Ancient Ties

ANCIENT TIES

by

Jane Leopold Quinn

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpresstorrid.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box

Casper, WY -

www.whiskeycreekpresstorrid.com

Copyright  by
Jane Leopold Quinn

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN ---

Credits

Cover Artist: Escorpio

Editor: Sandra Tibbetts

Printed in the United States of America

WHAT THEY ARE SAYING ABOUT

ANCIENT TIES

Shelley of Fallen Angel Reviews gave
Ancient Ties
Angels and called it a “Recommended Read” and says:
Ancient Ties
is not the usual cookie-cutter time travel romance. It’s an intense story of two people reluctant to open their hearts after being deeply hurt. Ms. Quinn delves into the psyche of her protagonists and really lets the reader experience how the powerful physical attraction Marek and Janney experience from the beginning gradually develops into a deep, emotional connection.
Ancient Ties
is one of the best time travel romances I have read in a long while. I absolutely loved it! Ms. Quinn’s graceful style of writing is a perfect compliment to the erotic elements of the storyline. I highly recommend this touching, emotional and incredibly erotic love story.

Francesca Hayne of Just Erotic Romance Reviews gave
Ancient Ties
stars, with a heat level of orgasmic and says: This absorbing tale of time travel left me breathless with anticipation and enticingly affected by the deep emotional connection between Janney and Marek. The characters are captivating with their complexities, especially the deeply intense Marek, who battles the loss of his wife and the stress of war while being greatly afraid of loving again. Janney is confused by her surroundings and unenthusiastic about falling in love. Nonetheless, her every sexual fantasy becomes a reality in the face of her surrender. These sex scenes are explosively intense, often depicting the powerful and luscious connection that they have. Their romance is profoundly inspiring, leaving me

feeling warm and sorrowful throughout the novel.
Ancient
Ties
is an absolutely gripping and satisfying read, leaving me looking forward to more novels by this tremendously talented author.

Dedication

To Judy Bank, who one day said, “Why don’t you write it?”

To Joan Powell, who mentored me every step of the way through this book.

To Sandra Tibbetts, my editor, who nurtured and encouraged

me through this book.

-and—

To Paul, a genuine romance hero. Mine.

Attention was paid to historical detail but

is first and foremost a love story.

Mensis Aprilis, A.D. 161 A.D.

Marek Benin Verus perched atop his blooded Arabian stallion and surveyed the soon-to-be battlefield. He agonized, as he had all through the night before, pacing the muck-mired streets of the camp, questioning once again, what in Hades he was doing with his life. Thirty-eight years old, and what did he have to show for it? More battles—more deaths? For eighteen years, he’d given his career to the emperors of Rome, first Antoninus Pius and now co-emperors, Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus. Yes, he was a respected warrior and commander, esteemed by his peers, but other than his body servant, Eligius, and his friends, Augusta and Gaius, who really cared whether he lived or died? Would his son even care? He had not seen the child, not since his wife Mellona died in childbirth. He should have known that getting such a delicate woman with child was too dangerous. Other men married to produce an heir, but he had married Mellona for love. His sweet Mellona, the love of his life, dead two short years later because of his selfishness. His lust. He deserved no happiness, nor his son’s love. He deserved the life he now lived.

When had he started hating this life? He wanted to lay the blame on the damnable Britons.

Although Marek prayed to his patron God Mars for victory, he was conflicted. He would fight two battles this day. The actual physical battle, like many he’d endured over his career, he would conduct by rote. The second battle Marek faced was more

insidious. He was actually sorry to be killing these people.

Astonishingly, he privately admired their fierceness and courage in daring to come up against the thousands of professional, seasoned men of Rome. He didn’t blame them. The Britons were fighting to protect their fields and homes, their women and children, their way of life. What could be more right than that?

Bahh!
Marek despised these tenderhearted feelings. They distracted him from his responsibility to Rome. From his duty.

He admitted to no weakness, not since he’d fled Rome, his memories, and the only other person he cared about—his baby son, Leonidas. The child he’d carried in his heart for the past fifteen years. The child he was too much of a coward to go back and face. Lately, he had not been able to put Leonidas out of his mind. Did he look like Mellona? What kind of person had the boy become? Maybe it was time to see his son again and forge a relationship between them.

Hades!
Cold rain battered its way inside his cape, even inside his armor, trickling down his neck. He was cold to the bone. Desolate. How he hated giving the order to attack these people. Nevertheless, he had no choice in the matter. War wasn’t personal. Fighting and killing was his job, even if he privately believed his enemy was justified in trying to repel the invaders.

Infuriated at his self-doubt, fully aware that one second of inattention could mean his death or that of his men, Marek forced his mind back to the battle at hand. Girding himself with a deep bellow, he charged into the action.

The fury of battle, the zealous passion of fighting kindled Marek as nothing else could. The enemy had broken through the famous Roman phalanxes and forced hand-to-hand combat.

Warriors, their faces contorted and darkened by mud, eyes wild with hatred, rushed Marek on all sides. Fighting became instinctive. Disciplined and rote.

Sweat from the heat of the battlefield fires, combining with dust, trickled down his forehead. Marek swiped the heel of his sword arm across his stinging eyes as he regained his

momentum. Sounds of the battlefield filled the air. Screaming men, wounded men thudding to the ground. Horses rearing.

Sword clanking on sword. The whir of flying arrows. The crackle of fire.

Marek exploded in controlled fury. Survival. It was the only thing that mattered. Marek finally knew what he fought for. He had to live for his son.

Over and over. Again and again. Marek plowed his sword into enemy flesh—bellies, chests—whatever presented itself.

He looked into uncounted shocked eyes. Heard the last surprised gasps, the viscous slurping when his blade withdrew from bloody torsos.

A dull clack of the enemy’s blade as it struck his wooden shield. Marek bunched his shoulder and arm muscles to push it off, deflecting attack. Felt the wrench of joint and stretch of sinew as he twisted. Powerful thighs kept his balance.

Blood flew, spattering droplets on his armor, on his face, the coppery taste combining with grit and ashes. He spat. Sweat never stopped. Soot from battlefield fires blinded him. Marek shook his head trying to free it of dirt, of blood, of sweat, so he could see again.

He gripped his sword two-handed and advanced, brandishing it with sweeping strikes. From side to side. Over and over.

Sob.

Grunt.

Roar.

Growl.

The enemy kept coming. Vicious attacks.

The Roman legions pushed back.

Marek’s sword—stuck between ribs—he kicked the already dead body off and ignored the stink of gore splattering back on him. He panted now. Gasped. Dragging air into his aching lungs. Teeth ground down on each other.

Marek jerked back to avoid being struck again. Exhausted.

His feet slipped in the slimy, bloody mire beneath.

The rage of battle won. No time for weakness.

Three! Three at once! Marek fended off the first attacker, then dispatched the next with a bloody, savage stroke. The third fiercely struck out, more passionate than skilled, and dealt him a blow to the elbow and slashed his thigh.

This man fought like a lion in the Coliseum, his face slathered in mud, head concealed by a helmet made of hide, teeth bared in ferocity. The only thing Marek could see for sure was the man’s blue eyes, passionate with hatred and a keen sense of purpose.

Their duel took them away from the field of battle and toward a small copse of trees. The fighter leapt and darted lightly. Marek realized he was being lured away. His efficient warrior’s brain signaled his body to finish and move on. Weary, but still strong enough, Marek slashed ruthlessly. He watched for signs of fatigue, waited to strike at any weakness, confident in his victory.

The Briton’s arm dropped slightly. Marek took his advantage, gripping his dagger in his left hand, struck the blade home to the chest. With a high-pitched cry, his victim’s body crumpled and hit the earth, his helmet spilling off and rolling away.

A boy!

The sounds of the distant battle dimmed at that moment.

Marek stood over the body, his bloody dagger still held high, and looked down into the face on the ground. He ripped off his own helmet and dropped to his knees, ignoring the gouging of sharp rocks and wooded underbrush. With his thumb, he wiped the mud off the boy’s face. Soft cheeks, soft mouth. Marek sucked in a breath. The boy couldn’t be much older than his own fifteen-year-old son.

Riveted by the boy’s fierce blue eyes, a tortured groan escaped Marek’s throat as he gathered the dying body in his arms and cradled him, as he had held his own son so many, long years before. He probed the grisly chest wound, his hand coming away

red and sticky. He knew from the bloody bubbles oozing from the corner of the boy’s mouth that he was doomed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Marek groaned, his voice hoarse and broken. Staring intently into the lad’s eyes as if to will another outcome, Marek rocked the young boy and murmured incomprehensibly. He heard the rattle, the fight for breath in the boy’s chest and throat, the shallow gasping. Marek felt as if he were the one painfully straining to breathe. If only he could force air into the boy’s lungs. Holding his hand atop the heart, Marek felt its beat slowing, sluggish and weak. He prayed to his God of War to save this young fighter.

The slower the heartbeat, the more the boy struggled for breath. Eyes now closed, he gasped and labored to pull air into his lungs. The boy’s groans haunted Marek as he hugged him closer, bloodying himself.

How much longer can this go on?

“Forgive me. Forgive me,” he pleaded. “Mars, let this boy live.” He was someone’s son. A father—and mother—would be missing him tonight. Heartsick, Marek knew his pleas were futile. Mars demanded death and destruction. Time stalled.

Marek knew no time, no movement of the sun. He had no knowledge of anything outside this grove of trees.

Groans became sobs. Who was groaning and who was sobbing, even Marek couldn’t distinguish anymore. He had become one with this boy, this child, struggling for life.

Tortured sounds filled the grove. The boy arched upward, his eyes flew open as if for one last look at the sky. In the sudden silence, Marek knew then that he held his hand over a stilled heart. He gazed down upon the boy warrior, and all he could see was the young face of his own son. It was as if he had killed his own child. A tortured-animal howl, torn from his throat, could not salve his shock and grief, and the horrible heart wrenching pain.

Much later, the boy had to be pried from his arms before Marek could be carried to his tent. His men were bewildered and shocked to see their commander act in such a way. They’d

seen it in weaker men, in cowards. But never in Marek Benin Verus.

Marek had no memory of how he ended up lying on a cot in a darkened tent, curled into a fetal position. In his desolation, he took little note of the shameful wetness of tears streaming down his cheeks.

Aquae Sulis

Mensis Iunius, A.D. 161 A.D.