric had squeezed her hand gently, and she’d never wished to pull away.

  Outdoors, a rainbow graced the sky, the setting sun kissing newly-washed streets as the sweet scent that comes after rain wafted up.

  “Glad that ordeal’s over.” Cara tilted her gaze up to Conan. She held her breath. Would he laugh? Make a witty retort? Eric would.

  Conan narrowed his eyes. “They’re my friends. Speak respectfully of them.”

  “Oh.” Cara released the breath. The spring breeze caught Cara’s palla, tearing the cloth off her hair and blowing the scent of wildflowers through the air.

  Conan grabbed the palla and jerked it over her head. “Cover your hair.”

  “Edna doesn’t.” With a toss of her chin, Cara threw the palla off. If Eric didn’t lecture people, did that mean that, unlike all other men, he wouldn’t order his someday betrothed either? One more reason to hate that hypothetical woman.

  “Edna’s not marrying me.” Conan yanked Cara’s palla up.

  Maybe she wouldn’t marry him either, but Cara left the cloth in place rather than invite his touch again. When Eric had helped her up after the chariot broke at the training ground?. Suffice it to say, she’d throw her palla back a hundred times to have him fix it.

  “Speaking of weddings, found a verse for that shelf yet?” Conan released her hand and smiled.

  She scrubbed her now-free fingers against her dress. On the left stood his shop, the door barred, the space outside swept clean. “Don’t you ever want more than to toil all day in the same village we grew up in?”

  “Of course. I want you as wi
fe and sons to carry on my name.”

  Babies? Again? Did the man think of nothing else? She suppressed a groan. “What about daughters?”

  “I need sons to learn the carpentry trade.”

  Cara kicked a pebble. “If I ever have a daughter, I’m naming her Lucia after my mother.”

  “No, you’re not. The father has the legal right to name the babe, and I detest that name.”

  This time she let the groan slide through her lips. Tomorrow, she’d go to the training grounds and wash away this enslaving talk of babies with Eric’s tales of Greece.

  Cara swung her leg over the fence separating the field from the training grounds. Overhead, the sun passed its zenith.

  Edna stood by her brother just inside the fence. The boy, Kelwyn, a lad of perhaps fourteen summers, crossed his arms. “I’m telling Mother you’re here.”

  “You tell her that, and I’ll tell her how you cut purses.”

  The boy shrugged skinny shoulders. “You win.”

  Raising the shoe that dangled in her hands, Edna swatted him across the backside. “I should tell Mother anyway. Some legionaries execute thieves.”

  Eric and three other patricians stood at the edge of the chariot track. Eric raised a discus, took a few steps back, then raced forward, launching it into the air.

  Darting ahead, Kelwyn grabbed a discus off the pile. “How do you do that?”

  From the far side of the track, Victor looked over. “Expel that street boy before he steals all our discuses.”

  “He’s throwing mine, not yours.” Eric turned to Kelwyn. “See here, like this.” He dropped back, moving the discus in slow motion.

  Whirling in a bad imitation of Eric’s precise movements, Kelwyn let go too soon. The discus hurtled a handbreadth from Eric’s head.

  Eric leaped sideways. “Careful. You can kill a man with a discus.”

  A few dozen throws more, when Kelwyn threw the discus in something resembling a straight arc, Eric moved on to the footrace. Patrician feet pounded against dirt, raising dust.

  Eric crossed the white chalk a pace ahead of the foremost patrician. Sucking in deep breaths, head down, he walked toward the fence. Then he threw himself on the grass.

  Cara closed the space between the two of them. “Salve.”

  “Salve.” Face to the grass, Eric dragged in air, bare chest moving in and out.

  If only he’d look at her like a man looks at a woman. “I need a poetry verse.”

  Eric rolled to one elbow. “What kind of poetry?”

  “A love poem for a wedding.” She plucked a grass blade and wove it around another.

  “You ask me because?”

  Her cheeks grew hot as she clasped the plaited grass. “You’re learned.” He was also breathtaking, but she would keep that thought to herself.

  “Ha! I doubt I’ll even pass this Dacian war class my father’s forcing upon me.” He rolled back to his chest, his broad shoulders blocking her view of him.

  “Of course you’ll pass. Who’s that Roman general you told me about who defeated the enemies of Rome in sixteen days?”

  “Cincinnatus.”

  “You’d have done it in seven.” If kissing men was wanton, what about complimenting them? Still, she spoke truth. Would Pruella rather she had lied?

  Eric laughed and looked at her again. “You’re mad. You know that, right?”

  “No, I’m not.” She crossed her arms. “You have the presence to command legions. Unless you’d rather wrestle three-headed monsters like Hercules and – ”

  “Stop. I’ll give you the poetry verse you want.” Pushing himself to a seated position, Eric leaned back on his sweat-drenched arms. His hard muscles bulged as he chewed his dark lip. A bead of sweat rolled down his breastbone over his broad rib cage.

  “It has to fit on a shelf, so it can’t be long.” She hadn’t said those things to make him comply. He was Hercules. She plaited more grass.

  “Here’s one. ‘Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away. If one were to give all the wealth of one’s house for love, it would be utterly scorned.’”

  Dropping the grass, she clasped her hand over her heart. “It’s beautiful. Who wrote it? A Greek poet?”

  He shook his head. “It’s the Scriptures.”

  “Are you sure?” She drew back. “The Scriptures mostly say ‘thou shalt not steal’, and ‘resist strong drink.’”

  “Of course, I’m sure. Don’t you listen in First Day services?” He grinned.

  She flaunted one shoulder at him. “What else does this holy poem say?”

  “Solomon calls his bride the most beautiful among women and tells her that her love is better than wine.”

  If only she were all those things. Cara felt her shoulders sag. “Will you marry a girl like that?” None of those patrician girls at the party deserved him. None.

  He laughed. “I’m eighteen, nowhere near marrying age for patrician males.”

  “I’m two years younger than you, and well into marrying age for females, plebeian or patrician.” Like it or not and with each passing month the pressure to marry only increased.

  “I am very glad I’m not a woman.” He plucked a blade of grass and smirked at her. A revolting spider clung to the grass stalk.

  “Being a woman’s not all bad. You can wear beautiful clothes and jewelry, make yourself look comely.” She tugged the fabric of her mud-colored work dress. “At least some women can.”

  “You don’t need clothes to look beautiful.” He froze. “Mea culpa. That came out so wrong. I meant to say. I mean, I meant. I mean, I swear it’s just that I fail rhetoric classes, not that I’m a lecher.”

  Gaze on his red face, she curved her lips into a grin. “You meant to tell me I look comely.”

  “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.” Resting one hand on the grass, she leaned back, gaze on him, and yes, she did know the position exhibited her figure.

  He flicked the spider into her hair!

  With a screech, she slapped at her hair, palla sliding off with the motion. “Get it out.” Clawing at the back of her head, she sent hairpins flying. Any moment now, it would dig those tiny black jaws into her skin and bite her.

  “Here.” Moving to his knees, Eric bent over her.

  “It’s still there.” She ripped at her hair.

  “Stop wriggling.” He looked like he’d laugh at her. He twisted his fingers in her hair, calluses brushing her scalp as he pushed strand after strand aside.

  His fingers felt warm against her skin and if a filthy insect hadn’t at that moment crawled around her hair, she’d have liked it.

  Finally, he dragged the insect out by one leg. “See, no harm done.”

  Her breathing stilled, but her hair still hung loose around her in front of a man – a patrician man no less. Eric had touched every strand of it. Her heart pounded. “You did that on purpose.”

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have if I knew you hated spiders that much. My sister doesn’t care.”

  “It was scarcely the act of a friend.” She grabbed for her hairpins.

  “I won’t again.” His voice caught.

  She glanced up.

  His gaze traced her unbound hair.

  She shook out her locks, tumbling them down to fall around her knees. Resting both hands on the grass, she held her body taut beneath his gaze. “What do you think? You’re the only man besides my father who ever saw my hair down.” Would he call her comely again? She wanted him to.

  “I think your father would hate me right now.” Standing, Eric walked back to the pile of javelins.

  With a sigh, she jabbed hairpins into her hair, binding and covering it. For calling her comely, Eric certainly walked away swiftly.

  By using grease for the door hinges, removing her shoes, and thanking heaven Father fell asleep early, Cara managed to meet Edna.

  The night wind whipped at Cara’s clothes as she walked down the deserted street.
In the darkness, the streets looked unfamiliar and a nervous sort of excitement pulsed through her. A warehouse door loomed ahead, a trace of light slipping under the bottom plank. Noise and laughter hammered against the walls.

  Edna grabbed the door handle. Inside, piled casks and crates lined the edges of the space. Wine sloshed into earthen tumblers, sounds of merriment rising up.

  Fine linen and polished leather marked the young men as patricians. Girls dressed in plain brown wool scattered through the mix. Boisterous voices and wanton movements marked them as women Pruella’s mother would not approve of.

  Cara pulled her palla further over her hair.

  “Cara, Edna.” Victor strode out of a shadow. He gripped a wine cup in one hand.

  Edna smiled at him, but he looked to Cara. “My father’s best wine. Drink.” He held the earthen cup out to her.

  Cara felt her cheeks heat. Wine was for men, not women, unless you were loose.

  “Go ahead.” Victor pushed the cup into her hand. “I’m drinking it.”

  “You’re a man.”

  “I know.” Victor flexed the muscles of his upper arm.

  With a sharp movement, Cara shook her head and he glanced over his shoulder toward the other women. One, a girl with copper hair and painted eyelashes, beckoned him. He turned to Edna. “Are you going to be a damper, too?”

  Edna took the cup. Victor circled his arm around Edna’s waist and they moved toward rowdy partygoers. Cara’s heart started to beat at a discomforted rate.

  Sticking to the shadows, Cara slid to the left where Eric sat at a table a little distance away from Victor and the wine casks. Several young men huddled around it, focused on a game. Girls hung behind them, some leaning over the men’s shoulders or looping their arms around a particular man’s neck. Carved ivory pieces sat on the tabula board, piles of coin marking the two players’ wagers.

  A bead of sweat rolled down Eric’s brow as he leaned forward, eyes intent.

  “Your move.” An older youth pushed forward a stack of coin. The man’s hair had enough oil in it to light aflame. A girl with boldly colored cheeks twisted herself around the slick-haired man.