The Protector

Her irritation with her new bodyguard swelled to include Caros, as well. “By the gods, no. Whatever would we do if Quintus were provoked?”

“Don’t be difficult,” he warned, his humor at her expense barely concealed. “It’s two days to Neopolis. Do you want to spend the journey fortifying his belief that you’re a spoiled harpy?”

“I don’t care about a slave’s opinion of me in the least.”

He burst out laughing. Cringing, she lifted her chin and studied the raeda. Like most coaches, it consisted of a flat bed, tall wooden sides and an arched oiled canvas cover. A small door at the back provided the only way of escape. She loathed enclosed spaces and the nightmarish memories they released within her. “I’ll sit in the driver’s seat with Quintus.”

“That’s not safe. It’s best you stay hidden until you’re certain no one is following you.”

Her hands grew clammy at the reminder of how perilous the journey was. That someone wanted her dead. Pelonia placed an arm around her waist as though she suspected Adiona’s rising unease. Grateful for the younger woman’s friendship even though she’d done nothing to deserve it, Adiona promised herself to make amends if she managed to return to Rome alive.

She swallowed hard. “What if I’m locked in that…that box and my attackers decide to set it on fire with a few flaming arrows? I might be roasted alive. Or what if—”

Caros’s incredulous expression silenced her rambling fears. “I never realized how colorful your imagination is.”

Her head began to throb as the memories she fought to keep buried clamored for release. “Men are animals,” she whispered. “They’re capable of anything.”

“Quintus isn’t an animal, Adiona. Neither are these other men who’ve sworn to guard you with their lives.”

Panic began to claw up her throat. She bit her bottom lip and looked beseechingly at her friend. “I can’t get in that coach.”

His mouth curved into an impatient frown. “Why?”

She glanced toward Pelonia. Had she and Caros been alone she may have told him the truth. Her friend already knew more of her past than anyone else, although not the worst parts. He was the only person she’d ever known who disagreed with the common wisdom that blamed a woman for the abuse she received.

But his wife’s sympathetic expression filled her with the familiar rush of shame she experienced when she recalled the vile acts her husband had subjected her to. Her pride smarted. She couldn’t abide the thought of a good woman like Pelonia knowing about the vile treatment she suffered or the indignities she’d endured. After years spent cultivating an image of strength and separating herself from the weak girl she’d been before and during her marriage, she’d rather die than be pitied.

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