Widow's Pique by Marilyn Todd Read Free Book Online Page A

suspects - little men with big egos or else hotheads with half-baked ideals -and usually all he managed to unearth for his pains was a mixture of bravado and bullshit. Also, the public seemed to be under the impression that once the Empire had rid itself of a few conspirators, that was the end of the matter. It wasn't. Subversion's a weed. A vicious, pernicious, perennial weed, and no matter how often you cut off its blooms or yanked at its stems, the roots of sedition were too deep to dig out. So why did he bother? Why keep beating round the same old dusty bushes?
    Simple. If he didn't, the anarchists and assassins would prevail, and imagine if the law of the sword was permitted to win. The seas and the highways would become unsafe to travel; trade would collapse; the Empire would tear itself apart like rabid dogs. It wouldn't happen overnight, of course. Such a downfall would take years. Generations, perhaps. But Rome had seen enough of her own sons' blood spilled. Augustus had single-handedly crushed a hundred years of bitter infighting to give the Empire peace and stability, endowing his people with a prosperity and a pride that they had not known before. It was worth the lack of acceptance to keep that flame alive, but there were times - God knows there were times -when Orbilio could use a little human comfort.
    He continued to work through the fragrant crush, conscious of fingers sliding against his thigh or brushing his hip. Expert fingers, enticing, inviting; gateways to relief and oblivion.
    In the fountain by the rose arbour, a slant-eyed dancing girl, naked apart from a black velvet mask, twisted and writhed to a tune played on a lyre by a blind musician, her long wet hair slapping against her oiled skin with rhythmic provocativeness. He moved on.
    'They call me Rapture.' A jangle of bracelets rattled in his ear before a fusion of fine lemon cotton and forget-me-not scent blocked his path.
    'I can see why,' Orbilio replied, running his eyes over the transparent flounced gown, the delicate embroidery, the finely tooled kid-skin slippers. 'Unfortunately, Rapture, I've arranged to meet with someone else.'
    'Pity.' Black-rimmed eyes at a level with his flickered with practised coquettishness. 'Maybe next time . . . ?'
    'Definitely,' he lied, watching Rapture sashay seductively down the path.
    Too tall, he thought, far too tall, and his heart lurched for the woman who only came up to here on him. The woman who was not forced by law to wear the dyed yellow wig of the prostitute, but one with hair piled high in tempestuous curls and eyes that flashed like twin forest fires - and a tongue
    that burned twice as hot! A half-smile twisted his lips. To tame Claudia was to tame the whirlwind while riding white lightning with both hands tied behind his back, but, by Croesus, he was up for a challenge.
    Watching the last rays of the sun disappear behind the building, he wondered what she was doing. Was she, like him, sipping wine as the light slowly faded? Was she feasting on oysters and prawns, while musicians serenaded her under an open sky? And what was she wearing? That midnight-blue arrangement pinned with gold clips on her shoulders that accentuated her breasts? Or a fiery red number that reflected the wearer's own passion? More to the point, did she have any idea what she was getting herself into? Histria, for gods' sake, and she—
    His train was interrupted as the whore he was waiting for emerged from one of the bedrooms. He watched as money changed hands - gold, naturally - and felt something churn in his stomach when the thick-lipped, pot-bellied Arab stood on tiptoe to kiss his paramour farewell. Laying down his glass, Orbilio glanced over his shoulder at the door to the street. The door that led to the clean, open air and to freedom. For a few seconds, bodily desire fought with integrity, but the battle was brief. Squaring his shoulders, he marched down the peristyle and, without any preamble, slapped a soft buttock