Louise Allen - Virgin Slave, Barbarian King

‘Shh, Julia. Shh, it is all right. You are safe.’ He hardly said the words, pressing his cheek onto the smooth black silk of her hair. He could feel the wetness of her tears against the warm skin of his pectorals, the flutter of her pulse as his caressing hand reached her throat.

She breathed in a great sighing breath and lay against him, utterly relaxed in sleep, the sobs stilled. A weight settled on his knee; Smoke was resting his jaw there contentedly.

‘Get off, you old fool,’ Wulfric hissed. The wolf rolled an eye at him and settled himself more comfortably, as if aware his master was not going to risk pushing him away. He began to dribble gently.

Wulfric felt his eyelids begin to droop. This was foolishness. Tomorrow he had to attend Council, give his king his opinion, fight for his view against those who would oppose it, in a matter that could affect the destiny of their people for generations. Tomorrow the scouts might ride in with news that the emperor had taken the field and was marching on Rome and he could find himself preparing for battle. Tomorrow, even if everything went well, he must make plans to strike camp and lead his kin group and his allies where Alaric ordered.

And here he was, losing valuable sleep sitting up comforting a slave who did not even know he held her, while a wolf slobbered over his trousers. It felt good. Soothing Julia soothed an inner turmoil he had not even been aware he was suffering. He could feel his shoulders dropping in relaxation, he could feel his breathing slowing to the rhythm he tried to teach Berig, the swordfighter’s focused semi-trance. Everything became very simple, centred on the warm, fragile body in his arms.

She shifted slightly; her hands, which had lain limply in her lap, moved restlessly, one slipping round his back, the other sliding up his chest. The innocent, unconscious, touch made his breath catch in his throat, his relaxation vanished to be supplanted by a sensual awareness that had his body hardening, his loins aching. He had to put her down, and urgently.

Smoke grumbled as his head was unceremoniously pushed to one side. Wulfric twisted on the bed and laid Julia down, drawing the blanket up over skirts that were rucked up to her knees. He backed out of the corner, picking up the rushlight as he went, as tense as though he were facing an armed opponent. ‘Stay,’ he breathed and Smoke lay down at the foot of the bed.

He regained his own bed, shaken. Julia was dangerous to his peace of mind, to his body’s equilibrium, to his focus and control. Restless, he turned on his side and tried to get comfortable, accepting the ache in his groin as just punishment for his thoughts. Dangerous. Some part of his mind, the part that observed him, chided him—his conscience, he supposed—noted coolly that he did not consider taking her back with him into Rome in the morning and setting her free. No, he told himself as he slipped back into sleep. She stays.

Julia woke to a strange light, an unfamiliar room, a peculiar bed. Where…? She sat up, scrubbing the loose tendrils of hair back from her face, and found herself staring at a large wolf, that was watching her from the far end of the bed.

Oh, dear God, it wasn’t a dream. She was in a Visigoth’s tent, yesterday had happened, she was a captive, a slave, and she had no idea how she was going to escape. Her side of the tent must be facing east, she realised, as the strong glow of the sunrise penetrated even the heavy canvas to light her bed space.

And then the dream came back to her. Julia fell back onto the straw-filled mattress with a groan of horror and forced herself to remember her lurid night-time fantasy. Wulfric had captured her, held her against her will and yet her treacherous imagination had brought him to her bed, virtually naked. She had dreamt he had held her in his arms, caressed her face and neck, and she had felt the heat of his naked body, the sensation of silk over iron that was his skin and muscle. She had fantasised that his body had grown hard as he held her and that she had wanted to caress him in her turn, feel his mouth on hers—on every part of her…

‘No!’ Julia rolled over on to her side, dragging the covers over her head as though her shameful thoughts could be blanked out. It did not work. How could she be so wanton as to dream like that? To want her enemy like that? He was beautiful. There was no denying it. To depict the nude male form was considered an acceptable artistic convention; to admire the result was quite normal. But a respectable virgin did not lust after real men like that. One did not think about…

‘Are you awake?’ It was Berig, on the other side of the curtain, as effective an antidote to desire as any she could think of.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, get up, then!’ He sounded irritable. ‘Wulfric said I had to stay here until you were up and working with Una.’

‘He is not here?’ Oh, merciful escape if he is not! To have to face him with the memories of that dream fresh in my mind…

‘He’s in Rome, gone to Council. I should be there, waiting on him, not hanging around while you wake up.’

‘Well, go then,’ she snapped.

‘I cannot.’ Berig’s voice became fainter, he was obviously walking away. ‘I have to make sure you have breakfast and go safely to Una’s.’

‘I am quite capable of both.’ Julia flung back the blankets and got up. ‘Is there hot water?’

‘Yes, my lady. In a pot on our fire if your ladyship would condescend to come and get some.’ Berig sounded both angry and sarcastic.

Tugging her tunic over her head and winding the girdle round her hips, Julia scooped up her sandals and emerged into the main tent. Berig, wearing a fine linen tunic edged with heavy braid and with a silver clasp around his wrist, looked older—until she saw his expression, which was pure sulky youth.

‘You are very fine,’ she commented, pushing her feet into her sandals.

‘I was expecting to see the king. I have to do my lord honour.’

‘Well, go and see your precious king then and hold Wulfric’s horse, or whatever you are dressed up to do.’

‘Alareiks ist thiudans thizos mikilaizos thiudos thize Gutane,’ Berig snarled at her. ‘Is mikils guma ist.’

‘I understood one word of that—Alaric,’ Julia said impatiently, then realised that the high colour in Berig’s cheeks was genuine anger that she had spoken slightingly of his leader. ‘I am sorry, I did not mean to insult your king, but he is my enemy. I give you my word, I will wash, eat and go to Una’s tent—you go to Wulfric. I am not likely to escape with Smoke dogging my every step, now am I?’

Berig narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Your word? Is the word of a Roman woman any better than those of the men?’

‘My word is good,’ Julia said steadily. And I did not promise not to try to escape, only to go to Una’s.

‘Very well.’ He was out of the tent at a run. A minute later she saw him canter past, his cloak whipping in the wind behind him.

Julia went to the latrine, managing, with some difficulty, to persuade Smoke to wait outside. Still, he was as good as a bolt on the door for ensuring privacy. He hugged her side while she ladled hot water into a bowl and worked out how the suspension hook could be swung to one side so the water did not boil dry.

Washed, her clothing straight, she set her sleeping space in order, then surveyed the rest of the tent. Yesterday’s platters and spoons lay unwashed in a large bucket. She pulled back the curtain that screened Berig’s space and saw his bed was in disorder and a pile of dirty clothes lay on the floor. Julia prodded them with her toe, shrugged and went to investigate Wulfric’s space. It was in a like state, only the pile of discarded garments was larger.

‘Hmm.’ Julia found bread, cheese and honey, poured hot water over the honey, dashed in a little wine and sat down inside the tent to eat. She washed up what she had used that morning and last night and replaced it on the shelves, tied a loop of leather around an eating knife and fixed it around her waist under her tunic and went out of the tent, leaving the rest of the housework exactly as she had found it.