The Warrior's Bride Prize. Jenni Fletcher
he might be either. Tarquinius had said that he was newly enrolled in the army, but the man before her looked both older and more experienced, closer to her own age of twenty-four than that of a raw recruit. The realisation was both a relief and a fresh source of anxiety. After marriage to a man almost three times her age, the last thing she’d wanted was to go to the other extreme and marry a boy—something this soldier most definitely wasn’t—though there was something powerfully disconcerting about him, too.
There was his sheer size, to begin with. Even without his helmet he was as tall as the next tallest of his men, with broad shoulders and, she couldn’t help but notice, an almost equally wide torso. Then there was his overtly military appearance. His long blue cloak, trimmed with a yellow band and fastened at the front with a bronze fibula, was swept back over his shoulders, revealing a contoured breastplate and metal greaves over a pair of form-fitting braccae that only emphasised his muscular thighs. He’d placed his oval shield to one side, but he was still holding a spear, allowing her a glimpse of hefty forearms decorated with bronze armillae, decorations for valour, as well as an intricate silver scabbard on the left side of his belt, paired by a dangerous-looking dagger and three-foot-long vitis on the right.
She curled her fingers into her palms, beset by a confusing blend of emotions. Ironically, now that she’d discovered they weren’t in any danger, she felt as though she were under a different kind of attack. Her legs felt as weak and tremulous as if she’d just run a race and she felt too hot all over, as if it were the middle of summer and not a mild spring day. Julius had never made her feel this way, not even at the start of their marriage, as if her abdomen were full of tiny, fluttering butterflies, each of them beating their wings in unison. She’d never been so keenly physically aware of another person. Could this Centurion tell? Was it obvious?
It felt obvious, as if her body’s shameful reaction were writ clear on her face for everyone to see, but at least he was her betrothed, the man she’d come to marry. That was her one consolation. If he’d been anyone else, she might surely have died of shame on the spot.
‘I’m honoured to meet you, Lucius Scaevola.’ She addressed him by name at last. ‘We’re grateful for your escort.’
The Centurion didn’t answer at first, his only reaction being a slight tightening of his jaw muscles, and Livia felt a hot pink flush spread up over her cheeks and into her hairline until surely the skin beneath clashed with her curls. Had she displeased him by speaking? Staring into those deep, dark eyes, she had no idea what he was thinking, but surely she hadn’t said anything so shocking?
‘Pardon, lady—’ his stern features became even sterner than before ‘—but my name is Marius Varro, Second Centurion of the Fourth Cohort of the Sixth Legion. I’m here to escort you and your men the rest of the way to Coria.’
‘Varro?’
Her voice seemed to have abandoned her again, emerging as a stricken whisper while she stared at him in dismay. His name was Varro? For some inexplicable reason, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be her future husband. She’d simply assumed that he’d be the man who’d come to greet her—and then once she’d seen him she hadn’t thought to question his identity at all. Perhaps because she hadn’t wanted to.
She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. As it turned out, it wasn’t actually possible to die from shame and mortification, or disappointment for that matter, though continuing to talk to him at that moment seemed just as terrible.
‘You mean...’ somehow she forced her eyelids open ‘...you’re not Lucius Scaevola?’
‘No, lady.’ His tone was brisk now, as if he were trying to dispel her embarrassment. ‘He’s waiting for you in Coria.’
‘Oh... I see.’
She stiffened at the sound of Tullus smirking beside her, obviously enjoying the scene. No doubt he’d enjoy telling Tarquinius about it, too, at some later date. They could both laugh at her together... She felt her insides plummet, the ball of tension she’d carried all the way from Lindum curling up like a fist in her belly. But what was one more humiliation, after all? Where men were concerned, she’d already experienced so many. She ought to be immune to the feeling by now, though having this Centurion be a witness to it made her feel even worse somehow.
‘Is something amusing?’
She froze at the glacial tone of his voice, half-opening her mouth to protest before she realised he was speaking to Tullus.
‘No, sir.’ Her escort jumped to attention, visibly startled.
‘Then perhaps you can explain to me why you’re laughing?’
‘I...’ Tullus spluttered ineffectively. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Are you?’ The Centurion’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘If I had time, I’d make sure of that fact. You’re lucky I don’t. Now get your men ready. We’re leaving.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Livia felt the corners of her mouth tug upwards as her escort scuttled away like a frightened rabbit. He wouldn’t be telling that to Tarquinius! She’d never seen him respond to orders so quickly.
‘Your men are insolent.’ The Centurion turned back to face her and her smile faded at once.
‘They’re not my men. They’re my brother’s.’
‘All the more reason for them to treat you with respect.’
She gave a murmur of assent, unable to frame an answer to that. Tullus simply took his cue from Tarquinius. He knew exactly how much respect her half-brother would expect him to show, as well as how much he could get away with.
‘We’ll march for another hour and then rest.’ The Centurion—what had he called himself again? Varro?—surveyed the woodland on either side of them suspiciously. ‘If that’s convenient to you, of course?’
She blinked, surprised to be consulted. ‘Yes, if you think that it’s best.’
‘I do. Now allow me to escort you back to your carriage.’
She didn’t move, regarding him warily instead. His eyes were actually green, she noticed, but of such a dark shade they seemed to blend into the wintery foliage around them. She had no idea what he thought of her, but she had the distinct feeling that if she went back to the carriage then she’d only spend the rest of the journey fearing the worst, reliving the scene of her humiliation over and over in her head. Whereas if she stayed...well, hopefully then she might find some way of salvaging her dignity, not to mention of overcoming this strange physical effect he seemed to be having on her. What did Aesop’s tale say, something about familiarity breeding contempt? She only hoped that was true.
Besides, even if he wasn’t her new husband—a thought that, to her renewed shame, did nothing to relieve the fluttering sensation in her stomach—perhaps he could tell her something about the man she was going to marry. Apart from his name, all she knew about Lucius Scaevola was that he came from a senatorial family in Rome and was heavily in debt to her brother. Since those debts had most likely been accrued drinking and gambling in one of Tarquinius’s establishments, neither fact was particularly reassuring, and she didn’t want to spend the next few hours cooped up in a carriage, her nerves stretched even tighter than before. Julia would be safe with Porcia and surely her skittish maid must have realised they weren’t under attack by now.
‘I’d prefer to walk for a while.’
One eyebrow lifted at the same time as the furrow in his brow deepened. ‘We march at a fast pace, lady.’
‘Then I’ll march, too.’ She felt determined not to be thwarted. ‘I have two legs as your soldiers do and no armour to weigh me down.’
His