Our child is lost to us, and the life you lead here in Byzantium is a better life for you. Civilization suits you, lambkin. You know the rough destiny facing us back in Britain.” Yet despite his words, he held her close, as if he could not bear to let her go.
Cailin was silent for what seemed an eternity, and then she said, “The child might yet live, Wulf. I somehow feel it does. What kind of parents are we that we do not even seek to find our child?”
“What of this Flavius Aspar? The man you are to wed?” he asked. “Is there not enough between you that you would remain here with him?”
“There is much between us,” she replied quietly. “More than you can possibly know. I give up much to return to Britain with you, Wulf Ironfist; but there is much waiting for us in Britain. There are our lands, which I have no doubt Antonia has appropriated once more; and there is the hope of finding our child. The land has a certain meaning for me. Aspar’s love, however, far outweighs it. It is our child that tips the balance of the scales in your favor.
“Once, and it seems so long ago now, we pledged ourselves to each other in wedlock. Our marriage would not be recognized by those in power here in Byzantium should I choose Aspar over you. It was not celebrated within their church. But the vows we made in our own land are sacred, and I will not deny them now that I know you live. I am a Drusus Corinium, and we are raised to honor our promises not simply when they are convenient, but always.”
“I am not a duty to be done,” he said, offended.
Cailin heard his tone. She smiled up at him. “No, Wulf Ironfist, you are not a duty, but you are my husband unless you choose here and now to renounce the vows we made to one another in my grandfather’s hall that autumn night. Remember before you speak, however, that in denying me, you deny our lost child to us as well.”
“You are certain of what you are saying, lambkin?” he asked.
“No, I am not, Wulf Ironfist,” she told him candidly. “Aspar has been good to me. I love him, and I will hurt him when I leave him; but I love you also, it would seem, and there is our child.”
“What if we cannot find it?” he questioned.
“Then there will be others,” she said softly.
“Cailin,” he whispered, “I want to love you as we once loved.”
“It is expected of us,” she replied, “is it not? The door is barred, and they will leave us in peace until the morning, but you must take that short tunic off, Wulf Ironfist. The gods! It leaves little to the imagination, and I prefer you without it.”
Now they both stood naked in the flickering light of the lamps. Cailin filled her eyes with him. She had forgotten much, but now memory surged strongly through her. Reaching out, she touched a crescent-shaped scar on his chest, just above his left breast. “This is new,” she said.
“I got it at the school in Capua,” he told her, and then held out his right arm to her, “and this one at the spring games in Ravenna this past year. I was blocking a net man, and thinking he had me, he already had his dagger out. He died well, as I remember.”
Cailin leaned forward and kissed the scar upon his arm. “You must never go into the ring again, Wulf. I lost you once, but I will not lose you again!”
“There is no safe place,” he told her. “There is always danger lurking somewhere, my beloved.” Then his two big hands cupped her face and he pressed kisses on her lips, her eyes, her cheeks. Her skin was so soft. She murmured low, her head falling back, her white throat straining. He licked hotly at the column of perfumed flesh, his lips lingering at the base of her neck, feeling the beating pulse beneath. “I love you, lambkin,” he murmured. “I always have.”
She suddenly seemed to flame with desire. She devoured him with her kisses; her lips and her tongue kissing, touching, licking at him. She touched the scar on his breastbone with her mouth, and he groaned as if in pain. She straightened herself, and they stared deeply into each other’s eyes for what seemed an eternity. They were past words.