The Defiant (The Valiant #2)(18)

I moved to pull my hand away, but Cai reached up and held it there, pressing my palm against the scar through the material of his tunic.

“The strength returns,” he continued. “Only slowly, and I’m a little less limber on that side. I decided I would try to make myself useful in other ways and requested this courier duty. Caesar agreed that his legions would somehow muster up the strength to soldier on without me and gave me the assignment to carry his papers to the Lanista. On the journey, I started practicing some basic dimachaerus sequences.”

“So that’s it.”

“To help build my strength back up . . . and in case I can’t return to regular soldiering.” A shadow passed over his face. I thought about what that prospect might be like. It would be like my not being able to return to the arena.

“You’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s just a scar.”

He ran his fingertip over my hip again. “Like this one?”

I nodded. “Or . . .”—I reached up to pull aside the shoulder of my tunic and swung my hair out of the way so he could see my shoulder—”. . . this one.”

I heard Cai make a small noise in the back of his throat as he traced the line of another scar. One of a pair of faded white lines, all that was left of some particularly nasty welts acquired during an encounter with Nyx’s whip. No permanent damage, but the marks had refused to fade, as if to perpetually remind me of my rival, even long after she’d gone.

Only Nyx was the last thing I was thinking of as Cai leaned down to kiss the scar and sent a wave of searing heat washing over my whole body, head to toe. When he lifted his head, his eyes glinted wickedly at me.

“There’s another one just like it on the other side,” I whispered, my voice gone husky.

Cai brushed my hair away from my other shoulder and kissed the second scar. “You’re acquiring quite a collection,” he murmured against my neck.

“Me?” I said, a bit breathless. “Do you mean to tell me that the only adversary who ever left a mark on you was a bear?”

“Oh no . . .” He grinned. “See, here, these marks on my knuckles.”

“I see.”

“First fistfight I ever got in. It was with a wall . . .”

“A fierce opponent, no doubt.” I lifted his hand and, just as he had done, kissed the pale marks one by one. I felt his fingers tighten convulsively on mine and smiled. “Is that all?”

“No . . .” He showed me a long thin line running the length of his right forearm. “That was from a tribal rebellion on the Germanic frontier. My first real engagement. Now that I recall, I think that warrior had worse breath than the bear.”

He was trying to keep his tone light, I could tell, but his voice grew ragged as I dropped a line of kisses all the way along that scar.

“And is that the extent of your wounds?” I asked.

“Well . . . you have yet to leave a visible mark on me.” He moved closer. So close our noses were almost touching. “But I’ve a rib that aches in wet weather, thanks to you. And a deeper ache”—he grasped my hand and pressed it to the center of his chest—“here.”

I could feel his heart pounding beneath my palm, strong and steady.

“Have you asked your army physicians about it?” I whispered. “It might be something serious . . .”

“I think it’s definitely serious. Probably fatal if left untreated.”

If by treatment he meant kissing, then I suspected he’d more than survive the next few moments at least . . .

Or maybe not.

Thanks to Quintus the second.

Cai and I were far too occupied to hear him right away, but eventually his throat-clearing and gravel-crunching caught at the edge of Cai’s attention, and I suddenly found myself kissing air.

“Quint!” Cai rose to his feet and stalked toward his friend. “What in Hades are you doing here?”

I stood too, tugging my tunic straight and smoothing my hair, trying unsuccessfully not to blush furiously. Quint tossed me a wave over Cai’s shoulder.

“Game ended earlier than expected,” he said.

“What happened?” Cai asked.

“I’m a good gambler.” Quint shrugged apologetically. “I won all their money. Faster’n I expected. I offered to keep playing for fun, but by that time they were rather drunk and cranky and declined the generosity.”

“Drunk?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Sorcha’s men?”

“That’s why I’m such a good gambler,” he explained. “I kept pouring them wine and me water—just enough to get them a bit wooly in the head—and it makes for much better odds.”

“A little too good in this case.” Cai frowned at him.

“Sorry.” Quint offered him a rueful grin. “At any rate, they’re all back out on patrol and probably looking for someone else’s night to ruin. So if I were you, I’d escort the lovely gladiatrix to her quarters and get yourself back to ours. Me, I’m going to make myself scarce until morning.”

Cai sighed heavily and picked up the jug of wine we hadn’t even gotten around to opening. “For your troubles,” he said and tossed it to Quint. “Such as they were.”

Quint caught it deftly and tucked it under his arm, chuckling. Then he threw us a salute as he loped off into the darkness. Cai packed away the goblets and platter into a linen sack and slung it over his good shoulder. He held out his hands to me, and I stepped into the circle of his embrace.