Page 45 of Ensnaring the Dove
“That’s it,domina… I’ve finished.”
“Thank you, Moira.” Colombia picked up her small hand mirror of polished silver and inspected her appearance. The slave had braided her long hair and wrapped it around the crown of her head. She’d left a few strands free though, oiling them into pretty curls upon Colombia’s cheeks. “You’ve done a lovely job.”
Glancing at Moira, she noted the woman observed her with a veiled expression. Since they’d met earlier in the day, Moira hadn’t smiled once. She was polite, and although her knowledge of Latin was halting, she managed to communicate well enough.
Moira was older than her, by five years, at least. She was tall and strong, with an even-featured face, bright blue eyes, and hair the color of flame. She wore a neat, knee-length slave tunic, belted at the waist, and sandals. Her bright mane was tamed in a tight braid down her back.
Motioning to the dark-green garment spread out on the recliner behind her, Moira nodded. “Do you wish to wear thestolaover your tunic,domina?”
Colombia nodded. She didn’t tend to wear the dress over her tunic when she was at home, but today was an exception. She’d also wear her palla—her shawl.
Linus was due to arrive shortly. She had to look her best.
Moira helped her dress, although the Brigante had trouble adjusting the folds of the palla. After the death of his wife, Colombia’s mother, over a decade earlier, Severus hadn’t remarried. Moira no doubt wasn’t used to helping ladies with their clothing—as such, Colombia was happy to show her how a palla needed to drape over one shoulder.
It was strange, for as much as it felt good to wear clean clothes again, she now found the heavy folds of fabric covering her a little smothering compared to the simple tunic she’d worn over the past few days.
However, Moira had taken away the garment Enid had given her. No doubt it would be thrown on the fire.
The women stood in a small cubiculum—the sleeping space that would be Colombia’s now. The windowless chamber lined the courtyard and had large doors opening onto the portico. The doors were open at present, letting in the pale noon light. The day was overcast, the air humid, as if a storm was brewing.
Out in the courtyard, Claudia the cook was watering the rows of herbs and flowers growing in pots and urns. The scent of rosemary and thyme drifted into the cubiculum, easing the nerves that fluttered under Colombia’s ribcage.
Not long now, and she’d be reunited with the man she’d traveled half the world to see.
Flashing Moira a brittle smile—one that wasn’t returned—Colombia moved toward the doors. “I should go to the tablinum … father will be expecting me.”
XIX. REUNITED
INDEED, SEVERUS WAS already seated on one of the couches in the living space, calix of wine in hand, awaiting his daughter.
He was alone; Linus hadn’t yet arrived.
Even so, anxiety tightened Colombia’s breathing as she stepped inside the tablinum. “Salve,pater.”
The commander glanced her way, and his gaze swept over her. After a pause, he favored her with a nod of approval. “That’s better, daughter,” he murmured. “I finally recognize you again.”
Colombia entered the room, moving to the couch opposite her father. “It was always me,” she replied, unable to prevent herself from responding. “Surely, you could see beneath a bit of grime?”
Severus’s eyes narrowed. His daughter’s tone was gentle, yet he hadn’t appreciated her pert response.
Colombia’s pulse quickened at his silent disapproval.
Her father had lived away from Italia for many years now. Not long after losing his beloved wife, he’d accepted a posting to Britannia. Although he’d been back to Asculum a few times over the past years—certainly more than Linus had—he was becoming a stranger to her.
A stern-faced man sat before her now. Severus had always been strict with his only child, yet when Colombia’s mother had been alive, he’d been softer, warmer. Perhaps this cold northern land, and the things he’d witnessed here, had hardened him.
Silence fell between them, and Colombia was searching for something to say that wouldn’t rouse his disapproval further when the heavy tread of approaching footsteps made her look toward the portico.
A tall, dark-haired man appeared, drawing to a halt in the doorway.
Colombia’s breathing caught.
Linus Calix Aurelius was even more handsome than she recalled. His lantern jaw, dark gaze, and widow’s peak of night-black hair had always made him stand out in a crowd. Yet dressed as he was today, as if he’d just come from the parade ground, the sight of him made her pulse flutter in her throat.
He wore a blood-red tunic, and a cloak of the same color hung from his broad shoulders. The tunic reached to just above his knees, revealing strong, muscular legs. Metal greaves covered his shins, and heavy mailed sandals shod his feet. Over his tunic, he wore a pleated leather skirt and a leather harness, while his gleaming lorica, plate armor, covered his broad chest. A helmet, crested by a crimson fan that ran from left to right, completed his outfit.
Of course, as primus pilus—the commanding centurion of the first cohort of the Second Legion—he would be dressed accordingly.