For the Sake of One Lost

Chapter Three

Trey Bradley had seen such reunions many times over—the hugging, smiles, laughter—and it never lost its magic. Maybe that was why he continued to put his life in jeopardy—not for the thrill of risk, not even to free one more soul from the injustice of slavery—but to live his own happy reunion through others.

Tilius turned from his mother and sisters and faced Trey. "I owe you my life."

Trey worked his flinch into a smile. "I'm just man like you. The Almighty God of The Way gave us success. Praise Him, my friend."

Tilius extended his arm. "Then may this god also grant you your deepest desire."

Trey pressed his lips together. Buckley's chance for that. "Thank you, Tilius." He gripped the man's forearm.

Tilius' mother came to stand beside her son, her eyes shining as she looked up at Trey. "How can we thank you properly? I have no coin to offer, but I do have daughters, hmm?" She raised her eyebrows and gestured toward the young women. One stared at the dirt floor, while the other batted her lashes at him. "You are not married?" The mother was full on smiling now.

"Ah . . . I'm hardly the family-suited man you'd want for your lovely daughters, embracing danger every day and all that." He nodded toward each of them, moving closer to the doorway. "I wish you a good day, and happy lives." Trey pushed aside the mat serving as a door, and stepped out into bright sunlight, feminine giggles at his back. He walked faster, his chainmail tunic warning the quiet street of his approach and feeling every bit of its eleven kilos. Sweat escaped his helmet and dribbled down his neck.

A village man wearing a kilt pulled a rickety cart down the narrow road, a donkey tied behind. Trey would be wearing a kilt and wig if the armor didn't better deter eyes and questions. The man picked up his pace when he saw Trey, his eyes dancing between Trey, his braying donkey, and the dirt in front of him. Likely had a bad experience with a Roman soldier. No one ever seemed to realize that infantry wore red, not nautical blue. Trey moved closer to a mud-brick wall in need of repair as they passed each other, and stopped short.

A mess of long, red hair was slung over the shoulder of a traveler—obviously a traveler as he and his companions wore capes despite the heat. She wore trousers. Trousers. And a gray knit jumper. Trey shook his head and blinked, but the redheaded vision remained, unmoving. Was she dead? Unconscious? Trey started toward them, his heartbeat quickening with his footsteps. No doubt the blokes had traveled all night and were looking for a place to stop over until sunset. Wait, he'd seen that fat one somewhere before . . .

A goat bleated from a nearby yard, drawing the fat man's gaze over his shoulder toward Trey. Their eyes met. Ah, that's who he was. Djadao, a slave pirate a.k.a merchant he'd practically ruined after freeing his merchandise. If Djadao recognized him, he didn't show it. Trey touched one of the leather cheek guards concealing the sides of his face. His height was memorable enough.

As Djadao and his thugs slipped through a townhome's walled gate with their prize, Trey shook impulse from his mind and muscles and forced his caligae past the gateway. A light-colored bird with thick black markings twittered from its perch on a thatched roof. However tempting it was to make assumptions—especially in regard to Djadao—he needed information. Answers. If Bluey was being held against her will, he'd stay and attempt a rescue.

The bed might be a mat on the floor for all its comfort, and Pearl's bones ached. "Dad? Jeb? It's hot in here. Could you turn on the AC?" Cold yesterday. Now it was awfully warm. She scrunched her nose against the smell of baking bread and farm animals. A fly droned near her ear, and trying to swat at it, Pearl found her hands trussed with rope. Make that hands and feet.