Marilyn Todd - Widow's Pique

His gaze didn't waver. 'No.'

'You don't feel that flogging's too harsh?'

'No.'

'Even though it wasn't their fault?'

She'd tried telling him that it was she who'd insisted they remain at the gate, fearing they'd cast a shadow over Salome's feast. That the men weren't to know she'd fallen into a pigsty and changed her frock. That, when the trouble started, they couldn't possibly have predicted how she'd panic and head for the hills. But Mazares had folded his arms over his broad, stubborn chest, just like he was doing now.

'Their job was to guard you, My Lady. They failed.'

'Only on my instructions.'

'They take their instructions from me.'

'I overruled them.'

'That only makes the men doubly responsible. Once for disobeying orders, and once again for failing to protect you.'

'You won't change your mind?'

'No.'

'Then you leave me no choice. I will petition the King.'

A flash at last behind those impassive catkins.

'On what grounds, exactly?'

'Surely the King's bride is allowed the odd indulgence, Mazares?'

The familiar lazy sparkle returned, and he bowed.

'Consider their slate clean, my lady. As of this moment, your escort is free to return to their duties.'

Gotcha, you bastard, and for a split second she considered exploiting the situation by suggesting they set off for Gora at once, but Mazares was wise to her now. He hadn't swallowed that tale about soldiers casting a spectre over the feast and he'd been particularly sceptical when it came to the idea of Claudia panicking. So she simply thanked him for his change of heart.

'My pleasure, and you must let me know if the King's bride has any other… odd indulgences.'

Smarmy sod.

'No, no, you've spoiled me enough. I wouldn't want to push my luck, now would I?'

'Wouldn't you?' The twinkle was dangerous now. 'Nevertheless, I think it prudent to post a bodyguard at your door.'

The noose was tightening…

'What? And compromise my reputation?'

'I meant outside your bedroom, My Lady, not in,' he said, affecting a mock swoon. 'And besides. If there's any compromising to be done on that score, I feel it my duty to personally volunteer for the task.'

'I can assure you, Mazares, you would certainly have my first refusal.'

He tipped his head back and laughed, and as the puppet-master retreated through the pines, his laughter echoing above the hammering and sawing from the adjacent boatbuilding yards, she watched the aureole of glossy curls bouncing with every confident step, caught the occasional glint when the sun reflected off the gold torque round his neck, watched the spring in his taut and youthful buttocks. She'd long given up trying to decide whether his galley was crewed by policemen or by pirates, whether the King had genuinely summoned her to Histria or whether it was part of the conspiracy, or even whether Pavan and Mazares were on the same side. Worse, she no longer cared how many people had died on this paradise peninsula, be it from natural causes or otherwise, or what secrets Salome might be hiding. Frankly, who gave a damn that she gave refuge to a score of young, single women, including the King's widowed daughter-in-law, or that Lora's presence on the farm undermined tribal law?

Self-preservation was her only worry now.

She thought of Pula, just one day's sail from Rovin.

So near and yet so far…

Kicking off her sandals, she sought out a large, flat, white rock and dangled her feet in the turquoise water. The water was warm, shimmering softly under the Histrian sun as it lapped her ankles, gurgling as it shrank away from the rocks, slapping gently as it hit them again. Terns dived for fish like silent white stones, and the air was scented with the freshness of the oceans and the dense, tangy resins of the pines. She closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle.

'I was under the impression that brides were supposed to be blushing, not washing,' a deep baritone said from behind.

She spun round, and found herself face to face with a pair of soft yellow Histrian boots that cast a tall, broad shadow over the shoreline. The shadow emitted a faint hint of sandalwood unguent, which penetrated even the pitch and sawdust of the boatyards.

'And I was under the impression that the Moon God only came out at night,' she replied sweetly.

'That's the beauty of being a divinity,' he drawled, and his pants were every bit as tight as Mazares's. 'We bend the rules to suit. But then that's something you know all about, isn't it? My Lady.'

She tilted her head, half-expecting to see the silver mask. What she saw in its place was far worse.

'Orbilio?'

'Marcus Cornelius, international moon of mystery, at your service, ma'am,' he said, clicking his heels together.

'You bastard.'

'Didn't you level that same accusation against me at the banquet? We were both wearing pants, I seem to recall, although yours tended to contain some rather more interesting curves. Unfortunately, you spoiled the fun by concealing them under a cloak of green feathers.'

Six feet and six centuries of aristocratic breeding settled themselves on the warm rock beside her.

'Aren't you curious to know when I arrived?' he asked, pulling off his boots and easing his toes into the water. 'This is nice, although, silly me, I was expecting the temperature to be somewhat warmer.'

The cocked eyebrow suggested he wasn't referring to the heat of the ocean.

'The when doesn't interest me, only the why.'

No legionaries, no back-up, just a lone investigator from the Security Police. There was a strong smell of rat in the air, not least from the one sitting beside her.

'The King invited me.'

The world started spinning. 'Why?'

The Security Police grinned. It was the sort of grin leopards make when they're eyeing a kill.

'Who do you think put your name forward as a suitable bride to his old friend?'

Claudia heard a crashing sound, as all her theories fell on the floor and shattered at once.

'Friend,' she repeated flatly.

'More in the sense that he's a good friend of Rome, I suppose, but yes.' Orbilio spiked his thick, wavy hair with his fingers. 'Personal friend all the same.'

She refused to look at him. Wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

'Orbilio, if I had a knife on me, I swear I would face the lions a happy woman. What else have you told him about me?'

'On my mother's eyes, Claudia, your secrets are safe with me.'

'Your mother's dead.'

'A mere technicality.'

That was the problem. You could trust him as far as you could throw an elephant with a rhinoceros tied to its back, yet all the while he charmed you like a snake. And now it seemed the island was infested with the bloody things! Mazares the cobra had gambled, as well. He had gambled on a vivacious young woman being captivated by turquoise seas and sun-drenched sandy beaches, seduced by sheltered coves and the scent of cypress, pine and myrtle. He'd lost the bet, and the irony that the only people she could trust were the louts who'd destroyed Salome's farm wasn't lost on her.

'I suppose you know Mazares?'

'I do.'

'And you'd call him a friend?'

'I would.'

Naturally. Mazares would make damn sure of that.

'What excuse did the King give for inviting you here?' she asked. 'To give the blushing bride away?'

Around her feet, the ocean lapped the hot, bleached rocks and seabirds wheeled overhead.

'Because I have news for you, Marcus Cornelius. You know the job of the Security Police? To root out conspiracies, forgery, fraud and assassins, and all the other nasty hobgoblins that threaten to destabilize the Empire and prevent it from plunging into tyranny, or, worse, into anarchy? Well, while you've been dressing up in silly silver masks, Histria is being brought to its knees, and right beneath your long patrician nose.'