The fevered man’s grip tightened around her hand. “Say you love me, Caecilia.”
Pinna stared at him, uncertain how to respond. Deciding whether to lie. And in that moment, she no longer hated him but felt only compassion. She could not let a dying man slip into the void without comfort.
“Hush,” she whispered, wiping his brow with a cloth. “Rest now. I love you.”
“Forever.”
She hesitated. “Forever.”
He’d closed his eyes.
The fever had continued. She paled to think she would lose him and so also lose Camillus. And her resentment that Marcus should expect her to heal a near-mortal wound tripled—so too her worry that she would fail.
On the fifth day, he woke clear eyed but weakened. He didn’t seem to remember seeking a declaration of affection. Instead he scanned her face as she lifted his head so he could sip some water. “Why are you helping me, Pinna? I thought you of all people would leave me to die.”
“Thank Marcus Aemilius for that. He convinced me,” she said brusquely, then her voice softened. “Whatever spite there is between us, I would not see any man suffer as you have.”
By the time Pinna returned from the sanctuary, it was early afternoon. Drusus was lying on his back on his pallet.
“My lord, wake up.”
He opened his eyes, wincing as he eased himself to sitting. The movement started him coughing. “I’ve been waiting for you. You said you would remove the last of my stitches today.” As always she noticed the slight stammer in his voice when he was agitated.
“I was with the general.” She knelt beside him and lifted his tunic over his head. There was no modesty between patient and nurse. An intimacy had grown between them. At first he’d resisted being dependent upon her, embarrassed at his helplessness. After a time a familiarity grew between them as she spooned food into his mouth, washed him, and cleaned his ordure. She knew every inch of his body without them being lovers.
His torso was bandaged from chest to groin. She was pleased to see there were no bright spots of fresh blood to indicate the sewn flesh had ruptured. “I’ll unpick them now. But you must promise not to try and do too much afterward. It will take you time to regain full strength.”
Businesslike, she unwound the strips of cloth, keeping the strapping on his ribs and dislocated shoulder intact. As she leaned across him, her breasts brushed his chest. She edged back, being more careful not to touch him, but as her hands moved down toward his thigh, she noticed he had hardened. He grabbed his tunic and covered himself, face scarlet. It was a curse of his, the unbidden betrayal of emotions by his skin.
Pinna also blushed. “Well, at least we’ve discovered full strength in one part of your body.”
Drusus raised his head. For the first time since they’d met, they shared a smile.
Once the seam along his flesh was exposed, Pinna examined the wound. The bruising had faded to yellow. She was proud her needlework was neat. The scar would not be stretched or deformed. Relieved his erection had calmed, she gently touched the remaining stitches from hip to groin, checking whether she could remove them. She was conscious he was watching her.
“How old are you, Pinna?”
“Twenty.”
“The same age as my sister,” he murmured. “And tell me, how old were you when you became a night moth?”
She stopped inspecting the wound, unsure as to why he would suddenly seek to know her history. “Eleven.”
He winced. She knew it was not from pain.
“How could that be? Where were your parents?”
She sat back on her haunches. “My father was a soldier forced into bondage. My mother and I became whores because we were destitute.” She made to rise. “I don’t want to talk about it. I need to fetch some tweezers.”
Drusus placed his hand on her shoulder. “Wait.”
She settled back on her heels. “What is it you want from me? Why do you ask these things now?”
He took her hands. His were large and bony, the knuckles pronounced. This time they were gentle. “I’ve been thinking. You saved my life as much as Marcus did. Many a warrior dies from infection once the battle has ended. I need to make matters right between us, Pinna. Can you forgive me for what I did to you?”
She stared at him. The hesitancy in his voice revealed his sincerity. “You changed my life, my lord. That night in the graveyard, you gave me bronze enough to allow me to register as a brothel whore. I never planned to expose you. You did not need to fear me.” She lowered her voice. “You did not need to rape me.”
“I’m sorry, Pinna. Believe me.”
She eased her hands from his, aware her Wolf would not want another man touching her.
He must have realized he’d also trespassed. His stutter deepened. “It was because she haunts me.”
“I understand, my lord. You were punishing her by punishing me.”
Her answer started him coughing. She waited for him to regain his breath.
“When I had that fever, I heard Caecilia saying she loved me. Was that you?”
“Yes.”
“You showed kindness. Why so?”
“I thought you were dying.”
He frowned at her bluntness. “You have to understand, it’s not entirely Caecilia’s fault. If my prick of a father had died sooner, I could have married her. Instead, consumed with choler, he ensured I was denied happiness. She was plebeian by birth. Not good enough to marry his patrician son.” He paused, then went on. “I liked the laughter in her. But she was too inquisitive about the world of men. More interested in politics than a woman should be.”
Pinna was shocked he would attempt to excuse a traitoress. He did not wait for her to respond, though, still dwelling within his memories.
“When Caecilia escaped to Fidenae, I thought it was because she wanted to come back to me. But it was Mastarna she loved.” He pounded one fist against his palm, startling her. “She plunged a blade into my heart—stab, stab, stab. Do you know how impotent I feel? Reduced to writing spells to curse him and bewitch Caecilia to love me? And all the time I know that he is holding her in his arms, taking her to his bed.”
Pinna frowned. “You should have cursed her instead that night. Don’t you realize she will never love you? That you need to forget her?”
“Yes, but at least I can kill him. I will not fail next time. I plan for my curse to come true—‘I consecrate Vel Mastarna to damnation. May his mind and soul be tormented, his body twisted and shattered, his tongue cut out, and his ears and eyes pierced by hot pokers. And if he has, or shall have, any money or inheritance, may they be lost, and his entire house be stricken with disaster and destruction.’”
She shivered just as when she’d first heard the words read aloud in the tomb. “You condemn her also, you know.”
He nodded, eyes pained. “That’s my torment.”
She rose, uncomfortable with his despair. “I’ll get those pincers. And some mint for your cough. You’ll need to keep still while I’m unpicking the knots.”
Drusus grasped her skirt. “Wait. You comforted me when you thought I was dying. Why are you good to me?”