Three weeks had passed since that conversation.
Every morning, I would wake and immediately check the sheets, searching for the familiar stain of blood.
The irony was not lost on me.
Usually, I would have dreaded it. Cursed the cramps that left me curled in bed for hours. Complained about the headaches and the exhaustion that came with it.
Now, I found myself praying for it.
I would gladly endure the pain if it meant avoiding the alternative.
Even though I knew enough to understand how little certainty I had. Stress could delay a cycle. Head trauma could certainly affect it. A sudden change in environment, diet and routine could throw the body into disarray.
At least that was what I had been telling myself for days, every time I found the sheets and my dresses clean.
Gen had occupied himself with matters of the estate during the days. By night, he would wait at the dining table for me, my place was always set beside him. But I never went. Instead, I opted to take my meals in the room or simply eat nothing at all.
I knew he was waiting for the news, counting the days as carefully as I was.
Because I noticed every morning, Mildred would change my sheets or help me dress, humming softly to herself whenever she found no blood upon the linen.
The entire manor seemed to be holding its breath.
The weather had turned unusually pleasant today, warm enough that the stone walls of the manor felt suffocating.
Since Gen had ridden out at dawn to inspect the tenant farmers on his surrounding lands, who had been met by trouble with the Romans, I decided to escape outside for once.
A book on medicinal herbs rested upon my lap as I settled beneath one of the great oaks that shaded the front grounds. The grass and wildflowers stretching around me in rolling waves of green, yellow and blue. I watched as it stirred gently by the breeze.
It felt strange to sit here, seeing as centuries from now, this very spot would become part of the manicured grounds of the Cavendish estate. Perfectly trimmed lawns. Gravel pathways. Carefully planted gardens, unlike the wildness of the present.
The wind lifted strands of my hair that was braided to the side, as I turned another page of the herb book resting in my lap. The uneven sections the healer had cut had finally grown long enough to hide the healing scar at the back of my head, now that my stitches were off.
I was studying a passage on willow bark when a distant shout carried across the grounds.
My head snapped up.
A moment later, another voice answered from farther away, relaying the message toward the manor.
Then came the thunder of hooves.
I had only just risen to my feet when a hand clamped firmly over my mouth from behind.
A startled cry died in my throat.
My book slipped from my fingers and landed in the grass as I struggled instinctively against the hole. Whoever it was had dragged me backward, deeper into the shadow of the great oak just as riders emerged along the road leading to the manor.
I froze.
Roman soldiers.
There were perhaps a dozen of them, advancing at a measured pace. Sunlight flashing against their helmets and mail shirts, their rectangular shields hanging at their sides. Some rode horseback while others walked beside them, escorting a mounted officer at their center.
It was one thing to see them in museums, at the corroded helmets behind glass cases. It was another thing entirely to see them alive.
Moving, breathing and real.
The officer barked an order in Latin, and the soldiers slowed before the gates.
At once, one of Gen's soldiers emerged from the manor. He wore a wool tunic beneath a leather armor bearing Gen's family crest, a cloak pinned at one shoulder. His hand rested near the hilt of the sword at his hip as he descended the steps to meet them.
Even from a distance, the tension was obvious.
The Roman officer remained mounted, but the Briton did not bow.
Neither man looked pleased to see each other.
Behind me, the hand covering my mouth loosened slightly.
"It is me," Marcus murmured against my ear.
The moment I recognized his voice, the panic drained from my body.
His lips brushed the skin beneath my jaw, sending a shiver through me as his arms tightened around my waist.
"The gods must favor me after all," he said softly. "To find you wandering alone beneath an oak while my men ride openly to the gates."
My pulse stumbled before settling.
I leaned back against him for the briefest moment, my fingers wrapping around his wrists. The steady beat beneath his skin grounded me more than anything else could.
"You did not come with them."
Ahead of us, the Roman delegation slowed before the manor.
One of Gen's household warriors stepped forward to meet them. His posture stiffened as more riders emerged from the road behind the first group.
Marcus followed my gaze.
"That hound believes me dead," he said. "I should like to keep it that way for as long as possible."
His grip tightened slightly.
"Dead men are rarely watched."
I swallowed a smile.
"He was the one who brought me to you."
Marcus's jaw flexed.
"I know."
The words came out colder than before.
Before either of us could say more, movement on the far side of the front yard caught my eye.
A black horse emerged from between the outbuildings.
My breath caught.
Gen rode at a steady pace toward the gates, dark cloak shifting behind him as he approached the waiting Romans.
The soldiers immediately straightened, several lowering their hands toward their weapons, others shifted their shields. All poised for an attack.
Gen reined in his horse several paces from the Romans.
The Roman officer at their center remained mounted, as both men simply stared at one another across the distance. None of them bothered to dismount, nor bowed.
Marcus's arms tightened around me.
"There he is," Marcus murmured. "The man who thinks the gods delivered you into his hands."
Before I could respond, he stepped away from the tree.
My heart leapt.
"Marcus—"
"We need to go. Now."
His eyes remained fixed on the scene unfolding at the gates. The Romans had Gen's attention for the moment. But that would not last forever.
Without another word, he slid one arm beneath my knees and the other around my back.
A startled gasp escaped me as my feet left the ground.
"Marcus!"
"What?" he asked, already moving. "Would you prefer to run?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
The answer was obvious.
He carried me effortlessly between the trees, moving through the undergrowth with the confidence of a man who knew every inch of the land. Branches brushed against his cloak as sunlight flickered between the leaves overhead.
The farther we moved from the manor, the lighter my chest felt.
Like every step was carrying me closer to freedom.
Closer back home.
A dark horse waited where the forest thickened, tethered beneath the shelter of several oak trees, as Marcus set me down only long enough to untie the reins.
Then he swung me effortlessly into the saddle.
"Come here," he bit out, holding out his hand.
I took it immediately.
A moment later, I found myself seated sideways in front of him, his arm secure around my waist as he gathered the reins.
For the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to breathe as I held onto him.
Marcus pressed a brief kiss against my temple.
"I have you now."
Then he dug his heels into the horses's sides.
The animal surged forward.
Wind rushing through my hair as the manor finally disappeared behind us. Trees blurring past, leaves whipped overhead.
Marcus's heartbeat thudded steadily against my back.
For a brief, reckless moment, I thought we had actually escaped.
Until a horn sounded behind us.
Not once.
But twice.
Three times.
Marcus's body immediately tensed.
My stomach dropped.
The signal had echoed through the countryside like a warning.
The horse thundered deeper into the forest, just as somewhere behind us, came the unmistakable sound of riders chasing after us.