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

  Wryn looked over the top of the political treatise he’d studied for an obscene number of hours. “Not to worry, Gwen. You’ll soon pass marriageable age, and no man will want an old maid.”

  “Wryn Paterculi!” Gwen flew toward him, claws out. A foot away, she stopped and inhaled. “I think you speak madness.”

  “Of course he does,” Father said. “You’re a Paterculi. You could be on your deathbed and men would still hover. Reject as many as you like.”

  Lips turning up, Gwen flashed Wryn a my-papa-loves-me-and-my-big-brother-just-lost smile.

  “The question is,” Eric shifted the foot he sat on. “Who is it Gwen thought had proposed, when she lighted up like a firefly?”

  Gwen crossed her arms. “I merely entertained curiosity.”

  Father shifted his gaze to her. “Was there a man who you wanted to propose?”

  “Of course not.” Gwen glared at Eric.

  Letting his scroll fall, Eric smiled. “And does his name start with – ?”

  Gwen jumped into his lap in her haste to clap her hand over his mouth. “Don’t!”

  Grinning, Eric shoved her off.

  Father looked from Gwen to Eric and back again. “Is there something I should know?”

  “No!” Gwen dug her fingers into Eric’s shoulder.

  Father looked at Eric. “Is there?”

  Eric coughed as Gwen turn red all the way up to her hair. Then, Eric shook his head. “Just a jest.”

  As Gwen swept out of the room, Father crossed the room and came to a stop in front of him. “How is the Dacia information coming?”

  Interminable supply lists. Did he truly have to read about every ligula of grain shipped from the province? Eric glanced at the remaining stack of scrolls. Any chance one of them contained information on rafters and how wide one could construct a roof before needing pillar support? Pillars would interfere with a discus throw. Maybe he could build a three-sided heated structure and have the other side open into the field beyond.

  Father coughed. “Dacia information?”

  “Does this all have to be read by next week?” He’d read ten times the amount if Father would give up the notion of him becoming a tribune. Angle for political prestige in Rome? Unlike Wryn, all he’d accomplish is proving himself a fool.

  “I have another boxful if you find yourself dissatisfied.”

  Father would do it, too. Last year, he’d complained about the complete uselessness of reading shipping reports, above and beyond the former rhetor’s incessant readings. In response, Father had handed him an entire crateful of wax tablets detailing every Camulodunum import and export for the last six months. It had been intriguing, though. Who knew Camulodunum exported that much pottery?

  “Look, Father.” Wryn, the son who-could-no-wrong, sat straighter on the couch. “I found this.”

  Father moved Wryn’s way.

  Pointing at places on three different scrolls and a map, Wryn spoke eagerly. “I think the Londinium smugglers we apprehended and the Camulodunum ones we are still trying to catch are connected. A conspiracy ring perhaps?”

  Father looked over Wryn’s shoulder.

  “And here, and here.” Wryn raised his hands, his whole soul in his words as he spoke of some kind of strategy he’d contrived.

  Scanning the scrolls Wryn pointed to, Father nodded. “Well done, son. You’ve done good work.”

  Eric rolled his scroll down hard enough to tear the parchment and glared at the words.

  Chapter 6

  Afternoon shadows grew longer. Leaning back to tighten the loom’s strands, Cara threw the shuttle. Three more handbreadths and she’d have enough cloth for one of those street children.

  Outside the open door, a horse-shaped cloud moved over the sun. Cara dropped the shuttle. “I’m going out, Father.”

  “Not today.” Grasping a misshapen arrowhead, Father pointed to the shelf behind her. Sacks mounded in a pile on the wood. “You need to deliver those.”

  “I want to see Edna.” At the training fields with Eric. He’d told her about Hercules’ third labor last time. She’d felt as if Hercules stood before her.

  “Orders have decreased. I need the money from those collected.” Father laid the arrowhead on his anvil.

  Cara sighed.

  “A betrothal to Conan this fall will only make you busier.” Father pushed the arrowhead with his tongs.

  Edna had invented that lie. Though, with how Conan pressured, she’d have to decide one way or the other. “Do you think I should marry Conan?”

  “He’s a good man. If you care for him, I’m sure he’ll make you happy.”

  “I do care for him. It’s just,” she bit her lip, “marriage seems so frightening.” The babies, the work, forsaking all hopes of Greece.

  Father swung up his hammer. “There’s no rush, Cara girl. When you’re older, men won’t seem so frightening, and Conan will wait.”

  The men part didn’t scare her. The losing all her freedom and inevitable onslaught of babies did. Why didn’t that frighten other girls?

  Cara moved the loom to the wall. “Pruella says all the other girls are married, and Conan keeps asking when I’ll make up my mind.”

  With a crash, Father dropped his hammer against red-hot metal. “I already told that boy to hold his tongue. If he harries you again, I’m threatening to call the betrothal plans off permanently.”

  She jerked her chin up. “I want to make my own decision about Conan and other men. Please?”

  “Other men?” Father spun around. “What other men?”

  Her breath caught. She could still taste Eric’s lips on hers, as if two weeks hadn’t elapsed. He’d smiled, his gaze on her as he’d kissed her. “No one in particular.”

  “Are you seeing men when you’re out with Edna?”

  “Um….” She ran her tongue over the lips Eric had kissed.

  “I like Edna’s familia, but she’s got no discretion around menfolk, nor a father to watch out for her. You tell me if anything improper happens when you’re with her, you hear me?”

  “What’s improper?” She’d never done anything so terrible. Just kissed Eric and snuck out to Victor’s party. All right, perhaps a little terrible.

  “Men talking to her, touching her.”

  “It’s not wrong to touch a man. Conan holds my hand.” He also kissed her, but now didn’t seem the time to tell Father that.

  “If that’s bothering you, I can make him stop right now.” Father brought his hammer smashing down across the anvil.

  Shoulders in, Cara shook her head. What would Father think of Eric?

  “I suppose I’ll let him continue then. I trust Conan, but there are a lot of other men who haven’t a shred of respect for women. If Edna’s ever meeting men when you’re with her, you tell me and that’ll end.”

  “How are you going to stop Edna from seeing men?”

  “No, of you seeing Edna. I won’t have her dragging you around the dregs of society.” Father lifted his hammer. The iron flattened as he pounded the metal into submission.

  “Not all men are dregs of society.” Eric certainly wasn’t. Hauling up the wash pail, Cara dumped it out the window on the vegetables growing underneath the eaves’ shadow.

  “If they’re men I haven’t met, then yes, I’m assuming they are.”

  “You wouldn’t stop me from seeing Edna?” As in Eric.

  “Without a moment’s hesitation.” Father beat the anvil with fast blows, shaping an iron javelin point.

  “But Father, I live for the days I see Edna.” Eric. She clasped her hands together.

  “Don’t borrow trouble, Cara girl. Nothing improper has happened.”

  An uncomfortable feeling snaked up Cara’s spine, sending heat even to her bones. “May I go see her now then?” At the training grounds with Eric.

  Head over the flames, Father pointed to the shelf. “You’ve got deliveries to last ‘til nightfall.”

  The shadows lengthened as Cara trudged through
the streets. Conan’s shop stood just ahead. The heavy bag of nails he’d ordered weighed down her arms.

  She glanced up the street, north to the training grounds. A potter’s shop blocked her view. She swiveled her gaze right to Conan’s place. In her mind’s eye, she held up the two men.

  Eric. Learned in Greek literature, built like a Greek god, knew everything about all the interesting places in the world, able to make her heart beat faster than racing horse hooves, and completely unattainable.

  Conan. Pleasing enough to look at, associated with horrible people like Pruella, despised her best friend, laid down rules, and would make her his wife tomorrow if she wished.

  The door to Conan’s shop hung open. Wood shavings slid under her feet as she walked across the entrance.

  “Cara.” Conan laid down a plane and smiled. “What brings you here?”

  “Delivery from my father, why else?” She plopped the nails on a bench and herself beside them.

  With a laugh, he shoved the nails out of the way and sat by her. “Tiring of the smithy roof?” He touched her left-hand ring finger and traced a circle around it like a betrothal ring. “Time to trade in a father for a husband?”

  “Depends.” She slammed her hands against the lip of the bench and looked at him. “Would the husband have so many rules he doesn’t even allow me outside without my hair covered?”

  Conan flipped open the box on the shelf behind him, revealing money-counting tablets. “Worth a few rules for what I made at my shop this month.” He flicked her plain skirt. “I see the way you eye the colorful wool and jewelry at market. Married to me, you could choose whatever you desire.”

  True that she liked pretty things, but she’d wear rags if she could abandon rules and see Greece. “I bet you didn’t even count them right.” Snatching the tablet from him, she scanned the numbers. “See, here and here, wrong, and you haven’t recorded anything for this week, which is irresponsible.”

  Conan caught her hand. “Not as irresponsible as forcing me to keep wooing you. It’s about time you were in this house as my wife.”

  The breeze blew her skirt against the side of his leg. Marry Conan? In one day, she could switch her status from child to matron. Any girl in Camulodunum would jump at the financial benefits of marrying a diligent carpenter. She cared for Conan, but live in Camulodunum her whole life?

  Go to service on First Day, then spend the next six days, cleaning, cooking, and tending Conan’s babes? Become like Pruella and all the other girls? “Your offer would tempt me more if you hadn’t gainsaid all hopes of ever leaving this town. Gaul’s only a few days’ journey. Many men make time for a fortnight of leisure after they wed.”

  “I’m holding a dinner in a week’s time to celebrate my shop’s new wing. Let me announce a betrothal then, and I’ll think on Gaul.” Conan closed his fingers around her hand.

  “A week!”

  “I’d be more tempted to indulge your desires if you stopped making me a laughingstock by dragging your feet like a lame horse.”

  “If speed’s your only qualification, you’re welcome to take any of the other girls who’d gladly gallop to your beat.” She tried to jerk away from Conan, but he held her hand fast.

  For a moment, anger flashed across his cheekbones, but he swiftly suppressed it. He brushed a sweaty wisp of hair out of her face. “I love you, Cara girl, more than the mountains, and the oceans, and all these far-off lands you dream of. Take pity on a lovesick man. Marry me.”

  He loved her, now those were magical words, but were they words worth forsaking dreams of far-off lands?

  He nudged her chin up. “I want an answer this week, Cara, understood?”

  She knotted the fringe of her sash between her fingers. If she married Conan, she’d never see Eric again.

  Then again, Eric was a patrician, and though he gladly traded Greek legends and kisses, she didn’t need Father’s voice ringing in her head to know that to him their kisses meant nothing more than a momentary excitement. A choking knot rose in her throat. Balling one fist, she forced the knot down.

  She didn’t wish to make Conan miserable on her account. Bending forward, she kissed the rough part of his cheek where stubble appeared first. “I’ll decide this week.”

  The grass felt slick between her toes. The summer wind tugged at her dress. Cara leaned back on her hands and watched the men compete. Eric’s chest heaved as he circled the edge of the track.

  Dust flew up between the men’s bare feet. Victor ran a stride ahead of Eric. Long legs plowing forward, Eric struggled to make up the pace. The other three men lagged. Finish line within reach, Eric charged forward, but Victor sped ahead.

  “Won!” Victor glided to a halt.

  “It was closer, though.” Breath heaving, Eric followed the track, head down.

  Walking over to Cara, Victor collapsed on the grass. His elbow dug into the earth as he stared up at her. “Couldn’t stay away, Cara girl?”

  Shoving back, she pulled her crossed knees closer.

  Victor flicked her hair. “Kiss me.”

  “I don’t want to kiss you.” She slapped his hand away.

  He grinned. “Who do you want to kiss?” He pointed to the area where Eric had seized up a javelin. “Him?”

  Cara felt her cheeks flame hot. A leather cord twisted around the end of the javelin. Eric wrapped two fingers in it. He sprinted forward and hurled the javelin, his bare arms bulging with the movement.

  “Betraying our sad shopkeeper, are we?” Victor’s eyes held mirth.

  “I never told you about Conan.” If she said “yes” to Conan this week, she’d stop coming to the training grounds. Wretched thought.

  “Conan, so that’s the man’s name. Let me guess, gray hair yet?” Victor ran his gaze over her face and just a little lower. “No?”

  Oh, she’d mentioned betrothal the first day she’d met Victor. Eric seized up a javelin.

  “Ever finish that betrothal?”

  “What?” She tore her gaze away from Eric.

  “I don’t see the ring.” Victor brushed his fingers across her bare left hand. “Or do you take it off, hide it?” He slipped his hand into the pouch tied to her sash and touched her thigh.

  She jerked back. “I’m not betrothed yet.” She glanced at Eric.

  “Don’t want him to think overmuch of this Conan?”

  “Never you mind.” She should marry Conan. He must love her deeply, or he wouldn’t beg her to marry him. Still, he’d told her himself he’d never leave Camulodunum. Besides, knowing Conan, he’d want a dozen sons.

  Victor flopped back, hands behind his head. “I’m starving. Eric wrestles like he’s in a death match with a Spartan.”

  Reaching for the knotted sack beside her, Cara extracted a bread loaf. “You can have half.”

  Victor reached for the bread she broke. Her unknotted satchel gaped open, revealing a hunk of cheese and another sack of nails she had yet to deliver.

  “Saving the cheese for men you want to kiss, or may I have some of that, too?” Victor bit into the bread.

  She watched her neck turn scarlet, probably her face, too. “Don’t say that!” She glanced toward Eric. He walked toward them.

  “Don’t want Eric to discover you’ve spent your whole time over here looking at him?” Victor raised his voice all too loud.

  “No! I mean, I’m not looking.” She felt even her ears heat.

  Victor laughed.

  “Try to beat that throw. A full eighty paces.” Eric threw himself down on the other side of Victor.

  With a groan, Victor stood to his feet. “You know we’re in Britannia, not Greece. You act like you’re training for the Olympic Games.”

  “Someday.” Eric leaned back on his hands and watched as Victor strode toward the pile of javelins.

  Cara turned her gaze to Eric. Marry Conan, and she’d never kiss Eric again. If he tried, she’d let him steal another kiss right here.

  Sweat covered Eric’s body, calluses on hi
s hand where the discus had marked it, a blister on his foot from the pounding of the race, and a bruise on his shoulder, likely from a wrestling bout.

  She cocked her head. “Is the pentathlon worth all the bruises?”

  He sprung to a seated position, knees crossed in front of him. “Do you know what the pentathlon is?”

  “Yes. Five events, the strongest wins. Why do you love it so?”

  He rested one hand on the grass, long fingers digging into the dirt. “It’s the joy of the race. The challenge. Testing your mettle against the other man.” Eric’s voice rose with passion.

  Tilting her head, she studied his face, each line of it exuding that same passion for the sport. “It’s more about the trying than the winning then?”

  He laughed and sunk back into the grass. His dark hair mingled with the green of grass shoots. “I wouldn’t mind the glory of a laurel wreath either.” Eric moved his hands behind his head. Puffy clouds slid through the sky, alternating light and shadow. “Next year, Greece holds the Olympic Games. If I win the Londinium pentathlon, I can compete in them.”

  “You’ll win for sure,” she smiled at him, “but I’d rather see Greece than throw javelins.”

  “You should have been there last year. My familia went to Greece then Egypt. We visited the library of Alexandria, too. Scrolls rise floor to ceiling, fifty paces tall. You have to use a ladder just to reach the top ones. Stopped by Crete where the legend of Theseus and the Minotaur took place after that.”

  “Oh, if only I could see it! And the minotaur legend, and the library, and everything. Will you tell me about it?” Would Father change his mind about her taking a servant position if a good familia employed her, like the Paterculis?

  Perhaps Eric’s mother needed someone to help with cooking or weaving next time the Paterculis traveled to Greece? Eric wouldn’t let her get knifed by those “dregs of society” Father fretted over.

  “I’ve a Greek scroll of the minotaur legend. You can borrow it.” He leaned into the grass, the sunshine making shadows on his face.

  Flipping her head back, she laughed. “I’m a blacksmith’s daughter. I don’t read Greek.” Or Latin, though she wouldn’t admit that to this Cicero.