Love, Eternally Read online

  Love, Eternally

  Book One of the Roman Time Travel Series

  Morgan O’Neill

  Avon, Massachusetts

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, Ohio 45242

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Cary Morgan Frates and Deborah O’Neill Cordes

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-5152-9

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5152-9

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-5132-4

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5132-1

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com/© gekaskr, Elnur Amikishiyev, istockphoto.com/© Jeff Chiasson

  To my family, for those who are gone, and those who remain.

  Cary Morgan Frates

  For my husband, with love and thanks.

  Deborah O’Neill Cordes

  Be glad of life because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play

  And to look up at the stars.

  — Henry Van Dyke, 1852–1933

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  PART TWO

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Authors’ Note

  About the Authors

  Also Available

  Prologue

  Easter Sunday, A.D. 402, Pollentia, Italy

  For the first time in his life, he knew fear before battle.

  Quintus Pontius Flavus Magnus fought his demons and searched the distance. The Visigoths waited there, with their foul witch.

  She rode a white horse at the helm of the barbarian forces, weaving back and forth, exhorting her troops to victory. Clad in a snow-white gown. Silver shield, blinding in the sun. A vision of purity, idolized by her people — yet black of heart, to any Roman.

  Randegund, the Witch of Rocesthes, drew rein and pointed skyward. Her king, Alaric, fell back with his men. Her pale-blond hair lifted, snaking the wind. The air hushed, but her hair continued to writhe, and men on both sides gaped, still as stone. The omen of evil was not lost on him, but Magnus saw past the conjurer’s cheap trick. Medusa be damned! He raised his sword.

  “Nemesis, dark-faced Goddess of Justice, hear me now,” she cried out. “Winged Avenger, Bringer of Doom, may you damn the Roman filth to the deepest realm of Hades!”

  The air suddenly whirled black. Thick, acrid smoke from nowhere. A bedlam of men swearing, horses screaming. Magnus swiped at his burning eyes. Coughing, he spotted the witch riding forward, the smoke parting before her, as if swept aside by ungodly breath. The Visigoths followed her in a wedge formation, banging their swords and spears on their shields.

  Her eyes glinted ice blue, beckoning a nameless fear.

  She must be stopped!

  “Soldiers of Rome, unleash hell!” Magnus rode into battle at full gallop, his men following in his wake, shouting their fury. He swung his sword, slashing through a sea of bearded faces. Howls of pain. Grunts. Shrieks. Enemy blood sprayed everywhere and he spit against the vile tang. His warhorse battled, too, trampling men. The Visigoth line broke. Magnus heard wailing and the crunch of bones.

  Smoke still whirled, choking him, but he could see banners denoting Alaric’s position. The witch was close, too, so close. Magnus bellowed, his dread abandoned, the rush of anticipation spurring him on.

  “Magnus, beware!”

  He paid no heed. Visigoths surged in and he cut them down. With each stroke, red sparks leapt from his garnet ring, which bore the likeness of the Goddess of Victory, his patron goddess. With Victoria as his shield, he hacked his way toward his target. Good against evil, goddess against witch.

  Driving his horse forward, Magnus pierced the enemy flank. His men followed, attacking in every direction. Ahead, he could see Alaric. The king shouted something to his soldiers, but the furor of battle buried his words.

  “Death — death to the enemy!” A roar went up around him, and Magnus drove his mount even harder. “Victoria strengthens this arm — ”

  Suddenly, Magnus and his men were surrounded by the enemy, as though ...

  He glanced about, searching for Stilicho, but his general’s colors were lost in the chaos. A scream snapped Magnus back, and the Visigoths surged as one toward him, the glint of the sun off their curved throw-swords blinding. A second enemy line tightened behind, like teeth closing on a morsel of food. He and his men were cut off. The Pincer! He knew the tactic by heart, had done it himself many times. Barbarians fell on them from all sides, launching their throw-swords. Screams erupted as the weapons hit Roman flesh and bone. The Visigoths knew they held victory in their hands; Magnus could read it plainly in their eyes.

  “Fight, men — ”

  Pain exploded in Magnus’s head, and he fell into the wailing darkness.

  • • •

  Magnus squinted, attempting to make sense of where he was, but the sun blinded him. He needed to block the glare, but could not make his arm obey. The stench of fresh blood, of spilt entrails, the horrible cries of the wounded surrounded him. In agony, he shut his eyes and cursed, realizing he lay back to back atop a dying man crying out for his mother.

  Flies swarmed over his face. O, ye Gods! Such an ignoble end for one thought great, fawned over by his emperor. How he wished a mighty blow had provided him a glorious end, instead of leaving his body limp, unable to fend off the plague of flies.

  He passed in and out of consciousness, the man beneath him finally still. Horrible screeches brought him fully awake. Vultures soared overhead, raging at the people below. Visigoth women pulled valuables off bodies as their men killed the wounded.

  Cursed scavengers. He struggled against the deadness in his limbs. “I command this legion,” he croaked through parched lips. “Emperor Honorius will pay for our ransom. Do not kill my men!”

  Faces loomed over Magnus, blessedly blocking the sun. Rough hands seized him, and blood seeped into his eyes as he was slung over a pack mule. He blinked to clear his sight. His arms hung limp, and his gaze traveled their bloody length, wondering where he had been wounded. Magnus had seen men in this condition before. They rarely lived long enough to see the dawn, but an unfortunate few survived, trapped within lifeless bodies. Would this be his fate?

  Mighty Victoria, have mercy upon me. Take me now.

  As his captors led the mule away, he looked at the battlefield. Another knife thrust, another Roman killed.

  “No, spare my men!”

  Helpless, Magnus averted his gaze and saw his lifeless hands, not wishing to look upon the truth of his vanity any longer. He sucked in his breath. His right forefinger was bare! He desperately scanned the ground for his ring, but all he saw was a muddy mix of gore and corpses.

  His most treasured possession, the touchstone of his fate. Gone. He closed his eyes, sick with grief. He’d received both the ring and his honorific name, Magnus, from the last emperor, Theodosius, after victory at the Battle of the
River Frigidus. He was so proud of that ring, and now it was lost. Victoria had indeed withdrawn her favor.

  Blinded by shame, Magnus hung his head. If he did survive, if he were ransomed back to Rome, he was finished. He imagined the sneer on Honorius’s face, then looked up to see King Alaric astride his horse, grinning ear to ear.

  The Witch of Rocesthes moved her horse forward. Magnus glared into her formidable blue eyes. “Kill me and be done with it.”

  She shook her head, her lips thinly drawn in bitterness, the smile as cold as her eyes. “That would be a mercy, and you shall have none from me. Fortune has abandoned you, Roman.”

  His vision blurred red and he struggled to move, wanting to rip out her throat, but he could do nothing.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Present Day, Italy

  She looks at the world through bitch-colored glasses.

  Gigi Perrin put the newspaper down. Bitch? She hated the word, even as she admitted grudging admiration for the music critic’s nimble play on words. Cheap shot, though. Funny thing, the guy had been really pleasant during the interview. So, why had he blindsided her, claiming she was self-absorbed, caring little for the world beyond her music?

  Drumming her fingers on the armrest, Gigi pressed her forehead against the window of the private jet and stared out at the clouds. Okay, okay, one miserable review out of a hundred. Stuff happens.

  As the pilot began his descent, she caught glimpses of the Apennines poking through thinning clouds. Undoing her ponytail, Gigi let her strawberry blond curls fall loose on her shoulders, then took the last sip of her mimosa. Welcoming the slight buzz, she gave the empty glass to the flight attendant.

  A glimmer drew Gigi’s eye. The yellow diamond gracing her right hand caught the light. It was the first big purchase she’d made with her money, a “way to go, girl” gift. She glanced at her empty left hand and shook her head. She wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.

  But what about Yves? Gigi sighed. Handsome, a lifelong sailor. They’d met a few months earlier in Marseille, and he was such an improvement over her previous dating disasters. Since she’d been discovered at the Festival d’Avignon and her debut album had skyrocketed to number one, famous men weren’t exactly breaking down her door for dates, and normal guys were either petrified by her celebrity or tried to take advantage of her. Yves, however, was utterly unaffected by anything to do with fame or money. Nice, sweet, fun to be with. Then again, she couldn’t imagine him as anything more than a boyfriend.

  Gigi knew she should be on top of the world, but something was missing, and it wasn’t a man. Despite her success, she didn’t know where her life was headed, and she worried the bad review hit closer to home than she wanted to accept. She needed to inspire people, not just entertain them, but wasn’t sure how.

  She looked out the window at Forli Airport. When the plane’s wheels touched down, she picked up her flute case and purse and slung both straps over her shoulder. As the jet came to a stop, a black, full-sized Mercedes sedan eased alongside.

  She stepped off the plane. The sun was intense, even hotter than it had been in southern France. Jack Benton, her manager, leapt out of the car. He was a large, silver-haired man, impeccably turned out in a cream-colored linen suit and lavender tie.

  “Welcome to Italy, kiddo!”

  “Hey, Jack.” Gigi climbed into the back seat. The air conditioning felt wonderful after the blistering tarmac. Clasping the flute case, she tossed her purse onto the back ledge. The car moved toward the security gates, then merged onto the main road. The town of Forli was filled with old stone buildings shuttered against the August sun, the streets deserted except for a few people zipping by on mopeds.

  “When is Yves coming?” Jack asked.

  “Noon, Saturday.”

  “Okay, I’ll make sure the car is there for him. So, your parents are after me about scheduling some vacation time with you. Your dad said his caseloads have finally eased up.”

  Gigi smiled. Her parents were both senior partners at a big Seattle firm specializing in international law, and she didn’t believe for a moment either one of them had anything but huge caseloads all the time. They missed her and wanted a visit, but she’d met them in London at Christmas and she was so busy right now.

  “You won’t have time to see them now that your tour’s about to start,” Jack continued. “Afterward, maybe, how ’bout somewhere in France? Avignon? Your dad’s sister still lives there, right?”

  Gigi glanced out the window. Twisted umbrella pines told of prevailing sea breezes. The ocean wasn’t far away and her mind wandered toward thoughts of swimming and sailing. She leaned her head back and let Jack ramble, knowing she didn’t need to answer him right now. They’d go over the details after she settled in.

  The car slowed and Gigi saw the hotel was a modern high-rise, nondescript except for rows of potted lemon trees gracing the main entrance. She grabbed a pair of large sunglasses from her purse and shoved them on her nose, hoping to preserve her anonymity. She got out just as the bellhop arrived with the luggage cart. When Jack motioned for her flute case, she shook her head. She wouldn’t entrust her baby to anyone else.

  A throng of smiling hotel staff lined the foyer. The manager came forward with a bouquet of red roses. She breathed in their perfume and thanked him.

  “Oh, look!” a woman cried out. “It’s Geneviève Perrin!”

  She saw a handful of American tourists hurrying toward her. Removing her sunglasses, she greeted them with a smile. The manager took back the roses as Gigi signed autographs and chatted with her fans.

  Another hotel clerk wove through the crowd, holding a padded envelope. “Mail for you, Miss Perrin.”

  Jack took the package, while Gigi said to an admirer, “I hope you can make it to my concert next week.”

  “I tried, but it’s all sold out.”

  Gigi glanced at Jack. “Can we do something — ?”

  “Oh, look!” one of her fans exclaimed. “She has her famous flute with her.”

  Gigi felt a sharp tug at her shoulder and twisted away.

  The manager shouted for security and pushed Jack and Gigi toward the elevators.

  “It’s okay,” Gigi protested, straining to see what was happening in the lobby. The elevator doors opened and Jack steered her inside. Frazzled, Gigi leaned against the wall. The doors closed. “She shouldn’t have touched my flute, but she wasn’t trying to take it. I was fine. The manager overreacted.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  “But I don’t want anyone arrested.”

  Jack nodded as he passed his key in front of the security screen and the elevator started. “I’ll call the manager and step in if he tries to take it too far. I can send them some concert tickets.”

  “All right.” Gigi took a deep breath. “Maybe Provence would have been a better choice for a vacation. Yves and I are never bothered there.”

  “I know, kiddo,” Jack lamented, “but it’s a trade off. Loss of freedom for fame. You’ll get used to it.”

  Would she? Gigi knew she was gaining the world and yet losing access to a big part of it, all at the same time. She looked around the elevator; the walls seemed to close in. Was this her future? Guarded estates and security guards? No more spur-of-the-moment anything? She sighed and smiled bravely at Jack.

  “You’re gonna be okay,” he said gently, giving her the envelope. “So, who sent you mail?”

  Gigi turned it over and saw the handwriting. “My parents,” she said, surprised. She usually just talked with them on the phone, and it wasn’t anywhere near her birthday. Her big twenty-fifth was still months away. What was so important they’d chosen to send it here?

  The elevator doors slid open. “We’re across from each other,” Jack said, pointing to her suite and handing her a k
ey card.

  “Okay.” Gigi turned toward the door, eager to find out what the envelope held.

  “Hey, kiddo, there’s one more thing I need to run by you.”

  She looked at Jack. “What’s up?”

  “The mayor’s wife is having a birthday party tonight and we’re invited.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “That’s nice, but I’m tired. Go ahead without me, okay? Just make an excuse.”

  Jack studied his shoes, then glanced up and smiled. “I, uh, I said you’d play for them. They begged, Gigi. They’re huge fans.”

  She stared at him, dumbfounded. “But I’m supposed to be on vacation.”

  “I know, but say you’ll do it. You can relax after that. You’ll have five whole days before you start final rehearsals. Besides, you should see where they’re having the party. It’s Roman. And the acoustics are amazing — I already checked it out. Look, I know you, and if you wandered in there you’d be playing anyway, just for the sheer beauty of the place. You’ll be sorry if you miss it.”

  She groaned inwardly. He knew exactly how to hook her. “But Jack — ”

  “You’re not getting the jelly fingers again, are you?”

  Gigi rolled her eyes. “No, I’m okay. I haven’t had shaky fingers for ages, so don’t go putting that in my head.”

  “Sorry.” Jack laughed. “Aw, c’mon, play. It’ll give us some great publicity. You’ll have the entire country in your pocket, with such a nice gesture.”

  She tried to hide her smile. “You’re a monumental pain.”

  “Then you’ll do it? Perfect!” He grinned. “Dress is black tie. I’ll meet you in the lobby at six-thirty.”

  Actually looking forward to her evening, Gigi closed her door and tore open the envelope. Inside, she found a small box and a note from her dad. Smiling, she read:

  Chère Gigi,

  When we heard you would be in Ravenna, we decided it was a perfect time to send this on. Your grandfather loved it there, especially the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia. Do you recall which song he always sang to your grandmother? He said the mausoleum was the inspiration for it.