Chapter 4
The following day, Marcus was better able to face his duties. Gwen calmly promised to stay, again—he even retrieved the tether and placed it around his own ankle. Marcus wanted to take it off again, but as a symbol it seemed to be functioning, for now, and he didn’t want to confuse Gwen or mangle what communication they had managed, so he left it alone until he would have better words. The act, though it stung within his chest, still gave him more peace of mind throughout the day, and it was with only a little tingle of nervousness that he returned home and pushed open the door.
Gwen was there, before the fire, but Marcus froze at the sight of him, cold fear forming a knot in his stomach.
The space before the hearth had been cleared, even the matted reeds covering the earth floor had been swept aside. Gwen was there, stripped to his loincloth, kneeling in the center of a circle drawn in the earth. The fire was hot and blazing, the room a stifling oven that smelled like a strange mix of yew and something acrid. Marcus stepped quickly inside and shut the door, lest anyone see the strange sight within the house.
Gwen did not move or seem to hear him.
Approaching carefully, he quickly realized that Gwen was in a trance. His eyes were open, but blank. Fear made Marcus cold, in spite of the heat in the room. Gwen’s entire body was shining, but there were runes drawn upon his chest and arms that had not been marred by the rivulets of sweat running down his form. There were more runes and symbols drawn in the dirt as well—Marcus could see them as he approached. And…objects.
In front of Gwen, his amulet was laid carefully within the circle. To his right…was that…the loincloth Marcus had worn yesterday? He’d left it today and worn his other one until he could wash it after…after soiling it last night.
To Gwen’s left, the earth was stained dark and wet, and only after seeing this did Marcus notice the dripping wound in Gwen’s left hand.
“Gwen.” He could barely speak the word, his throat tight with horror, but the druid did not even flinch. His lips were moving almost imperceptibly, silent words forming a steady stream he could neither hear nor understand. “Gwen!” Distress and dismay strengthened his voice—yet still, no response. Gwen’s blue eyes were rolled back and vacant. Marcus had seen druids in trances before, and the sight had always carried a certain creeping horror, but never had he felt so…frightened. This wasn’t some barbarian about to die. This was Gwen.
And he should have slain the druid when he first saw him…
Cold sweat coated his body in a clinging sheen, panic broiling within him. He reached out.
Before his hand could touch Gwen, the druid’s eyes suddenly snapped wide open, a pained cry piercing the heavy atmosphere of the room. Gwen’s body tensed sharply, then sagged as he moaned. Marcus caught him, steadying him before he could collapse. His skin slipped under Marcus’ hands—it would have been erotic if not for the blood and black magic. He held on tightly, pulling Gwen into his arms in spite of all the trappings of sorcery. Gwen was limp against him, breathing hard, and in that moment, as neither of them spoke, Marcus came face to face with the terrible thing he had done.
He had spared a druid’s life. Did he think the barbarian would simply stop being a witch because Marcus brought him here? No—he had carried a servant of evil into the city, into his very home, and with the druid came all the black magic and demon-worship and dark rituals and the vile, heathen monsters he served. Even if Gwen did not try to kill him—he was a druid. Marcus could not begin to guess what he would do. This was foolish, dangerous to everyone, not just himself.
And what of himself? What had Gwen been doing, in a trance, that somehow involved the use of Marcus’ clothing? Was Marcus the target of this spellcasting ritual? Could it have…killed him, even from afar?
I should end this. There was only one way to repair the damage he might have already allowed by sparing this druid. A dagger, thrust cleanly into Gwen’s heart… His eyes stung at the thought, his heart pounding.
Gwen moaned, stirring, and weakly tried to lift his head.
“Gwen?” His voice was thick and rough, but blue eyes were blinking up at him in a daze.
“Mahr…khus.” A faint, exhausted smile turned Gwen’s lips upward, and every dark thought and fear in Marcus’ heart burst apart and fled.
“By the gods, Gwen…are you alright?” His hand pushed sweat-soaked hair away from Gwen’s face, examining him carefully. Of course, there were no injuries to discover—only the markings on his skin still reminding Marcus of what Gwen was and what he’d been doing.
The druid was gaining strength, steadying himself as Marcus gradually released him. The first thing he did was point to the outline of the circle and begin to speak in his barbarian tongue. He pointed to the circle and to Marcus, voice urgent and insistent and sounding for all the world like a motherly reprimand. Then, when he looked up again to see blank incomprehension, he sighed. “Mahrkhus…no.” He shook his head, pointing again to the circle, drawing it around himself in the air. “No.” He held one hand above the line, as a wall, and the other he moved over it—pantomiming crossing the line? “No.” He shook his head, pointing to Marcus again, and more barbarian words followed.
Frowning, Marcus shrugged. “What? I am to remain outside your circle, is that it?” He shook his head. “You must not do these things to begin with.” Then he pointed at Gwen, at the runes, the circle, the amulet. “Gwen no.” He lifted Gwen’s hand, still covered in blood. “No. All this—Gwen, you must not do these things. Do you not understand that the druids are killed for these practices? You must know what I am, and what I was there to do when we met. Why would you attempt this?” His voice was growing rougher, his eyes stinging again. Marcus swallowed, taking a deep breath to collect himself.
With a heavy sigh, Gwen’s eyes searched his. Clearly, he’d understood none of that, apart from the “no,” perhaps. Yet he didn’t seem confused. He met Marcus’ eyes with a gaze that looked…troubled. Concerned. Deeply burdened, and Marcus had the odd impression that the worry was for him. He could not say why he felt that. Only…Gwen’s eyes reminded him of his mother’s, when he was a boy and had injured himself falling off his father’s horse.
Gwen murmured a few more words in his language, his tone sounding so…sad. Then, with another sigh, he stood. He bent to collect his amulet and hung it around his neck, then retrieved Marcus’ loincloth and offered it to him, a little bashfully, but with a knowing look in his eyes as well. Once Marcus took it, feeling his ears grow hot, Gwen turned to the task of raking the reeds back into place, covering the floor and replacing the household items he had moved. Marcus banked the fire down to more normal levels as Gwen dressed himself and washed and bound up his wounded hand.
Their meal was somewhat more subdued than usual, although they still traded words and rehearsed those already shared. It seemed pointless to Marcus, however. He did not need to talk to Gwen about food and clothing and common objects. He needed a way to convey a more abstract concept, like danger, so that he could tell Gwen his druid rituals were dangerous, do not do them. At the moment, however, he was stuck with things he could point at or simple actions he could demonstrate. Cup, water, drink. Bread, knife, eat. Stand, sit. Stool, shoes. Fire, log, floor, door, bedroll. Gwen repeated the words in his thick accent, and he offered his own versions of each, but Marcus no longer tried to repeat them all, and there was no laughter tonight. The ritual had left them both with heavy spirits, it seemed.
When the night grew late and Marcus suggested, “Sleep,” Gwen nodded and rose, but turned back in the doorway.
“Mahrkhus seks Gwen?” It wasn’t an invitation; only a question.
Marcus shook his head, still seated by the fire. “No.”
Gwen’s head tilted slightly. “Mahrkhus…” He searched a moment, then seemed to give up and simply said, “Loinclot,” his blue eyes holding that significant understanding again.
Marcus sighed. “Yes, I pleasure myself because I cannot have you, and you do not know why.” Gwen frowned, and Marcus smiled gently. “No sex, Gwen. Sleep.”
With a nod, Gwen left, and Marcus retired shortly after. He dreamt of holding Gwen in his arms, of kissing him, touching him, taking him…and then Gwen standing over him in a trance, holding a dagger, plunging it into his chest and cutting out his heart, his eyes white and empty.
~•~
Marcus woke suddenly, his eyes snapping open as his heart pounded—within his chest, thank the gods. The first thing he saw was a shadowed figure above him. The first thing heard was a voice whispering strange words, like a chant.
The feeling of cold crept over him again, his eyes shifting up to focus on the figure.
Gwen.
Cloaked and hooded, kneeling above his head, Gwen was bent over him, eyes closed, whispering incessantly. His hands were hovering on either side of Marcus’ head.
Marcus sat up sharply. The movement startled Gwen out of his…whatever he was doing. His eyes snapped open and focused on Marcus, blinking in surprise.
“What are you doing to me?” Fear made his voice harsh. He backed away from the druid, still kneeling on the ground.
Slowly, Gwen dropped his hands. He frowned—confusion. Marcus stood quickly, Gwen’s eyes following him, studying—still without guilt, and apparently surprised by Marcus’ reaction. What does this mean?
“You must stop doing these things! Gods, if you wish to kill me, take my sword and behead me as I sleep! Or if you wish me to kill you, stop pushing me to it with this dark magic! Make it plain to me, and I will…” His voice faltered, eyes finding pained blue fixed upon him. “I will finish what I should have done…”
But Marcus could say no more. Burying his face in his hands, he shook his head. “A lie.” Defeated, he approached Gwen again, sinking to his knees. “I cannot kill you. Gods save me, you could afflict all of Rome with demons, casting spells from within my very home until the Empire fell.” Hands touched his wrists—Marcus allowed Gwen to lower his arms and reveal his face. Despairing, he met those blue eyes again. They were tender…so cruelly tender. His breath caught, his chest tight. “What have you done to me?”
The pained, sorrowful eyes searched his face for several moments, then fell closed. Brow furrowed deeply, Gwen drew in a deep breath and released it, then opened his eyes again.
Blue stone.
Hard, strong, unflinching determination filled Gwen’s gaze. As their eyes locked, Gwen took Marcus’ right forearm and clasped it with his own. His left hand grasped Marcus by the back of the neck with surprising force as his eyes, so filled with strength, seemed to almost pour that strength into Marcus. Without thinking, he gripped Gwen’s arm in return, something stirring in him, driving the self-loathing doubts away.
Pulling on his neck, Gwen brought him closer, and then those thin arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace. It was not gentle or intimate. It was the clasp of a brother’s arms around him, strong and loyal. It stunned Marcus, even as the reassurance of the embrace heartened him. Did I not rape this man? How can he…
“Mahrkhus.” The tone was…commanding. Gwen drew back, meeting his eyes again. “Plaez.”
None of it made any sense to him. A request, or a command? And for what? Yet the determination Gwen displayed drove away his despair—he could not have explained why. He only knew…this could not possibly be evil. Whatever it was, whatever Gwen intended—Marcus had seen evil. He had seen the shifty evasiveness of it, the manipulation, the rage that covered weakness, the darkness used to compensate for impotent hate. The Romans slew the druids for their conquest, for the Empire, but Marcus killed because of the evil he had seen in them.
Gwen was different. He was certain, now. There was no place within an evil creature for this courage, this strength mixed with compassion. Evil did not banish pain and misery—it fed upon it. Gwen was not evil—how he could be a druid and good was still beyond Marcus’ understanding, but he could wrestle with that later. For now, he could…trust.
Perhaps that was what Gwen was asking of him.
With a sigh, he nodded. “Yes.” Gwen’s eyes softened a little, probably seeing the gratitude in Marcus’ expression. A faint furrow appeared in his brow again—hesitation. His eyes lowered, but not far, and he leaned forward, but with a different aim this time.
Marcus felt the brush of warm breath on his lips—and pulled back. Just slightly. Gwen’s eyes, half closed, opened again and met his. “No.” His voice was a raw whisper, and Marcus cleared his throat to strengthen it. “Not now, Gwen. Do not tempt me; I have not the strength for it…beloved.”
Of course, Gwen did not understand. His eyes fell, slight color rising to his cheeks. Marcus wanted to touch him, to soften the rejection with kindness, but even that would be too dangerous in this moment. Instead, he rose, Gwen slowly following him to his feet. “You are…so beautiful.” Marcus smiled faintly, almost pitying himself for his hopeless admission. It fell so far short of all he wanted to say—and it mattered not at all, for Gwen understood none of it. “You have my thanks, as well. And…let us break our fast. I must depart soon.”
~•~
From that day forward, a kind of truce formed between them. Marcus ceased to fear Gwen; Gwen ceased to ask about sex. They settled upon a friendly companionship, sharing evening meals, trading words, Gwen slowly picking up more Latin. Conversations were difficult, because vocabulary was so scarce—little could be said. Often, their attempts to talk became elaborate pantomimes, each trying to act out some concept for the other. Sometimes they succeeded and Gwen learned a new word; sometimes they had to give up in frustration.
The rituals continued, but only when Marcus was absent. He still found the traces of them when he returned though—a scent of something strange that had been burned, markings on Gwen’s skin. Sometimes a wound—bloodletting. But he pretended not to see. And Gwen, likewise, pretended not to see the look in Marcus’ eyes at times, the one that would creep in at odd moments when they were together, talking, laughing. Gwen would glance away quickly and pretend to be busy with his food, or stirring the fire, and Marcus would bury his feelings at once, concealing whatever glimmer of yearning he had accidentally let show.
At the end of a fortnight, Marcus had enough words to brokenly explain to Gwen that they were leaving.
The legion was setting out for new battlefields, and Marcus still had no guarantees that he would return to this city any time this year. The senior centurion had remained tight-lipped about which centurion would occupy the northern region, but Marcus was a strong candidate. Thus, he decided to take Gwen with him—a dangerous move, but no less dangerous, to his mind, than leaving Gwen alone or allowing him to keep company with anyone else. He had yet to make Gwen understand that he could not let anyone realize he was a druid. Even going to battle and sending a servant to fetch Gwen when it was over made Marcus nervous that Gwen would reveal himself along the way, the servant would spread the word, and all would be lost.
With a few new words, Marcus was able to convey “go on horse,” “sleep in tent,” and that Gwen would go with him and would be on horse—Marcus wasn’t leading a village captive this time. Even so, Gwen would ride with the servants, Marcus at the head of his legion. He hoped Gwen would understand from “no talk” that he should keep his distance from the others and remain silent, and for the gods’ sakes, to not let anyone suspect he was a druid.
Gwen didn’t seem to fully understand the what or wherefore of the journey, but he accepted and packed his few belongings and followed.
The first night they made camp, Marcus knew without even speaking to him that Gwen had realized the purpose of this journey. And how could he not? Legions of soldiers in armor and their camp followers all around, and a steady crowd of underlings and messengers and occasionally other centurions entering and leaving Marcus’ tent as evening darkened into night—it was a far grander version of their journey back from Gwen’s village.
Their conquest of Gwen’s village.
His manservant had taken Gwen in hand for the journey, and Marcus found them both busy about his tent when they made camp. Gwen was trying to help the servant at the cook fire. Marcus passed them as he entered his tent with three other centurions deep in a tactical discussion, but he caught Gwen’s eyes looking up at him from under the hood of his robe.
Those eyes knew. Of that he was sure. They understood, and there was a hint of sorrow in them, but beyond that—no anger. No judgment or enmity.
Gods. Somehow, that cut him deeper than any resentment. He felt sick with guilt, beset with the strange urge to apologize to Gwen for…everything. If he had the words.
He couldn’t. There was work to be done, and Marcus was the center of much of it. He disappeared into his tent and spent the evening discussing conquest. Often he found himself distracted, however—the conversation would fade as he listened attentively to the sounds outside his tent, hoping to hear Gwen’s voice. He never did. Only his manservant saying something brief now and again, and the usual hubbub of a military camp.
Gwen and the servant brought food, which he ate while giving orders to his underlings, pointing out spots on the map, forcing himself to focus lest his thoughts wander in front of his men. His two “servants” were out of the way in the corner, awaiting orders, and Gwen’s quiet presence drew Marcus’ attention like a siren’s call.
At length, the camp settled down, business concluding and all those not on watch turning to their rest. Marcus, left alone with his “servants,” turned to Garnoc, the manservant he’d brought from the city, asking after necessary things briefly before daring to voice the question at the fore of his thoughts. “Has he…said anything to you?”
Garnoc frowned, plainly confused as he looked at Gwen. “Him, sir? I thought he was dumb.”
Relief washed over Marcus, followed by tension at his slip. “Ah…I suppose he is. I thought it might be only the language that kept him silent.”
“He speaks not to me, sir,” Garnoc shrugged. Garnoc, as a conquered native, had learned to speak Latin some time ago, when the Romans had reached his shores. He’d cooperated with his forced servitude to spare his family from the same fate, and upon the promise that he’d be released back to them—someday.
“Mmm.” Thinking a moment, Marcus devised a plan. He asked Garnoc to deliver a short message to another of his men, and when Garnoc was gone, he smiled tensely at Gwen. “No talk?”
Gwen smiled back—only slightly—and shook his head.
“Good.” Marcus nodded. “Gwen no talk. No talk Garnoc,” he gestured, hoping to indicate the other servant, although Gwen might have picked up on the man’s name by now, if others had spoken to him often. Gwen nodded again, opened his mouth…and shut it quickly as Garnoc returned.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Garnoc, ask him, in your tongue, if he can speak.”
Another frown. “He might not understand me, sir.”
Marcus looked up at that, confused. “Why not? You speak the native tongue.”
The peasant looked like he was biting back wry amusement. “There is not only one native tongue, sir. We are north of my clan’s land, here. I do not know if Northers understand my speech. Never met one.”
Marcus blinked. The idea had never occurred to him. In all of Rome, there was only Latin. This Britannia did not have one speech? Well…perhaps not. They spoke differently in Normandy. But then again, that had been across the sea, and far away. These people of this little island were so strange…
“Well, ask. Let us see if he can understand you.”
“Then I’ll ask him that first sir, if you please.” Marcus nodded. Garnoc turned to Gwen and said something in the barbarian tongue. Gwen glanced, oh so briefly, at Marcus, then looked back at Garnoc and nodded. “There you are, he does.”
“As if he speaks, then.”
Garnoc put fourth another question—which, to Marcus, sounded exactly the same, if a little shorter. Gwen did not look to him this time, but he hesitated, his eyes guarded. Finally, he slowly shook his head. Garnoc looked at Marcus.
“Good to know,” he nodded, looking at Gwen. “Good. Good.” Gwen’s eyes met his, catching his meaning. Marcus nervously licked his lips. “I think he was a farmer of some sort, Garnoc. Ask him if he was.”
Garnoc asked, this time a longer question. Gwen did not simply glance over this time—he looked from Garnoc to Marcus, the faintest confusion appearing in his eyes. Marcus met his gaze directly, putting a certain urgency into his own eyes. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
Gwen’s gaze turned thoughtful a moment before he looked at Garnoc again, and again nodded. “There you are, sir. A dumb farmer lad, at your service.”
Marcus grunted his acceptance, then added carefully, “I have not been able to tell him anything. Will you explain something to him, Garnoc?” The servant agreed, not seeming to think anything of it. “I want you to explain to him that…explain the situation of a captive, such as yourself. He might still fear cruelty, or attempt to run away. I would like him to know that he will not be harmed, so long as he remains with me. I will…see to his needs.” He glanced at Garnoc. “You may tell him what you think of me as a master. I suppose you will, regardless, for I can hardly understand you or stop you. But whatever you wish to tell him of me, I want him to know that I will never…hurt him. You know I have never beaten you,” he added, reminding the servant of perhaps his best claim to the title “good Roman master,” compared to others.
“Aye sir.” Garnoc turned to Gwen and launched into a long explanation. Gwen listened, his eyes occasionally glancing over at Marcus. Garnoc’s voice ended in a questioning lift, and Gwen looked back at him, slowly nodding. Garnoc asked another question, and Gwen nodded more seriously. Then Garnoc turned and spoke to Marcus in Latin, “He understands; he serves you and not run away, sir.”
“My thanks.” Marcus bit his tongue. There was so much more he wanted to ask—now that he knew he had someone who could speak Gwen’s language, a thousand things were ready to burst from his mouth, things he yearned to say. But, as much as he might tentatively trust Garnoc—after two years of service, he had yet to find fault with him—he could not simply reveal all these secrets at once. After all, he had never had occasion to test his servant’s discretion, as there had never been anything rumor-worthy about him that only his manservant knew. And Garnoc might not betray him, but the wrong information spreading through camp could damage him in other ways.
So instead of pressing for more conversation, he nodded. “You may retire with the servants. This one will stay on hand here.”
“Sir, if you need give him an order, he will not understand you. Small use he will be,” Garnoc observed.
“Well, I rarely wake my servants with midnight orders,” Marcus shot back, a little testy. Reining himself in quickly, he amended, “Very well. Take him with you and show him where you will be, explain that if I need something he can go and wake you, then send him back here.”
“Aye, sir.” With a short order to Gwen, Garnoc turned to leave. Marcus answered the questioning glance of blue with a nod, and Gwen followed Garnoc from the tent.
Sighing heavily, Marcus buried his head in his hands. Gods. He could communicate with Gwen, but he still couldn’t say what he wanted to. He couldn’t explain himself, his actions…his feelings. He couldn’t ask Gwen what was in his head, why he risked those rituals…why he came with Marcus willingly, and how he could be so kind when Marcus had been so cruel from the very start. Perhaps I can ask Garnoc how to say a few key words. Gwen knows a little more Latin now… So far, however, certain words had been impossible to pantomime. Perhaps he could learn how to say forgive me in Gwen’s tongue—though, gods help him, with his poor pronunciation, it would be a miracle if Gwen could understand what he meant to say.
Wearily, he began to remove his armor. He had already placed his helmet on the makeshift table with his maps and papers. Bending, he removed his sandals and was working on his shoulder guards when Gwen returned. Straightening as the tent flap fell closed, Marcus was struck with two feelings at once—first, the familiar swell of yearning when he looked into deep blue eyes, and second…embarrassment. He had forgotten to have Garnoc help him remove the armor, and he couldn’t reach certain straps. Clearing his throat, he winced and pointed to the strap on his back. “Gwen…help?”
Curious, Gwen approached. “Help?”
Marcus pointed again, demonstrating that he couldn’t reach the strap and tugging on his shoulder guards to show that they wouldn’t come off. “Help me?”
Understanding. “Yes…” And then Gwen moved behind him, his hands unfastening the armor piece so that Marcus could remove it. Gwen lifted the piece from his grasp, and he moved to place the armor alongside the helmet, then turned back. Marcus was unbuckling his belt. “Help,” Gwen offered and held out his hands.
A denial was just upon Marcus’ lips—he could manage this one on his own—but then Gwen’s arms went around his waist, touching his own hands as Gwen took hold of the unfastened belt. Suddenly, the simple, quick movements slowed to a crawl. Marcus released the belt and Gwen slowly removed it—a distant thing he knew of only vaguely, because Gwen looked up at him, their eyes met, and they were so close. Marcus felt lightheaded; Gwen was breathing heavily. The moment lasted long enough to nearly break him.
Then Gwen’s eyes dropped as he set the belt aside. He turned his attention to the straps holding Marcus’ breastplate on, and repeated, “Help.” But this time, his voice was soft, and the movement of Gwen’s hands remained slow. Methodical. Careful. His fingers brushed the armor lightly; Marcus’ mind quickly moved that touch to his own skin, imagining the gentle caress of Gwen’s hands touching him. He swallowed, heart pounding. Straps undone, Gwen began to lift the armor away, Marcus moving to assist, and together they removed the last piece, apart from the padding and clothing underneath.
It felt like Gwen was undressing him. Like they were undressing together, even though they were both still very much clothed.
Gwen set the breastplate down, turned back, and hesitated. His gaze hovered upon Marcus’ chest, directly in front of him—sometimes glancing at the padding, sometimes just…looking. After a long moment, his eyes managed to dart upward again, briefly. “Help?” he offered.
Marcus swallowed. Stepped back. “No help, Gwen.” He stood there for a moment before he remembered how to move. Dropping his eyes from Gwen’s face and untying the padding, he added, “I can do this.” Then, glancing up, he added, “My thanks.” His throat was dry, and his voice did not sound strong, but Marcus ignored that and turned his attention to finishing the task himself.
Even so, nothing could make him less acutely aware of the man in his tent. As Gwen turned away and began to lay out his bedroll, Marcus caught a strangeness to his gait, a stiffness as he crouched. He turned partly away, but kept stealing glances, and thus managed to catch Gwen tug at something under his robe—in the region of his groin. Marcus didn’t need to wonder what the gesture meant. He needed to do the same thing—adjust his loincloth to take pressure off his erection.
No, he knew what it meant—but he couldn’t believe it. Why is he aroused? How could he ever feel…desire…for me?
They said nothing else to each other and each settled into separate bedrolls, but Marcus could not sleep—his mind dwelt on the question, picking it over, doubting his senses, then shaking the doubt off and facing the question again. He remembered, lying there in the dark, that Gwen had become aroused for him before—although both times were in the midst of sex. The first time had been rough, the pleasure probably a forced response. But in truth, no matter how gentle he’d been the second time, the ways he had touched Gwen had ensured any healthy man would feel pleasure, so Marcus had to consider that forced as well.
Tonight…was not forced. He hadn’t even touched Gwen, hadn’t said anything sexual. They had simply been close, all contact incidental and innocent—except in Marcus’ mind, which was so desperate with longing that it made everything into something more. He knew why he had become erect—but how could that have affected Gwen?
Quiet, rustling sounds in the dark—Gwen wasn’t asleep yet, either. He sounded restless. Marcus could understand, in a very visceral way, how he felt. His own cock refused to soften as thoughts of Gwen and their encounters filtered through his puzzled mind. Yet Marcus would not indulge himself, and it sounded like Gwen was resisting the same urge.
Fantasies tormented him. They were both aroused, in need of release. He could go over to Gwen’s bedroll, silently. Touch him. Slide down beside him. Feel the warmth of Gwen’s arms around him, his mouth welcoming, his body hot and needy as Marcus touched him. In the breathless silence, they could make love…until they crumpled in exhausted completion, sleeping peacefully together, Gwen’s breathing soft and steady as Marcus held him until dawn.
Gods, strengthen me. He would not. He had made a vow. Not one Gwen understood yet, but he hadn’t sworn it to Gwen—he’d sworn to himself. Marcus would not be a brute; he was a Roman centurion and better than that. He had failed to control himself once, but he would redeem that error if it killed him.
Truth be told, a failing now would be a thousand times worse. What he had done to Gwen had always been a violation, but now it would be more—it would be a betrayal. There was a tentative trust between them, now. Nothing would make Marcus sacrifice that trust.
The night passed at a crawl; dawn seemed determined to abandon Marcus forever.