Her Roman Protector. Milinda Jay

wondered if Annia would ever feel safe.

      She looked at him warily. Then glanced beyond him—it seemed she needed to verify the truth of his words.

      Her gaze returned to study him. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she nodded. “All right,” she said. “I think I can do that.”

      He relaxed a bit and was suddenly overcome with a very uncharacteristic lack of assurance as to what he should say next.

      But she spoke for him. “Now,” she said, “why don’t you come help me shear some sheep?”

      Just like that, she shifted from a frightened deer to a cheerful companion. He admired her verve.

      He laughed, and tired though he was, he followed her to the sheep. There would be plenty of time for sleeping in the afternoon. For now, he was going to enjoy her company and maybe learn something about shearing sheep.

      And he was going to think of a way to put Janius off the trail of this woman and her baby. Permanently.

      Chapter Five

      The presence of Marcus calmed her, and she was able to focus on the task at hand. Shearing sheep.

      The shears were dull. Annia sent Lucia to the kitchen with them and a request to have the cook sharpen the shears with her stone.

      Lucia was happy to get Julius as far away from the stream as possible.

      Meanwhile, Annia directed Marcus in the fine art of sheep bathing.

      “We have to bathe them before we shear them,” she said. “We need to get rid of all the excess matter in their coats that might dull the shears.”

      Apparently, whoever had been in charge of the sheep had not paid attention to this nicety.

      “That sounds reasonable,” Marcus said, nodding agreeably and awaiting further instructions. She liked that he was willing to learn from her. Most men resisted instruction from a female.

      “Where is your sheepdog?” Annia asked.

      Marcus seemed surprised by the question. “I think all the dogs are in the atrium,” he said.

      “Not those dogs,” Annia said, “your sheepdog. The one that is trained to herd sheep.”

      “I don’t think we have an actual sheepdog,” Marcus said. “Our coin comes from olive oil, not sheep. I think all of our sheepdogs are in Britain.”

      She raised a quizzical eyebrow but didn’t have time to question him further about her homeland. Instead, she had a challenge in front of her. One that was proving to be more difficult than she expected. She tried to remember if she had ever bathed sheep in a stream without a sheepdog helping her.

      She hadn’t.

      “Well, it looks as though you’re chosen,” she said to Marcus.

      “Chosen for what?” he asked.

      “To be the sheepdog,” she said.

      She hoped he was as affable as he pretended to be. If not, this was going to get very interesting very quickly.

      “You are going to run behind those bedraggled creatures you call sheep and drive them, one at a time, into the stream.”

      He looked at her for a moment and then burst out laughing. “You want me to play the sheepdog?”

      “Yes,” she said, smiling.

      Marcus shook his head. “I’ve done many things for women. But never this. Pretending to be a sheepdog to these bedraggled sheep?” he said, cocking his head to one side and grinning.

      ”Yes,” she said, then continued her instructions. “When I finish giving the beast a quick dunk in the spring, you are going to need to drive her right back into the pen.”

      Marcus grinned. “Are you trying to make a fool out of me, or is this what must happen?”

      Annia smiled. He really had never worked with sheep.

      “Well, you may look a little foolish,” she said, “but the sheep will be washed and ready for shearing.”

      Annia was quick to fashion a hanging cradle for baby Maelia.

      First, she removed the bronze pin that secured the long, blanketlike palla to the shoulder of her short-sleeved shift, her stola.

      Scribonia’s gift, the palla, was long and octagonal, made of a finely woven lightweight wool. It was perfect for fashioning into a makeshift cradle on the lowest branch of an ancient olive tree that grew alone a few yards from the stream.

      She felt Marcus’s admiring eyes on her makeshift cradle, and had to laugh.

      “Is there anything you can’t do?” he asked.

      “You are very easily impressed,” she said, “that or you haven’t been around many mothers with babies. Though when I think about it that seems odd since your mother has a house full of them.”

      “I haven’t been here long,” Marcus said.

      “Really?” Annia said. “I thought you were born and raised here.”

      “Off and on,” Marcus said. “But I joined the service as soon as I could, a bit before my seventeenth year. I finished my twentieth year in the service this year and came home to plan what I will do next.”

      “And what will that be?” Annia asked, hoping in spite of herself that it would be something close by.

      Ironically, this man—who had come to her private abode with an armed guard to take her baby—made her feel safe.

      “I don’t know yet,” he said. “Now, tell me which sheep you want to start with.”

      Annia turned her attention back to the sheep. It was clear he did not want to talk about his future plans.

      Was it because there was a woman involved? Was he promised in marriage to someone?

      It made sense. He was young and handsome enough to land any woman he wanted. His parents probably had the perfect young woman picked out for him.

      Why should she care? She shouldn’t. But she did. She would like to know that this man, whose company she was beginning to enjoy, was not thinking about another woman.

      Stop this foolishness. You will never remarry. You don’t want to. You aren’t interested in men. Marriage was the most miserable state you’ve ever experienced. You were forced to be with a man who didn’t love you, who said you looked like an elf, not a woman, who kept you only for your dowry.

      She shook off that downhill spiral of thoughts, shed her stola and marched down to the stream clothed only in her tunic.

      She found a sandbar and positioned herself on it.

      “All right,” she said, “send in the first victim.”

      Marcus walked into the pen and chose the closest sheep.

      He positioned himself behind the dirty sheep and pushed her forward.

      She circled back around behind him.

      He tried it again.

      The sheep circled around behind him.

      He looked up to see Annia laughing at him.

      “You think this amusing?” he yelled, positioning himself behind the sheep once again.

      His yelling had an unintended effect. The startled sheep surged forward. He bolted with her, and all the other sheep followed.

      The sheep lopped along wildly in the opposite direction from the stream.

      “You make a poor sheepdog,” Annia said, laughing until tears streamed down her cheeks.

      He ran to catch up with the sheep and tried herding them as if he were a sheepdog,