Seduced By Her Rebel Warrior. Greta Gilbert

      All around him were signs of opulence. Fine glass pitchers. Thick, embroidered towels. Water ladles inlaid with precious stones. Rab scraped the fine bronze strigil along his oiled limbs and gazed up at the high, stained-glass windows. Their light poured down in pools of colour on to the new marble floor.

      He might have been impressed. The Romans were excellent builders and baths like this one were among the most lavish in the world—true palaces of leisure. But Rab could not bring himself to relax, for he knew the source of all this gaudy wealth.

      Taxes. Nabataean taxes, to be precise, stolen from every Nabataean trader and merchant from Bostra to Rekem.

      Rab gazed at the gilded rail leading into the hot pool and envisioned the camel-loads of frankincense that had surely purchased it. Twenty per cent. That is what the Roman tax collectors took from every load, thus robbing the Nabataean incense traders of virtually all their profit. In the thirteen years since the Romans had come, the richest Nabataean traders had become paupers. Many were now so desperate that they had gone on to the Roman bread dole.

      Twenty per cent. The Romans made it sound trifling—the price of acquisition, they called it. As if it had little impact on Nabataean lives. As if it had not slowly, systematically, fleeced the Nabataeans of their wealth and greatness. He scraped a bronze strigil along his bruised limbs a little too roughly. ‘Twenty per cent,’ he muttered. Reason enough for a fight.

      The lamp flickered. It was too damned hot. He needed to get out of this cursed bath. He dropped his strigil and pushed past the guards. ‘Stop!’ called one, though Rab could hardly hear him as he strode down the hall to the dressing room, where he thrust aside a chair and crashed into something soft.

      Or someone, rather.

      ‘Titans of Olympus!’ she gasped, stumbling backwards. He saw a blush creep up her neck and his stomach leapt with an unwelcome lust. Against his will, he stepped towards her.

      ‘You might have announced yourself,’ she protested, stepping backwardss.

      ‘In the men’s changing room?’ he asked.

      She was sweating. Her lovely robe was clinging to her breasts, emphasising their shape. He felt his desire begin to rise.

      ‘I told you I would leave your clothing here,’ she said. Her voice was unusually thick. ‘You might have remembered that.’

      ‘I apologise for my poor memory,’ he said, sounding in no way apologetic. He saw her eyes range across his naked chest and then turn away. She took another step backwards.

      ‘Why did you leave the bath so soon?’ she asked.

      ‘The gleam of gold began to sting my eyes,’ he said, stepping forward.

      ‘Where are the guards?’

      ‘On their way, I’m sure.’

      He was now only a few steps away from her, yet it was not close enough. He could feel the fullness of his desire and puzzled over how quickly he had lost command of himself. Here he was, standing before the enemy—captured, powerless, naked—yet all he wanted was to get closer to her.

      ‘Please, robe yourself!’ she commanded, keeping her eyes carefully locked with his. ‘Your toga is just there.’

      ‘Where?’ he asked and, when she turned to indicate the toga, he saw her eyes slide down the length of him and behold his naked form once again.

      The entirety of it.

      And for one unexpectedly satisfying moment he saw her heavy lids disappear and her eyes open wide.

       Chapter Four

      The guards burst into the dressing room and seized the camel man by his arms. ‘Robe him!’ Atia shouted as she pushed back through the doorway and out into the main hall.

      She felt as if she had just escaped a burning building. She fanned herself with her hand and began to pace. Did the man have no shame? But the question was unfair. Once inside the baths, men were not required to remain clothed. Still, he had appeared almost triumphant as he watched her take in the vision of him.

      And what a vision it was, in truth. So much glowing bronze flesh. So much taut, sinewy muscle. He had seemed taller without the trappings of cloth and there was a solidity to him that she had not perceived before. His arms bulged, his chest sprawled, his thighs were as thick as logs and between them...

      She stopped pacing. Shook her head. It was not as if she had not seen a man’s desire before. After three marriages, she had long since learned to dread the sight, for it meant only one thing: submission to her wifely duties.

      And yet now her mind wanted nothing but to consider that large, fascinating blur of flesh that she knew many men would call a blessing. Many women, too, she thought wryly.

      By holy Minerva, why was she even thinking of such a thing? She was the Governor’s daughter. She was supposed to be a model of modesty and decorum. She gazed up at the hall’s high ceiling where an image of the goddess Juno floated in diaphanous robes. The goddess held two pomegranates in her hands, as if weighing them. Her cool expression seemed full of judgement.

      ‘It was not my doing,’ Atia explained to the placid goddess. What was not her doing? The toga? The bath? The unreasonable attraction she felt towards a man whom her father suspected to be a rebel? ‘It is not my fault,’ she muttered weakly to the goddess. ‘He trespassed the boundaries of propriety.’

      Though to be fair, it was Atia who had trespassed on him.

      She returned to pacing. It was not just his nudity that had unnerved her. In addition to his highly improper display of flesh, there had been that look in his eye—the same one he had flashed when they had first met and then again when he had called her beautiful.

      Strange things had happened to her body all three times he had looked at her that way. Heat had pulsed through her, followed by a kind of melting feeling and a weakness in her legs. It was as if his very gaze had the power to cook her—to turn her limbs into noodles and her insides into bubbling polentum.

      They bubbled even now, just remembering that look. And then there was that barely detectable smile that she saw traverse his lips just afterwards. It was as if he knew she admired him.

      As if he believed that, in some small way, he had conquered her.

      Ha! He had done no such thing. He was her father’s prisoner! How could he have any power over her at all? His life was not even his own. Nay, if she felt anything for him at all, it was pity.

      In that instant, she heard the door to the men’s changing room swing open. She turned to discover him striding towards her, the flowing white toga virilis draped elegantly around his body. Her stomach turned over on itself. If she had believed that the trappings of clothing would erase his appeal, she had been woefully mistaken.

      By the gods, he was well made. Even the draping toga could not conceal his finely sculpted strength. The flowing fabric hung from his broad left shoulder and swept beneath his right arm, revealing the contours of his chest through his snug-fitting undertunic. As he walked, the heavy woollen garments seemed to whisper across the floor.

      Pity. Deep, abiding pity, she reminded herself as he planted himself before her and nearly slew her with his gaze.

      ‘You wish to make me into a Roman,’ he growled.

      He did look rather Roman—with all his pursing lips and broad-shouldered arrogance. Closely trimmed beards such as his had become popular among the equestrian class recently and even his long black hair was of the latest Roman fashion. It brushed the tops of his shoulders, giving him a carelessly regal appearance—like a scholar fresh from the baths.

      ‘The toga suits you,’ Atia observed. She studied the creases of the garment’s folds, careful not